Chapter 1
Notes:
Tbh, chapter 1 is the only finished chapter. I've had half of chapter 2 written for... uh. a month? I think? Idk. So there might be a.... while before it's done, my motivation has been on the fritz, been struggling with being understimulated yknow the usual. I think this can read on its own anyway, and I was originally gonna post it as its own thing and make it a series like my Mutant Peter Parker AU, but I think this is easier for notifying people when it gets updated.
PLEASE BEWARE THE TAGS. This shit is gonna be dark, and honestly Chapter 2 is not much better, i can tell you that LMAO I'm not sure if the rating will change, but I set it to Mature just to be safe. But what else do you expect from Winter Soldier fanfics? His story is like... the darkest out of all of them. (Tags will also be changed when chapter 2 is posted *please do not look too much into that, i have no idea when i'll finish it* because omg is there some really really fucked up things in the next one. Classic HTP stuff :)) )
There is Russian in this, the translations are at the end in order of appearance, and many phrases are used repetitively. Mobile you can translate as you read (even tho it's kinda annoying), so i wish you luck with pc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s a tube shoved down his throat, needles in his arm, blood dripping down his chest, down to his stomach. The cold metal of the chair on his naked skin has become a new familiar. He refuses to eat anything they give him, so they’ve restrained him to this chair, keeping him alive. He wishes he knew why. What use is he to them? God, Steve, where the fuck are you? He doesn’t know how much longer he can last.
Please, Steve, hurry.
It’s morning, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell with no windows. It’s been a while since he’s seen the outside. Days. Weeks, maybe? He doesn’t know anymore. It feels like he’s been here forever. He hopes Steve’s okay.
There’re footsteps, several sets, surrounding him now. His vision is blurry from the most recent game of ‘how much can the American bleed tonight without passing out’- he lets out a croak of laughter. I’m losing it, God, I’m losing it. Now that it’s in the air, he can’t stop, no matter how much it hurts his throat. Fuck, it burns. Everything hurts.
They’re speaking, a few of them; Russian going in one ear, out the other. He never bothered learning it. He thinks he’s going to end up having to, with how this is going. Suddenly, the tube is ripped from his throat, causing him to gag and vomit whatever was in his stomach onto himself. There’s laughter that isn’t his own, rumbling, and all-encompassing as he sits there, locked in place, with the sludge they were feeding him, and stomach acid, slick on his bloody skin.
Someone takes a picture- he can hear the snap of a camera. When did they bring one in? He doesn’t remember. His skin prickles with mortification, but he can’t even bring himself to move. Not like he could, he thinks bitterly. His hand grips tightly onto the metal armrest, tears silently falling down his face as he breathes heavily.
It’s only when they finally leave him there, his naked body still covered in drying vomit, that he notices his fingers had dented the metal slightly.
If only Steve was here to see this. If only.
The sessions get longer and longer, the torture worse and worse, but then. They stop and leave him there. It’s silent for a long time.
He’s starting to think he imagined it all, that he’s actually been alone this whole time, that he’s still at the bottom of that ravine, train echoing, leaving, gone. Bleeding out, bones crushed, staring unseeing up at the sky. Abandoned.
C’mon, Captain America! Don’t forget about your buddy, Bucky!
A man enters his cell, ignoring the blood that begins to stain his boots. He doesn’t recognize the man, but he knows the uniform. Something like fear and hopelessness fills his gut, staring at the brown, blood-stained boots that stand in front of him.
He can’t help but look to the side at the blank, cement wall. He prays for the day Steve smashes through it.
The man’s voice startles him, his chains rattling, movement causing him to ache. But he doesn’t make a sound. His vision flashes with whips and knives and rotting flesh. He can smell it, like it’s right there, in his reach, in his belly.
“Хорошая собака,” the General leaves a slice of chocolate cake, the white porcelain dish looking abnormal and menacing in the grimy concrete box of the cell, “Вы сослужите нам хорошую службу.”
The cake is eaten hours later, even dry and cold as it was. (His body rejects the sugar not long after that.)
He just wishes they’d stop calling him that.
He responds to it anyway.
A hand holds him in place, gripping the strap on the back of the entrapping uniform they forced him into. His eyes stick to the stone floor, tracking the cracks and loose stones, ignoring the sneers and smirks and eyes filled with sadistic glee. He wishes he could yank out their eyes and cut out their tongues and sew their mouths shut. His remaining fist clenches in anger and shame, bound to his side, to the tight rope harness that makes him hate himself.
At least they allowed him clothes, he snorts to himself.
The sound is easily caught by Lukin. His knees are digging into the stone as he’s forced down, and silence ensues, making the quiet snickers all that much louder to his ears. Everybody watches, some hold their breath, but never he. He never knows when it’ll get taken away from him, when it’ll be his last.
“Что это было, собака?” He flinches.
A kick to his back sends him to the ground, nose cracking with a sickly snap and a grunt of pain, blood trickling down his chin and onto the concrete. There’s the sound of a clip, close to his ears, at the back of his neck. A knife slices through the worn and thin fabric of his clothes, and they forcefully remove the strips from his body as heavy boots hold him in place, leaving him in only the humiliating harness like the dog they so fondly call him.
His hand and knees bleed from the harsh punishment of crawling around with the General and his guards, leash clipped to the makeshift collar chokingly tight around his neck. Плохая собака, Хорошая собака, Плохая собака echoes in his head, his ears, flushing them red- rage and disgust and shame creeping under his skin. He thinks he’d rather have them skin him alive than this treatment.
He wishes he had held his breath; wishes they had taken it away.
Something in his chest gives way and makes room for something new.
Хорошая собака.
“Your Captain is dead, собака. The report was sent out to the public, that he’s been deemed killed in action. No body was recovered. Would you like to hear his last words?” He can hear the smirk in Lukin’s words and wishes he could wipe that smug look off his face for even bringing Steve up. But then the words sink in, and he doesn’t want for anything.
Your Captain is dead.
How long’s it been since they captured him, since they ‘rescued’ him from the ravine? He lives only for Steve to not make it out of the war alive when he’s the one that’d rather be dead. Something breaks, and he doesn’t realize it’s himself ‘til it’s too late. What is there left to live for? To survive for? Nothing. There is nothing left of him, left for him. Nobody’s coming to save him. He’ll never taste his ma’s cooking again, he’ll never talk baseball with his dad again, he’ll never get to tease his sister about boys and her pigtails ever again.
Your Captain is dead.
The voices of Agent Carter and Steve echo in his cell, a small radio sitting in Lukin’s hand. He was never coming back for me. The thought sits heavily in the back of his mind. He never planned to. Steve is dead and gone, and he’s what’s left. Just a thing to toy with, a thing to experiment on, a thing to be turned into a weapon like he knows they want to do to him. Steve is dead, собака.
Your Captain, Your friend, Your brother, Your Master. Is dead. Собака.
Your Master is dead.
When they begin placing guns in his hand, an animal, a person, a target in front of It, It submits, It does as It’s told, It aims and squeezes the trigger. Because submitting is easy. Holding back the anger is easy. Letting it simmer and boil Its blood is easy.
They create It anew, bionic arm in place with a gun in Its hand, a new collar and harness on tight on Its neck and torso.
It watches and stares and listens and submits because it’s easier than thinking about what It’s done, how It’s gotten here, why he’s not in Brooklyn with his best friend. It is easier to be a dog, a monster, a thing, than a human.
I’m sorry, ma, dad, Becca… please forgive me.
It is in agony, hell, burning alive in Its misery. Its flesh is tearing apart, blood pooling from his shoulder where metal meets skin. It can see Its bones in the mirrored ceiling. The operation table feels like ice on Its back. The doctors around It are panicking.
The arm is rejecting It. It understands. Why would metal want to akin itself to flesh?
It understands. It is being punished. How dare It still be flesh and blood? It is dead. It is rot. It needs to be replaced. Change Its body, Its parts, reform It.
It lies, watching with blurry vision as they take apart the arm, take a saw to Its rotting shoulder, inserting metal and screws. It can feel everything vibrating Its insides, the motion of the saw, the drills, the soldering iron- It can feel it all. They slowly take It apart, have to cut off the leather straps they’re just in the way, bit by bit; Its ribs, Its spine, Its legs- They build It anew. They reinforce Its weak flesh and bones with metal and screws and heat. It lies and watches.
After many grueling hours, It doesn’t know how many- it’s been so long, they finish fixing It, and reattach Its bionic arm. It looks different from the last one, It thinks warily. Hopefully It will be accepted. It wonders if the metal in Its body is enough, if It is machine enough.
It is dead. It is metal.
Хорошая собака.
They tell It that it, It doesn’t know what, was successful as ice sheds from Its skin, as water drips from Its hair and creates a puddle on the stone floor. They look different, older, if only just. They tell It the date; say It’s been asleep for a year. It can still remember the surgery on Its arm, on Its body like it was yesterday. Perhaps it was, and they were just lying to It. But It continues to shed ice and shiver like a newborn pup, men in lab coats draping blankets over Its shoulders and hooking It up to monitors that show the rapid beating of Its heart.
Zola says that the true experiments can begin, now. General Lukin watches appraisingly from the background, smirk firmly on his face.
Everything goes black before It can lash out, attack the scientist grinning at It like It’s putting on a show. Your Master is dead. It belongs to no one. Then why do they claim that It is theirs?
There’s an arm sitting on a table in front of It. It’s still frozen, covered in ice, tinted blue and purple with old blood. It can see the bone protruding from the flesh and wonders what they want from It. The ice is melting, and It’s reminded of Itself, being taken out from the giant metal contraption that had made It sleep. The arm is not asleep though. It is dead. It is flesh.
It glances down to Its metal arm and thinks It used to be flesh as well. A long time ago.
It is dead. It is metal.
A voice booms from the ceiling’s speakers. It releases a sudden breath.
“Доедать.” It is reminded of the growling emanating from Its stomach.
It does not move for a while, watching as the arm continues to thaw and soften. The voice repeats the command several more times with a flat tone before It finally moves forward, bare feet cold on the stone floor. It has the sense that It is being laughed at.
There is a knife next to the arm, and It takes it easily, feeling the weight of the blade in Its hand. Another repetition of the command rings out. Its stomach growls loudly as It glares at the one-way window. It slices part of the flesh off, near the jagged end, a decent chunk that It could eat in two bites.
The moment the squishy, cold, raw meat touches Its tongue, Its head goes light. It’s been hungry for so long- so, so long. It eats it in one. It tastes and feels awful. Its stomach continues to growl. Its ears prickle as It can hear some muffled noises coming through from the window.
It has the sense It is being laughed at.
It continues to eat and eat and eat until Its stomach quiets down. It growls in its stead when they come to collect It and take It to Its cell. One of the men is laughing. Its fingers twitch, and It lunges forward. Its metal hand rips into the man’s throat with ease, blood spurting everywhere- on their faces, in Its mouth.
It doesn’t struggle as It’s apprehended.
It doesn’t do anything but grin with red lips and teeth as Its vision goes dark once more.
If he had looked closer, he would have noticed a familiar scar on the bicep. A scar he got from trying to teach Steve how to do tricks with a butterfly knife.
The mission was successful, but the super soldier had damaged It. They want to put It back to sleep, afraid that It was recognized. If only Steve was here to see It. It stares at Its new arm with bitterness hanging on Its tongue, in Its gut. It has a red star, now- branded. They’ve branded It, but It knows the truth. Its Master is dead. It belongs to no one.
Lukin’s voice whispers in Its head as It sits in the new machine they’ve created. Zola stands in front of It, observing It with cold, calculating eyes behind thick glasses. Its fingers flex and clench, gripping the armrests of Its new torture device. It knows the truth; they can’t take that away from It. Its Master is dead.
It belongs to no one- a red star won’t change that.
It stares into Zola’s eyes with a feeling of defiance, sneering and growling at him as they force a bite guard into Its mouth, steel halo rings surrounding Its head.
Even after electricity coursed through Its body, wreaking havoc on Its brain, they watched in fear as It never stopped glaring, however weak, at Zola. The hatred is too ingrained to be removed.
It belongs to no one.
“Turn up the voltage and do it again.”
And again. And again. And again.
There’s a chain hooked into the back of Its new harness with straps making their way down his legs and arms - “A gift for you, собака”, - pulled taut as It sits in the corner against the wall, back to the door, waiting, naked and cold. It absentmindedly tugs at the metal collar. The world around It is grey and black in the dark, but there’s constant noises, small shocks emanating from the collar, keeping It awake. This is by design, It knows.
It knows.
They think It stupid; just because It cannot remember how to produce anything other than a growl, does not mean It cannot understand them, cannot remember all their faces despite their attempts to fry Its brain. Do it again. AGAIN.
It knows It’s been here a long time, far longer than probably imagined. Hunger clings to It, saliva thick as It yearns for water, but there is no reprieve. It can survive much longer. It has been through worse.
It tongues Its teeth, avoiding the pointed tips (Its jaw still aches from the implants), and wonders, and tastes blood. It knows this is why It’s being punished like the dog It is. They called It an ‘attack dog’, so. It attacked. Just not who they wanted It to.
It remembers the fear and shock in the General’s face. Good riddance.
A sharp bark of laughter escapes It, then, deep and hoarse and startling.
A muzzle becomes a new part of Its uniform, a precaution before and after cold, do it again, and It grins with sharp teeth, even if they cannot see it. They say it’s a mask to help It stay a ghost, to stay tethered to them, but It knows.
They gave It gifts, but they’re afraid of what they’ve created. It grins and It knows.
Though cold, unforgiving walls will always be the most familiar, It has seen the world; all the many terrains, climates, and altitudes. It’s seen it all.
It knows what sand feels like between Its toes and chafing in Its tactical gear, what mud feels like stuck under Its nails, to walk in, to struggle in. It knows what rain tastes like, knows that the softer rains taste sweeter, while the harsher rains (that will always remind It of an icy hose aimed at It) taste like rot and sewage no matter how far from a city It is.
It knows that It hates the cold but is often forced into it despite Its attempts to fight back. Because the cold usually means sleep, means blood and roaring trains and death and starvation and- God, It can feel the cold deep in Its bones. The cold never leaves It alone, never will. So, It hates the snowy mountains that surround It, and the slush of it freezing Its toes, hates the biting chill that numbs Its face and fingers and the area around Its metal arm.
It hates.
They hate that It can.
When red stains the pearly, white-covered ground, ruining the canvas around It, It stares. Blood drips from Its metal fingers, drip drip dripping. The torn stark black armor is jarring against the white and red, and the sunlight reflects off it all oddly. It stares and drops to Its knees, watching as the blood soaks and pools around the man, melting the snow and turning into sludge. It stares at the thing that used to beat and spread warmth, now sitting useless and crushed in front of It. It doesn’t stop staring, even as It’s surrounded by men in the same matching black armor, guns raised and aimed at It. It doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t fight back.
Just as everything is going black, It wonders if It has a heart as well. Wonders if It can rip it out and bathe in Its own blood. It wonders if Its insides are blue, to match how cold It feels.
This time, It welcomes the darkness and the cold of sleep.
This time, It knows the warmth of blood, of the human body. It knows that It is not human.
The glass of the tank is still frosted over when It opens Its eyes, but It can hear voices, muffled as they were, speaking on the other side. It doesn’t recognize them.
“Be ready- we don’t know who’s inside this thing,” a man says from the left side of the chamber.
“I think I have an idea,” a woman speaks up, softer, from the right side.
Without warning, the chamber opens with a loud hiss. The cold air escapes and the outside air warms Its fingers. It releases a breath from the feeling.
“Holy shit-“
The first thing It sees is blue. Warm blue eyes narrowed like It’s worth something other than собака. The face of the man doesn’t match anyone It remembers. He looks like Secretary Pierce. Just younger. It stumbles and falls forward, out of the icy coffin. Pierce catches It, feels his hands almost tugging at the harness, but it doesn’t feel right. This Pierce does not match the Pierce in Its memories, but who else could he be? Stuttered breaths and groans escape It. Its teeth chatter. The man’s hold on It tightens, and It releases a growl deep from Its throat, teeth bared behind Its muzzle. Its face burns in agony, It can feel the metal digging into Its cheeks and neck.
There’re voices surrounding It. Everything is wrong, here. Where’s the doctors? The engineers? Its vision is clearing, and the only one that looks wary of It is a woman with red hair. A familiar shade of red. Traitor. It looks away with half-lidded eyes, silently observing the others and the room around It as Pierce holds It in his arms.
“-Hear me?” It catches the end of someone’s sentence, vision swimming for a moment before it settles on the Secretary’s face. “We’re gonna get you out of here, okay?”
Its fingers twitch, and It’s slowly regaining feeling in Its legs, the cold beginning to recede. It’s still there, though, deep in Its bones. The look on Pierce’s face causes Its skin to prickle, and It responds with a low snarl. The Widow’s finger twitches on the trigger of her handgun. Her eyes are on Its collar.
“Careful, he doesn’t seem like he’s with us right now,” a black man with red goggles and metal wings, folded close to his back, speaks up. It glares at him, fists clenching and legs pulling closer to itself and the Secretary. Leather straps and metal buckles dig into Its legs from underneath the thin fabric pants.
It shivers and whimpers and pants like the pup It’s pretending to be, like It thinks It used to be before there was a red star marring Its arm. A blanket is draped over Its shoulder and arm, It doesn’t spare it a glance. Its head is a mess, It wonders where the- the wipe him, do it again, again, again is, wonders if Pierce will continue Its punishment.
The Secretary helps It stand on shaky legs, and when It is stable enough on Its own, It rushes forward, throwing the blanket over the man’s head, easily seizing the Widow’s gun and grabbing hold of her, keeping the woman’s back to Its chest. It breathes heavily, shakily, harness tight over Its clammy, heaving chest, as It holds the gun to her head. The Secretary and the other men must not know who she is. She is wanted by the KGB, a known defector. It should’ve killed her when It had the chance on that cliff.
They all have their weapons aimed at It, but don’t push forward. Its body burns from all the movement, still numb in some places. It ignores the pain, glaring at the three men in front of It and the Widow.
It switches Its hold on her enough to partly free an arm, using the metal digits to grab her wrist where her widow-bite is. It snarls loudly in her ear, and she leans her head away cautiously.
“He recognizes me as a Widow,” she mumbles and It snorts at the obvious, “Солдат, все пойдет не так, как ты думаешь.” It hasn’t heard their mother tongue in a long time. Хорошая собака. It tightens Its grip on her, not stopping until she releases a harsh breath from the pain. At least she still knows her training.
“Does he understand us?” It looks at the black man with narrowed eyes. The Widow mutters an affirmative, not moving. Why are they not apprehending her? It is helping them! It is a xорошая собака.
“Your employers should give you a raise- the dedication is outstanding,” the red suit of armor speaks sarcastically from its position by the tank. It barks out, It belongs to no one!, nonsensical with vague syllables. It doesn’t remember when It last spoke, tongue heavy, Its jaw hurts.
“Shut up-“ “There’s three of us- why aren’t we just attacking him?”
“Because I’d like for this to go civilly,” Pierce forces out through his teeth, blue eyes meeting Its own, “We’re here to help you-“ What-
There’s movement at Its side before It can shove the Widow away. It feels a jolt of electricity, coursing up Its body, feels rather than hears Its collar activate, hears a mix of shouts before the world fades away, floor rushing up to Its face. Fuck-
“Well, there goes being civil…” “You’re welcome.”
Notes:
Translations (In order of appearance):
Хорошая собака : Good dog.
Вы сослужите нам хорошую службу : You will serve us well.
Что это было, собака? : What was that, dog?
Плохая собака : Bad dog.
Доедать : Eat up.
Солдат, все пойдет не так, как ты думаешь : Soldier, things won’t go the way you think.(Bound to be inaccurate, if you'd like to correct, hmu)
Chapter 2
Notes:
Apparently I lied, I started working on this again as soon as I posted the 1st chapter. Who knows when chapter 3 will be done..... sigh. Also what's with my posting shit right before I leave for work????
edit 10/15: 2/3 of chapter 3 is done, has been done for a few days now i think? but i got covid so HAH sorry not funny but it isBEWARE THE TAGS PLEASE. This chapter is very not happy. Like at all. HTP shit yknow.
There is Russian in this, the translations are at the end in order of appearance, and many phrases are used repetitively. Mobile you can translate as you read (even tho it's kinda annoying), so i wish you luck with pc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s been five hours. Steve can still hear the agonizing scream the man had let out, Agent Romanoff’s widow-bite accidentally activating the metal collar- a goddamn shock collar- around his neck. He’s not sure it was an accident though; she never spared him another glance once they boarded the Quinjet, simply heading to the cockpit even though the thing has an autopilot.
He thinks about the metal and leather harness the Winter Soldier had been wearing when they opened the tank, disappearing underneath the scrub-like pants, his torso bare. There were straps coming off the shoulders and wrapping around the arms, metal and flesh, down to the wrists, D-rings at the ends for- for chains. Steve’s sure it continued down the man’s legs, as well. God, the ways they could string up this man like a puppet. He’s getting sick just thinking about it. They removed the thing as soon as they could, giving him some freedom at least, even with the special Hulk restraints Stark made magnetizing his ankles and wrists together. Steve was careful to avoid removing the only piece of clothing he was wearing, cutting only where the leather was visible then pulling the straps off from the ankles.
Stark tried to take a laser to the collar, but the thing began beeping the second he started cutting into it, a light blinking bright yellow at them. They didn’t try it again. Stark didn’t make one joke the entire time.
Instead, the billionaire did some scans, full body, a little invasive considering the Soldier was unconscious. When he got to the mask on the Soldier’s face, his face went white, and he walked away towards the cockpit. Steve and Sam didn’t try to stop the muffled yelling match Stark was having with Romanoff; they understood the moment they saw the resulting scan on the tablet. The mask was screwed into his face. There was nothing they could do to remove it, they didn’t know what it would do, they didn’t know if the collar or muzzle would blow up or do irreparable damage to the Soldier.
He’s clearly been through enough torture in his life, however long that’s been considering they found him in a cryostasis chamber; they don’t need to make it worse. Steve grimaces, eyes following the thick scar tissue that almost completely covered the brunette’s chest and back, especially around the metal shoulder. It looks like it was painfully welded to his skin, reaching to cover his shoulder blade, part of the collarbone, and barely touching the pectoral.
It was only when they arrived, six hours since the incident, at the finally repaired, and newly dubbed, ‘Avengers Tower’, that the Soldier started to wake up, silently testing the restraints. He and Sam went rigid, expecting him to try and attack immediately, but he only lazily blinked at Steve for a moment before shutting his eyes again. He sympathized and greatly felt that the man deserved as much rest as he could get. The hard part hasn’t even started.
Hands are on It again, squeezing Its arms and legs, leather straps tight, restraining It; arms crossed over Its chest like a straitjacket, legs spread by a bar at the ankles, a hook on the back of the harness the only thing keeping It from falling onto Its face. It growls and snarls, saliva spitting from Its mouth and dripping from Its chin as It struggles against them. It knows they’ve done this before, when Its brain was so mushy, do it again, again!, It didn’t have the energy to move or think. But now It is awake and aware and It is angry. Get off me, you bastards! Get the fuck away from me! I’ll bite your fucking heads off! It tries to yell at them, but all that escapes It are barks that don’t sound much like anything. All they do is laugh at It.
“Смотрите, у собаки пена изо рта!” More laughter, Its blood runs cold and hot and It yearns to take them apart with Its teeth.
There’s a presence behind It, a callused hand at the base of Its spine. It can barely feel it through the scar tissue. It freezes, Its fingers squeezing at Its ribs enough to bruise- It can feel the metal under Its skin.
“Be a good dog for us, won’t you? Разве ты не будешь хорошей стервой?”
It twitches and breathes harshly in quick bursts, whimpering at the first prodding. Please. Stop.
The next time It is armed for a mission, It does not hesitate to give those that had touched It slow, painful deaths. They become too afraid to use It like that once they see the state of the bodies, flayed as they were with their cocks cut off and stuffed in their asses.
It glares at them with a snarl, as if daring them to try.
There’s movement, jostling- It’s being picked up. It snarls, yells, spit hitting the inside of Its muzzle as It struggles. Get off off OFF! Get away! Bastards! Off! There’re exclamations, It’s dropped onto the floor, pain erupting from Its head and arms from the landing. It kicks Its feet, almost falls backwards again, but manages to get Its back to a wall. It howls and spits at them.
Pierce takes a step forward, hands up. Its ears ring. It flinches, the side of Its head hitting the wall, cold washing over It. Fuck fuck fuck. It can’t hear what they’re saying, doesn’t understand- Nobody moves towards It. It glances around but keeps them in Its sight. They’re in the hangar of a plane, a jet, doesn’t look familiar to any that It's been in before. It pulls Its knees toward Its chest, breathing loudly, feels Its warm breaths on Its face as It stares them down.
The Secretary is on his knees, hands firmly placed on his thighs, shoulders drawn. The- no. It doesn’t… This is not the Secretary. Looks like him but is different. Pierce- not Pierce? -stays where he is, the others are behind him, stances unthreatening. It still picks apart their persons for weapons. All of them are armed. But It is not. This is not ideal.
“-Hey, s’okay-“
It shakes Its head, body trembling, insides made of ice, jittery all over. It can’t- Where’s- /Глупая собака./
“-with us?”
Its eyes meet the Widow’s. She eases herself to the floor, expression soft but guarded. Its arms slacken, muscles sore, hands falling to rest against Its legs. It looks back to- to Pierce. The man looks worried, stiff, but trying to seem small. He relaxes when It focuses on him.
“I’m sorry, for- for touching you without asking. Won’t happen again, okay?” It doesn’t move. It’s eyes jump to the black, winged man when he lowers himself to the floor as well, next to Pierce.
“If we take the cuffs off your ankles, will you be able to walk? Will you… no funny business, yea? Two-way street here, y’know? Nothing from you, nothing from us,” He says, looking calm, his lips curved slightly upward. His hands are still clenched into fists, partly hidden from view. It nods slowly. No funny business.
Pierce approaches slowly on his knees, stopping a few feet away. He holds a hand up, glancing from Its face to Its ankles. It pushes Its feet forward, closer, muscles pinging, straining. The blonde smiles, quickly removes the large magnetic restraints, and backs away. To give It room. Get away, away away. Its shoulders droop, exhaling as Its legs fall flat against the metal floor and It rests against the wall for a moment. It can see the tension leave Pierce; everyone appears relaxed except for the Widow.
Its steps are wobbly- move, dammit- but no one tries to touch It or push It forward. The red metal suit suddenly opens to reveal a man with a goatee; he steps out of the aircraft and leads the way. It follows after Pierce and the black man, hates putting Its back to the Widow, whose steps are silent even with heels It knows she uses as weapons.
It winces and blinks at the sunlight hitting Its face, the expanding view of a city- New York, It’s in New York, there’s the Empire State Building-, Its breath catches in Its throat, freezing It in place. A throat clears and Pierce blocks Its view. It blinks and tries to look around him, ignoring the metal-suit-man’s laugh in the background.
A hand is placed on Its upper arm, Its dead arm, and carefully guides It into the tower. It sighs when It can no longer see the city horizon, feel the warmth of the sun on Its skin. It trails behind silently, pulling away from Pierce’s hand with trembling legs Get off.
Even if it looks different, doesn’t feel the same, has a- a bed, It is still placed in a cell. It tenses at the glass panel that makes up one of the walls. It knows there’s a room on the other side. Pierce-not-Pierce watches It as It settles onto the floor, side pressed against the cot’s frame. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t lock Its ankles together again or get mad when Its foot is partly under the bed because they both know there’s enough room for It to crawl underneath. To hide.
“This is only temporary,” the man says, exiting the cell and leaving It alone. It watches Its reflection in the mirrored window and wonders how long it’ll be before It sees them again.
It sits and waits, teeth clenched painfully.
“Anyone else unnerved by the guy? ‘Cause I am,” Stark says the moment Steve enters the observation room and the door shuts behind him.
“I think we’re all unnerved, but not because of him,” Sam grimaces, staring at the scarring around the shoulder’s metal plating, the shock collar. Jesus Christ-
“We need to question him, see if he can tell us if there’s others like him,” Romanoff intones flatly, “We should find out who his handlers are-“
“You don’t seriously believe he was willing still, do you? I mean, look at him!” Sam cuts her off. Steve is more partial to his words than Romanoff’s; the Soldier looked like hell broke loose and no one else knew. The spy is silent for a moment. He thinks Sam touched a nerve.
“I don’t know what I believe, but someone is obviously in charge of him. We need to find out who.” Steve catches her jaw clench, a vein barely peeking out from her forehead. This is personal.
Stark hasn’t said anything for a moment, standing at the window, observing the Soldier as he sits, tense, on the floor. Steve notices his eyes roaming the room, probably looking for weaknesses in the walls and ceiling. He walks over to stand next to him, arms crossed. They both tense when the Soldier’s scrutinizing stare is turned to the window, though they both know the man can’t see them. They release their breath when he looks away.
“I don’t like this, Cap.”
“I know. I don’t either, but there’s nothing else we can do.”
“There’s plenty more we can do.” Steve can feel the billionaire look at him.
The room is silent for a few minutes, Sam and Romanoff pausing their however brief argument, and him and Stark too busy watching the Soldier to speak. None of them like this situation they’ve found themselves in.
“Maybe we should get SHIELD involved,” Romanoff offers after a moment, breaking the tense and silent air, her arms crossed as she leaned against the wall. Even though she looks relaxed, her eyes don’t leave the Winter Soldier.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but SHIELD is currently under Secretary Pierce’s control, and that guy gives me the creeps. There’s no way we’re bringing SHIELD into this,” Stark’s tone is harsh, no sarcasm in sight. Steve nods his head in agreement.
“He’s right, it’d be dangerous to involve anyone we don’t completely trust. SHIELD’s been off since Fury disappeared, and Hill’s been too busy to contact us. It’s up to us to figure out what’s going on and to help him.”
Nobody disagrees.
It whimpers and cries, tears falling down Its face. Its jaw is forced open, aching and almost numb if it weren’t for the hands shoved in there, metal tools and latex poking and prodding and scratching Its tongue. All It tastes is blood, warm and coppery.
Its legs and arms are clamped down, giving It no room to even twitch. All It can do is gag and sob through Its own blood.
There’s a doctor standing on either side of It, masks covering their mouths, scrubs and blue latex gloves stained red. It has stained them. It’s going to get punished for that.
It tries to close Its eyes, tries to escape from the pain, but a heavy hand slaps Its cheek, sending shooting agony through Its mouth and face and head Please stop, dear God- Stop! Its eyes snap open, back arching off the back of the chair. They shout angrily, and one stabs Its thigh with a pair of needle nose pliers.
A rope is tied around Its stomach and the back of the chair, keeping It from moving more.
There’re muted whispers, something’s wrong with Its ears, Its head, something’s wrong with It, before the same pair of pliers is in Its mouth and a tooth is yanked out. Its vision whites out from pain, It can hear screams echoing off the walls. That must be Its own.
“Впереди еще двадцать пять.”
It only continues to cry.
Its screams live in Its head for a long time after that.
Its punishment has already started. It doesn’t see anyone for a long time,- how long has It been in here? -and Its stomach rumbles and cramps. Its tongue is dry, and Its lips are stuck together from dehydration. It wonders if they’ll make It beg, shove Its head in the toilet to drink the water. It breathes harshly at the thought, anger creeping in where it is unneeded. It’s been through worse; this is no trial. There’s been worse. It calms down, though Its teeth remain clenched. It doesn’t want to bite Its tongue off.
This is no trial. It knows the Widow, knows how the girl- the woman thinks, because they think the same. She is unpredictable in all this, just like It is. What is she doing with Pierce? Is he really Pierce- maybe it’s the Secretary’s son. That would explain the younger, slightly off look. Are they HYDRA? There’s an itching pain behind Its eyes and It closes them. Thinking will get It nowhere. Just submit. The General’s voice is in Its head, memories flashing by. It knows It killed him, but- /Боль закончится, если вы просто сделаете то, что вам говорят./ It gives a shake of Its head. It won’t. The pain never ends. /Доверьтесь своему хозяину./ No. Its Master is dead. It belongs to no one.
/Нет. Ты принадлежишь мне./
No! It belongs to Никто!
/Ты плохая собака./
It whines, shutting Its eyes tightly, Its face pressed to Its drawn knees.
Просто остановите его.
Steve enters the cell carefully after spending several hours just observing the Soldier. Stark had disappeared a while ago, muttering under his breath as he flicked through things on his tablet, and Agent Romanoff decided to stay in the observation room with Sam, both staying for different reasons. He thinks he gets it, glancing between the Soldier and the mirror.
The Winter Soldier is stiff, chest heaving as he breathes; Sam said he was likely experiencing a flashback or dissociating. Steve’s reminded of the men he knew, Bucky and many others were like this, shell shock from the war and all they’d experienced. After meeting Sam, he’d done more research on it.
He hasn’t told anyone about the nightmares.
He hopes he can help the Soldier, this broken, enslaved man, get back into normal life like he deserved. Steve swallows as he takes a seat on the floor several feet away in front of the brunette, wondering what his name is, if he can communicate with them in some way. Surely, they couldn’t have taken everything from him, right?
“Hey. I, uh- brought you some water.” The Soldier twitches, whimpers muffled behind the mask, the muzzle, but he doesn’t look at Steve or show in any way that he heard him. Steve slowly rolls the water bottle towards the man, wincing slightly when it thumps against his foot, causing the brunette to flinch.
“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, keeping his hands firmly in his lap. The Soldier’s eyes, at least, don’t look so… dull, dead, anymore, like he’s back to himself. For now.
Pierce-not-Pierce sighs. Its leg muscles twitch, gearing for a fight that It knows won’t happen. Nothing from you, nothing from us. /The man, or the woman, собака. Pick./ It can feel the weight of a M1911 in Its dead hand, wishes It could aim and shoot the bullet that doesn’t exist. There’re only two targets, It just needs to pick one.
“Is there a way you can tell us your name?” Pierce asks after clearing his throat. It stares at him. This man… It snorts. What a show-pony.
/Следи за своим языком./ What, like It tore yours out? It shoulders shake as It laughs silently, hands gripping Its pant legs. Pierce looks uncomfortable, fidgeting in place, looking like he wants to flee. This man is no handler, It knows that now. Handlers do not show weakness. He may look like the Secretary, but he is not. It wonders if the Secretary is dead to have transferred It to his son. It wonders if this is all a game, a trick, a test. Is it failing? Or can It kill them all before the real tests begin? The procedure has already started. Do it again.
Lukin’s face is looking old, older, new wrinkles forming with every sleep, his hair greying more and more.
“You disappoint me, собака,” the General whispers into Its ear, tugging at Its hair like he is only teasing. It knows he isn’t. It cannot help the sourness filling Its stomach.
He is still kind to It, despite what It has done. Or not done. It whines when he pulls his hand away, holds Itself back from chasing after him. Плохая собака. It doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve anything, but It wants everything from him. Everything the General will give It.
It sits and watches as Lukin walks away, sitting at a table with a lavish meal. It meets the man’s eyes as guards surround It with the butts of their guns, eyes pleading as they beat It. It doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move to attack or get away. It just clenches Its teeth and curls up, protecting Its gut.
It wants everything the General will give It, including his heart. It yearns for the day.
It grins, bloody, grunts escaping It as the men continue to beat down on It. One day, one day you bastards- There are sadistic yells as someone forces Its legs apart and takes a knife to Its thigh, inches away from Its uncovered dick. A boot stomps down on Its dead arm, bone snapping and grinding in place. One of them introduces a knife to Its ankle, shredding the Achilles heel. It howls, loud and echoing in the room.
Lukin holds a hand up and the guards cease Its punishment, letting It go and stepping back as It pants and whimpers on the floor, blood slowly starting to pool. It knows It will be healed soon, that the pain won’t last forever, but It continues to whine like a pup. It wants and wants and wants. But It doesn’t know what.
It watches as the General eats his meal, slow and unbothered by Its whimpers, dabbing his mouth with a cloth once he is done. He picks up a bone off his plate, left over from his steak, and approaches It. Its metal hand twitches, and It uncurls, reaching out toward the man. It wants. Lukin chuckles and kneels, holding the bone to Its lips until It opens Its mouth to take it with Its teeth with an audible click.
“Ты такая хорошая собака.” It closes Its eyes as a callused hand caresses Its face, tucking hair behind an ear, wiping the sweat from Its forehead.
It wants, but It doesn’t want this.
Плохая собака.
The cell is dark when Its eyes open. It sighs. This is a welcome reprieve from the blinding lights; It misses the eye-protectors It would be given for daytime missions. It looks to the spot where It knows the water bottle still sits next to It, slowly moving Its dead hand to pick it up. It could be poisoned, but It knows that death will never be that easy to achieve- that doesn’t mean the poison won’t cause something else. Maybe a paralytic, or something to boil Its stomach from the inside, something to make Its mouth froth and blood leak from Its eyes and ears. They used to be so creative before the Secretary bought It. It doesn’t know why It feels fond.
Its metal fingers pause on the edge of the muzzle that digs into Its cheekbone. It has tried that before, It remembers. The pain was not worth it. So, It changes course and slowly pours the water through the small holes in the metal. It’s painstakingly slow, takes a long time just to drink half the bottle.
It ignores the small wet spots on Its pants, ignores that Its face is damp as water stays trapped inside the muzzle. It did not cough or sputter, though, like It used to in the beginning. This is much better than having to drink from a bowl, toilet or otherwise. It saves the rest of the water for later, hiding the bottle under the bed.
It is still as It lies on the floor, knees tucked to Its chest, the metal arm holding them in place. Its breathing is soft and quiet. When It closes Its eyes, It imagines a gentle hand in Its hair, on Its face, on Its skin. Because the hands in Its dreams are never gentle.
Notes:
Translations (In order of appearance):
Смотрите, у собаки пена изо рта! : Look, the dog is foaming at the mouth!
Разве ты не будешь хорошей стервой? : Won’t you be a good bitch?
/Глупая собака./ : Stupid dog.
Впереди еще двадцать пять. : There is still twenty-five left
/Боль закончится, если вы просто сделаете то, что вам говорят./ : The pain will end if you just do what you’re told.
/Доверьтесь своему хозяину./ : Trust your master.
Никто! : No one!
/Ты плохая собака./ : You’re a bad dog.
Просто остановите его. : Just make it stop.
/Следи за своим языком./ : Watch your tongue.
Плохая собака. : Bad dog.
Ты такая хорошая собака. : You’re such a good dog.
Chapter 3
Notes:
finally finished, thank gOD i was dying there for a second wondering 'when tf are you gonna finish it, people are wAITINGGGG' and i was stressing myself out which makes it more difficult to write. also I got really really really into The Crowded Room w/ Tom Holland. hyperfocus be hyperfocusing, yknow how it is. This chapter actually is not that graphic, it's a miracle, but I just wanted to try and move the story along, get a bit more plot building stuff into it.
There is Russian in this, the translations are at the end in order of appearance, and many phrases are used repetitively. Mobile you can translate as you read (even tho it's kinda annoying), so i wish you luck with pc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Доброе утро, солдат,” Karpov smiles plainly, more teeth than- blood, flesh, sticky and iron and sweet, soft and chewy, echoing screams- It licks Its lips.
Ready to comply, ready to comply, ready to comply- no matter the language, the words refuse to leave Its throat despite the insistent order hammering in Its head. Its breaths are harsh as the steel arms and halo fully retract; It cannot see them sitting eerily still behind It, but It knows that they are there. Its eyes flicker about the room that It knows the inside and out of as a technician hurriedly puts the muzzle on It. But things have moved, the lighting has changed, Karpov has let a stubble grow in. The man is still smiling, waiting, looking kind even with the book that deserves to burn in his hands.
“Неважно. Пора готовиться к миссии.” Karpov places the book down next to It, It glares at the red cover, and he pulls It up off the haloed torture machine by the arms. It huffs a breath through the mask, loud and warm against Karpov’s face.
“Никаких игр, друг. Не сегодня,” he laughs boisterously and tightens his hold on Its arms, the dead one around his shoulder, as they walk. It merely snorts and rolls Its eyes even though it just causes Its head to pound.
It has never had a friend before, It thinks. But- there’s a flash of paint and charcoal through Its nose, pain behind Its eyes. They stop walking as a foot trips over nothing.
“Солдат?” Karpov looks concerned but continues to hold It up. It shakes Its head like it will make the pain and smells go away.
Your Captain is dead, собака.
They continue walking.
Its Master is dead; It belongs to no one. Not even to this man that calls It his friend.
New handlers, new but familiar routines. They give It the ability to tell the time in the cell, but It doesn’t check that often. It does not need to know the time, as long as time passes. They give It water that eventually starts looking and tasting like dirt, laced with something because It cannot eat with the muzzle in the way- It was informed of this, at least. It has also been told to use the facilities after two days of not moving. Every six hours the magnetized ankle cuffs unlock so that It can use them as was instructed.
If It sits up against the mirrored wall, It can hear them talk. Gotta get – off. He – to eat. –needs a doctor – slowly starving.
It deliberately sips the nutrient-laced water, holding back a grimace at the taste. It knows they talk about It but doesn’t know why they have not started training yet. Maybe this is training. Do you think It knows tricks like a real dog? Hey, sit, boy! Its stomach has been cramping terribly since It was taken out of the sleep tank. It sits and waits routinely for another bottle of dirt-water, sitting with Its back against the bed, legs outstretched and hands in Its lap. It gives no reaction when the cell’s door slides open to reveal Pierce with a canvas bag in hand.
The man sits on the floor in front of It, several feet away, instead of next to It or up on the bed. It stares as he unzips the bag and pushes it towards It. It stares at Pierce until the man starts to fidget and sweat and look unnerved before It pulls the bag closer to look inside. It has never had a handler that gave It things like this, especially with no pain involved not counting the cramping stomach. It gives Pierce another look. It upends the entire bag, everything falling out onto the floor, some items scattering away, including three new bottles of dirt-water.
There’s a messily folded knitted blanket, all shades of blue blended together. It almost reminds It of the sky. It pushes it aside to reveal two notebooks that look newly bought, and It gathers the markers that rolled away and places them together on the side as well. It puts the cottony soft clothing in a pile. There’re three books It doesn’t even bother to read the covers of, tossing them back to- words on the inside of one of the covers catches Its eye.
‘Thank you for paving the way for us, Captain America’ written in bold, black ink. The script is neat and looping, and It can’t remember the last time It’s read anything on purpose, or was allowed to, let alone English, but this… It holds the book open and points it to Pierce. I’m Secretary Pierce. I’ve heard great things about you, Soldier. All the man did was laugh awkwardly, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yea, the author, uh- I was at a bookstore that she was doing a signing at, and… It’s a good book, I thought maybe you’d enjoy it, I guess.” Its metal finger points to ‘Captain America’ on the page, eyes narrowed. It has heard those around It speak of Captain America before, both long ago and very recently, but It’s never known who he was or what he looked like. How does Pierce have a book signed for Captain America?
“You don’t- that’s,” he sighs, runs a hand over his face, “Right, I never… I never introduced myself, it’s been so chaotic lately. Um, people usually know me as Captain America, but my name’s-“ It clenches Its teeth as Its head roars Lies!, It drops Its arms, hands holding the book tightly in Its lap. It feels like ripping it in half. This man is a Pierce, why is he lying to It? It growls and throws the book at him, Pierce dodges before it can hit him squarely in the face.
These people always lie to It; the Captain is dead, It knows this- doesn’t know when or how or why, but It does. Its breathing is harsh as It glares down this- this liar, fists clenched in Its lap. With the emotions swirling within Itself, It lashes out, incomprehensible words Liar liar, fucking lying cunt! ripped from Its throat as It began to throw the items at Pierce.
The man leaves quickly when faced with Its anger, apologizing under his breath like It deserves the soft words meant for fools, like It thinks It used to throw around as a pup before It learned the rules. Get the fuck away from me!
The lights of the cell dim as It sits, snarling in the corner with the torn-up books lying around, markers broken and spilling ink, clothes ripped to shreds. The only thing untouched is the sky-blue knit around Its shoulders.
It blinks Its eyes open; the lights still dim as the cell door opens. The light being let in is bright and unforgiving, and It sighs when the room is dark once more. Pierce is not standing there, like It thought he would be- instead it’s the goateed man. It stares at the man, looking for weapons, but finds none. The man reeks of stale clothing, electrical sparks, and- It grimaces after another sniff -bad breath. The man chuckles like It knows Its thoughts, and It tenses.
“They really just stuck you in here, huh? I mean- I was there, obviously, but I figured they’d be crowding you with doctors and interrogating you and what-have-you,” he waves his right hand dramatically, the other behind his back, “I’m all for leaving someone on their own, I’m more partial to my company being robots, if I’m honest, but to leave you like this? Tragic. I would say my heart is breaking for you, but I don’t think you care, and I’d be lying. I have a simple present for you to make your life easier, and I’ll be off.” It gives him a dead stare. This man talks way more than anyone It’s ever met, it feels like.
“I can see Cap’s giftbag was well received,” the goateed man comments, his eyes probably adjusted to the low lighting and noticing the mess It made. He says nothing about the shredded mess of clothes It has made into a nest. It’s glad. It does not want it removed.
It pulls at the knit blanket, the material hiding Its clenched fists. The man steps forward slowly, his relaxed state hiding his caution. He is smart- smarter than the others.
“Natashalie doesn’t like that I’m in here, but if there’s one thing everyone knows about me, it’s that I hate following orders. It’s a thing, y’know? Anyways, I may be trying to get on your good side, because they certainly aren’t trying and are probably on your shit list for being absolute morons- but that’s nothing new, I’m a genius -so, here is your gift.” It doesn’t know what to do with all these words being thrown at It- no, not thrown… this man is soft but smart. It’s disquieting.
It looks down at his hand to see a simple, thin plastic tube… a straw. A straw. It snorts out a laugh, catching the goateed man off guard. These people really are morons like he said they are. It knows It could use the straw to stab him, could probably think of many different violent ways to use it against the man, but It thinks grabbing it from his hand with Its metal hand is warning enough. He shows no reaction other than the quirk of his lips that quickly turns into a grin. It is not a mean grin like It used to make at the engineers before this stupid fucking mask- If you’re going to act like a dumb dog- This is for your own good- Stop pulling at it- остановки! was bolted to Its face.
“Say, while you’re still in a good mood- I can tell you’re smiling, don’t lie to me -that muzzle doesn’t happen to be booby-trapped, does it?” It raises a brow at him. Observant. It likes this one, he must be a good engineer. It can’t remember liking any of the past ones. It shakes Its head with a soft huff, crinkling Its eyes. The man nods, still smiling.
“Well thank HYDRA’s stupidity for that, huh? We’ll be able to remove it soon, then- get to see that handsome face of yours.” /У тебя всегда было милое личико./ It stops Itself from snapping the straw in half and simply huddles further into the corner on Its nest. He leaves then, just like he said he would.
The straw is just small enough to fit in one of the holes in the mask, and using it is far less painful than trying to keep Its mouth open to catch water like It had to do before. The dirt-water disappears almost three times as fast, and It dozes once It is done drinking the last bottle.
Handsome. It’s been a long time since It has last seen Its full face. It loses track sometimes, but It thinks it was twelve sleeps ago in the tank: It can still remember the frosted glass reflection. The good nature of the goateed man almost reminds It of Karpov. It finds Itself missing him. It finds Itself wishing that It had been the one that got to end Karpov’s life, wondering where Its friend had disappeared to after It was transferred. Maybe he is still alive and It will find him- complete this self-imposed mission.
This, It knows, is something It wants.
“Что вы думаете о них?” The stern-faced woman, Madame B., asks from next to It. Its eyes roam the wide expanse of the room, catching weaknesses in the mirror, in twitches of movement, shadows of facial expressions. The little girls continue to train and spar and dance. It frowns under Its mask.
“Мы наняли вас не просто так. Подают ли они надежды?” It watches their distant reflections in the mirrored wall, watches the way Madame B. stares at It with respect in her eyes that It makes sure to not meet in the reflection. It’s never been looked at like that before. It nods Its head, finally, in response. She smiles, proud.
It wonders if there’s anyone who has ever been proud of It before It’s even completed a mission. It thinks there’s a difference between fear, begrudging respect, and just plain arrogance. Because none of them are ever towards It. At least not lately. Others obey the handler for fear that the Winter Soldier will be sent after them. Others respect the Asset but only because of how It was made, not because It deserved it. They all are arrogant in that they think they own It when It knows that that’s not true. They can never seem to grasp that.
Being here, with the little girls and stern women and men in the mansion, sleeping in a bedroom just like anybody else, being fed just like anybody else, It wonders if this is a new beginning. It doesn’t dare show this to the guards that are meant to keep track of It. It knows that they’re itching for a fight, to punish It for something It hasn’t done yet. The men are tense, watching It with nervous steel in their eyes. Yes, they are itching for It, just like It is.
It pushes the energy into something useful instead, though. It trains and spars and dances with the little girls that they want to turn into deadly weapons, just like they did to It. By the end of the first day there, It is grinning, hidden under the mask, feeling content and giddy. A few of the younger girls around It have the same expression, and Yes, this is right. This, It thinks, is home, where It is meant to be.
It has been a while since It’s dreamt of Its girls, of the home It misses. If there was one thing that It thinks about a lot, it would be getting revenge on the ones that took It from them. Or, them from It. The red hair, the Widow, the girl that grew up to betray them. It is not just the KGB that wished to find her. It stares at Its reflection, traces the edges of the mirror and fills in the middle, hoping that she is there on the other side, that Its eyes unnerve her. It imagines what It would be like to snap her neck, and almost feels guilty because she used to be Its cub. That is why It couldn’t kill her then. It doesn’t know if It can kill her now.
The mess around It has been cleaned up, and It doesn’t know when or how It could’ve been done without It noticing, and It does not like that. It should always be aware of Its surroundings, especially here in unfamiliar territory with… with some unfamiliar and familiar people. Its fingers twitch and clench around the blanket that still surrounds It. They did not touch the mess around It, did not remove Its nest or Its sky-blue comfort. It feels a bit better about this, but what if this is to test It? False sense of comfort, give It good things, take them away, punish when It asks for them back- I am all you need, собака, nothing else. It grits Its teeth. It will not fall for such foolish tricks again. Never again.
The hatred is still burning within Itself when there’s a sound at the door to Its cell. Someone is knocking. It doesn’t know why. After a moment of silence, the door slides open to reveal the black, winged man, except he does not have his wings or goggles, just civilian clothing and a tablet. He is not unarmed, It gets a glance of a Glock tucked in the back of his pants, but he gives an air of calm friendliness. It is not fooled. It wonders if Its cub or the Widow will visit It next.
“I’m sorry we’ve had to keep you in here for so long, but we’re on our own when it comes to handling you- not sure who we can trust to know you and be near you, y’know? You’re dangerous.” It gives a low snort, lets Its head lean back against the wall. “Yea, I figured you’d like that. It’s clear you understand us, though, which is good- but you can’t talk with that mask on, right?” It stares at him, brows raised. “Yea, thought so.”
He holds up the tablet, shows the screen is lit up with words written on it. ‘So I brought this’. It tilts Its head at him, watching as he settles on the floor the same place that Pierce did. He makes a show of pressing an icon to clear away the written words and pressing another icon, gliding a finger over the screen to form a wavy line. It does not remember a handler ever doing this for It. It is quick to grab the tablet off the floor when it is slid over, ignoring the amused look on the man’s face.
“I want to start with introductions since that’s been a thing we’re kinda fucking up. I’m Sam Wilson, that’s my name. In the Avengers, I’m known as the Falcon. D’you have something we can call you?” He points to the tablet that sits in Its lap. It glances between Sam, the screen, and Its hands.
The words are formed slowly, painstakingly, because It has not written in a long time. It’s just a dumb bitch, probably has no idea what we’re talking about. Its eyes are really creeping me out, dude. What, you scared of a puppy? I’m not! Prove it. It grunts, fist almost crushing the edge of the tablet- “You alright?” -but Its dead finger continues to write. In the end, It has made a list of things for them to call It, even though that is probably not what Sam wanted.
‘dog winter soldier asset monster wolf’. It turns the tablet to face the man, staring at him as he reads. It does not react when he clicks his tongue, shaking his head.
“Those aren’t names, man- are those things… is that what they called you?” He sounded sad. It huffs and nods, turning the screen back around to stare at the names It had written.
“Those aren’t names,” Sam repeats again, “Do you have something you want to be called?” It shrugs, eyes following the words on the screen. They barely look like the right letters, jumbled together and not enough space between them all.
Its dead finger twitches impatiently as It thinks before It brings it back to the screen.
‘dog winter soldier asset monster wolf’. It always liked Wolf, remembering Its cubs, the way the girls would dance and make fun around It as they trained. Madame B. says she’s trying to buy you for us, Wolf, so that you can stay with us longer! It turns the screen to face Sam again, shoulders tense as It watches for his reaction. Maybe we can disappear and be a family.
“Okay. That’s better, at least,” he smiles at It, “It’s nice to meet you, Wolf.”
“Why’d the guy pick ‘wolf’ of all things to be called?” Stark asks the second he enters the meeting room. Nobody answers him.
Romanoff has her eyes on the tablet screen in her hand, having not really taken her eyes off the Winter Soldier since they found him in that cryostasis chamber. She also doesn’t look like she’s slept much since then. Steve’s worried, since that was days ago. Maybe he should talk to her about it after this.
“It’s a good sign though, that he’s cooperative,” Sam unfolds his arms and places them on the table, “We can help him now, he can talk to us, answer our questions-“ Stark cuts him off; “And I’m going to talk to him later about getting that damn mask off his face, see if he’ll let me do it so we don’t have to try and find someone else. Not like it’ll be difficult, just need a small saw-“ Who gets cut off by Agent Romanoff; “You guys aren’t taking this seriously.”
They all stare at her, and Steve notes the way she’s tense in the shoulders, neck- the lines around her eyes and mouth. He frowns and folds his arms across his chest, relaxing from his more straight-back way of sitting.
“We’re taking this as seriously as we can, Romanoff. He’s dangerous, we have him in cuffs and a cell- but he’s also a victim,” She scoffs, and he narrows his eyes, “What would you call him, then?”
“A monster,” she mumbles, tapping at her screen again. Steve thinks he’s the only one who heard her, thanks to his enhanced hearing, but Sam, who’s sitting next to her, straightens more at her harsh mutter and glares at her. Stark notices the tension, too.
“You have history with him, don’t you? What’s that all about?” The billionaire asks, eyes finally leaving his phone. Brown eyes meet green. She sighs.
“He was a teacher with the Red Room for a while, about six years back in the eighties, then another few in the nineties. He was everyone’s favorite, even Madame’s, and we called him Wolf because he treated us like his pack, his family. But he got attached, got too soft. I wanted out, said I could help him get away so we could stay together, and he got angry. He attacked me and a few of the other girls that wanted to leave as well. I was the only one that survived.”
Steve swallowed; his lips pursed. Silence has never been so loud. Until Sam spoke up, gentle and soft like he always is in the right moments.
“You said he treated you guys like family, right?” She nodded. “Is it safe to assume he thought that place was home and that he thought you wanted to destroy the only place he cared about?” Steve would’ve never thought about it like that, had it been him instead of her, and he can tell she’s never thought about it like that either.
She gets up and leaves without a sound, tablet abandoned on the table.
“Well, now that family therapy is over…” Stark clears his throat and leaves next, tapping at his phone at what Steve can peek are emails.
It’s just him and Sam now.
“I have experience, but we both know I’m not specialized to handle him, right? I can be a friend to him, but I can’t be the therapist he needs.”
“I know, Sam. We’ll work up to that; see where he’s at right now, then try and find someone later.”
“Glad we’re on the same page. Now, let’s go work on that list of yours, yea? I need a break.”
Notes:
Translations (In order of appearance):
Доброе утро, солдат. : Good morning, soldier.
Неважно. Пора готовиться к миссии. : No matter. It’s time to prepare for the mission.
Никаких игр, друг. Не сегодня. : No games, friend. Not today.
Солдат : Soldier
Собака : Dog
Остановки! : Stop!
/У тебя всегда было милое личико./ : /You’ve always had a pretty face./
Что вы думаете о них? : What do you think of them?
Мы наняли вас не просто так. Подают ли они надежды? : We hired you for a reason. Do they show promise?
Chapter 4
Notes:
So I started working on this chapter the second i posted ch3 and it kinda just wrote itself....... honestly i really love this one, im proud of how it came out, and i hope yall like it too. Basically. I have no posting schedule, because my brain cannot be relied on for that, so I will just. post a chapter the second i finish it, so if there's lots of time between posts it's not my fault LMAO
there's some dark stuff in this chapter, just a bit, so beware. I feel like the tags should be enough and i dont have to specify the warnings for each chapter cuz cmon that ruins the fun /hj
There is Russian in this, the translations are at the end in order of appearance, and many phrases are used repetitively. Mobile you can translate as you read (even tho it's kinda annoying), so i wish you luck with pc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They throw It into the ring, jeers and boasts and taunts surrounding It. Its stomach is aching from hunger; It hasn’t eaten in days- It places a hand to Its middle. Two men join It, grinning at It with glints in their eyes and batons in their hands. Bring it on, fuckers. It grins back, teeth sharp as It brings Its fists up and the bell rings for the match to start.
Fists meet skin, boots scuff the floor, grunts barely heard over the cacophony of the cheering and booing crowd. The blonde one loses a tooth, head flying to the side when Its metal fist lands a hit. The other one has artificially colored hair, a bright blue and styled in short spikes to compliment the buzzed sides. It wishes to dye the blue over with red, but he keeps maneuvering around It, hiding behind the blonde one. Coward.
It pulls the blonde forward by the collar of his shirt, kneeing him in the stomach. It makes sure to use the reinforced one. It laughs, muffled behind the mask It wishes It was allowed to remove, but it’s against the ring’s rules. Dumb rules. Cowards. Let It use Its teeth.
A baton strikes It from behind- Crack! -hitting Its head sharply. It grunts as Its vision swims, and It throws the blonde at the blue-haired man, causing both of them to lose their balance along with their stupid batons. It grabs one of them off the floor, glancing between the quickly recovering men and the metal stick in Its hand. It grins at them, even though they cannot see.
Bring it on, fuckers.
There are screams, shouts, tremendous noise around It as It continues to beat down on the two agents. Their skulls are split open, blood and brain matter coating the floor and the baton, looking sickly and sticky sweet. Their limbs lay oddly, angles sharp and unnatural- Snap snap snap! So many screams -boot prints a dark purple on their skin. Everyone has run away, no one stays to watch.
Its stomach is killing It from the inside, growling and cramping and aching as It stands there. It rips off the mask, destroying the buckles and straps, so that It may sink Its teeth into their flesh. It’s so hungry, so so hungry- time for a feast, let It feast!
When reinforcements are finally brought into the room, armed to the teeth with heavy gear and shields and rifles, blood drips from Its hair and splatters Its skin and clothes, Its hands are stained red. It looks up at them, still crouched over the now red-haired agent, a chewed-up liver hanging from Its mouth. It grins and drops it, still chewing as It holds Its arms up. Nobody says a word.
The ring is off-limits from then on.
It can’t breathe when It wakes, chest heaving and mouth full of saliva. Its throat is dry and It tries to swallow, but finds that It can’t. Blood roars in Its ears and Its panting fills the room as It scrambles- making a mess of Its nest. It feels like Its chest is caving in, Its insides are burning and eating themselves- all that will be left is Its metal being and as much as It wants to be rid of this dead, rotting flesh, It does not want to experience this pain. This pain this pain holy fuck make it stop! reminds it of saws and screws and peeled back tissue so that they may reach Its bones and remove them please please I’m awake please stop please Lord have mercy on my soul!
There are hands on It, gripping Its arms, It growls and hisses and It sees red- metal meets skin and It’s left alone in Its corner. It can barely hear over the heart beating, over Its harsh breathing. It can barely feel anything other than slick blood, the collar tight around Its neck, and the pain all-encompassing, It holds Its arms to Its torso to keep Its insides in place and grips hard enough to bruise immediately; It can almost feel Its weak ribs snapping under the pressure.
“-op! Stop, Wolf- fucking stop!” It wheezes and pants and cries as hands are on It again, holding Its arms away from It. Its teeth audibly click click-click-clack as It tries to open Its mouth, the screws in Its face forcing it closed each time, causing shooting agony like lightning through Its nerves.
“Please, stop. Breathe with me-“ It whines, tries to get away, but the grip on It is strong and unforgiving, “Focus on me, on my voice, Wolf. It’s gonna be okay, just focus on me.”
Once It can finally place the voice to be Pierce, Why was the Black Widow not eliminated, Soldier? You used to be such a good boy, It finds it’s easier to tune into the man’s heart rate and the way his lungs inflate and deflate inflate deflate inflate- Its breaths turn slow and careful, easy instead of wheezing. The man continues to hold It, mumbling strange comforts in Its ear until finally, Its muscles unclench and the only sound that escapes It are high-pitched whines. The man slowly lets go. The last of Its tears leave Its eyes and It can finally see the man’s concerned, warm blue eyes. The sight causes an uncomfortable throbbing in Its chest, so It stares at the ceiling, eyes stinging from the bright lights.
“You good?” Pierce breathlessly asks, sitting back against the wall, still close to It. It exhales loudly in response, blinking away more unbidden tears.
Its arms twitch, one whirring and clicking metallically, as Its sighs, and It turns over to curl up on Its side, leaving Its sore and hurting ribs to the open. It puts Its back to Pierce with another, softer breath. It runs a hand through the flattened and torn-up nest next to It, half of it missing and thrown from the corner from Its earlier scrambling panic. It blinks as It remembers the awful, heart-wrenching fear and anger, the pain that is gone now and never existed, not since Its bones were out of Its body. It has not felt something like this since It was taken from the girls and Madame. The man’s voice distracts It from Its thoughts.
“I’m going to get us something to drink, okay? I’ll be right back,” Pierce speaks softly, a hand barely grazing Its leg before he leaves. The lights dim to a more comfortable level, and It is left alone again.
When Steve comes back ten minutes later, matching bottles of apple juice in hand, Wolf is asleep, curled around the bundle of his leftover bed. He sighs, quiet in the dimly lit room, and places both bottles on the floor by the sleeping man’s feet.
“Well, that could’ve gone better,” Agent Romanoff’s voice greets him the moment he steps into the observation room. He hums and settles down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs next to her.
“Could’ve gone worse, though, that’s for sure.” She shrugs. In the low, white and blue lighting from the monitors that surround them, Steve can see the dark bags under her eyes, and he wonders when she stopped bothering to cover them.
“Go get some sleep, Romanoff. I’ll keep watch.”
“No can do.” “And why not?”
It’s quiet between them.
“Natasha,” he softens his usually stern voice, places a hand close to her arm that rests on the table, “Get some rest, c’mon.”
Steve can almost see the thoughts and emotions swirling in her eyes, her tired and bloodshot green eyes that almost remind him of his mother after a long shift at the hospital. His heart aches as he carefully places a hand on hers, smile soft and barely there as their eyes meet for a moment.
“Trust us, trust me. You’re the expert here, Natasha, and we need you well-rested. So, please. Get some sleep, and we can talk once you do.” She pauses, eyes glancing over his face, likely trying to find something that will never be found because she sighs and sags against the back of her chair.
“Wake me if anything happens,” Natasha mumbles before leaving, socked feet soundless on the hard floor. Steve smirks and gives a simple wave back. He won’t wake her, not if he doesn’t have to.
When It wakes, it’s to the feeling of being watched. Ice floods Its insides, makes Its blood freeze and clot, and It sits up to find Its cub- no, not anymore -the Widow leaning against the closed door of the cell. Their eyes, grey-blue and mossy green, meet and they watch each other. It can see the shadows under her eyes, her brows narrowing the smallest fraction, and a twitch of her cheek gives away the fact that she’s biting the inside of her mouth.
It wonders if she can see all of Its bones, Its icy veins peeking through Its skin that is turning paler and greyer by the day, wonders if she can see the frost that lives in Its heart, if she can see a story in the way Its fingers twitch as It stops Itself from cradling Its stomach because It is afraid. Wolf, back then, had never been afraid- not until Its cub had threatened to ruin everything. Is It still Wolf to her, or is It a monster? Its metal fist clenches, imagining her arm or her ankle or her heart or her throat-
“I’m sorry.” Its eyes widen, watching as she settles on the floor with an exhausted grunt. A tablet is slid over to It.
“I never thought that that place could be a home to anybody, especially not you,” Its cub, Natalia, because yes, this is the girl It remembers, adds after a moment, letting the barest hint of regret and grief show in her eyes and in the way her shoulders tense.
It parts Its lips and clicks Its tongue, barely a hint of pain gracing Its features. Okay. She looks at It like she can’t believe It, shaking her head with a twitch of her lips.
“Been forever since we made that up, huh? I bet it’s hard to do with the mask the way it is,” Natalia looks sad and uncomfortable, sniffling as she pulls her knees to her chest. It wonders if anyone has hugged her since It left, and It nods.
“You want to get it removed in the morning?” It tilts Its head. To remove it would be to have a doctor there, It would be awake and watching and there would be pain. There is always pain. Its cub watches It through tired eyes as It navigates the tablet to the writing screen.
‘doctor’ It writes simply, slowly getting used to the movements, and It turns the screen to show her. She shakes her head.
“No, no doctors. Stark, the guy that talks way too much?” It nods, remembering, “He’s going to give you one of Rogers’ tranqs that’ll knock you out, then he’ll remove the mask. You won’t be awake or feel anything. I promise.” She looks like she means it and It thinks it over.
It can’t imagine what it was like to not have the mask at all, but It can remember how it was to be able to feel the wind on Its face, rain hitting Its nose, to be able to eat and chew and swallow and not feel pain. It wants that. Yes, It very much wants that.
‘yes remove’. Its cub smiles, and lethargy settles over her like this- like It was taking up all her energy and now she can finally sleep. It points to the unused bed.
“Not that I don’t trust you, which I would be dumb to,” It snorts, just a bit proud, “I’m gonna head up to my apartment instead. I’ll see you in the morning, Wolf.” She leaves before It can reply. It wipes Its eyes and doesn’t give it another thought.
It goes to sleep once more and dreams of hatred and rage and betrayal and sadness, of red hair soaked with blood, small bodies of Its family surrounding It and How could they? How dare they! It is their wolf, but they stab It in the back! No one leaves! and smaller still please don’t leave.
It stares at them, watching as they scramble to take notes, take Its blood, and scan Its body. It doesn’t know where It is, but it still feels like It’s covered in ice, shivering down to Its new bones. It’s sitting- in… in a chair. A chair? No- It doesn’t… fuck what’s wrong with It? Its head is burning burning burning, sore and raw when It brings a hand- a- …metal? What? -metal hand to Its head. The skin is blistering and smooth with healing scar tissue. It doesn’t… It doesn’t know why It knows it’s healing. A flash of red-white-blue, a skinny blonde turned big and burly and- Who is he?
It tries to think of Its name, because surely It has a name, right? But everything is blank and pain and do it again do it again! It groans, surprising the lab coats around It, and cradles Its head. What is Its name? What’s Its name? What’sItsnameWhat’sItsnameWhat’sItsname?
A short, pudgy man with round glasses suddenly appears in front of It, and It startles, lashing out with an unfamiliar metal limb. The man is thrown to the floor several feet away with a yelp of pain and several armed men are aiming at It. It glares and scowls and It’s aching and burning and snarling with rage and agony.
Its senses are overcome with smells and sounds- garbage, grunts and a fist fight in an alley, rainstorms and coughing and breathe, St- , breathe, and gunshots and exploding grenades in the trenches and a scientist- the beady-eyed one It attacked -named Zola experimenting on It and Bucky? Steve? Yea, yea, It’s me, It’s Steve. Steve! How could he forget Steve- SteveSteveSteve, holy shit.
He jumps out of the way just as a bullet embeds into the back of the chair and everyone panics. Bucky- his name’s Bucky, Goddammit! -pounces on the closest guard, snapping his neck with a loud crack. Bullets fly, then, hitting the walls around him as he runs, taking out the guards as quickly as he can. Bucky remembers now why he’s so strong. A man and several more guards enter- he’s tall and foreboding, in a crisp, clean uniform that doesn’t match the stained boots.
Lukin.
Bucky’s eyes widen as he feels the fear deep in his stomach to match the icy cold of his insides. Собака собака собака собака. He shudders as his legs buckle, knees slamming into the concrete floor. Nonononono, please no. General Lukin begins to approach, slow and confident as the men continue to aim their guns at him.
“Мы вас спасаем, и вот как вы нас благодарите?” The General says, his hands behind his back as he watches him. Bucky holds back a whimper, holds back the urge to cower.
A glint catches his eye, one of the dead guards’ handguns abandoned on the floor. It’s close enough to grab, he knows it is.
“Давай, собака, кто твой хозяин?” Lukin drawls, smirking at him. Bucky doesn’t show the fear and anxiety and unease taking over his body when their eyes meet. He doesn’t know how he knows the language, Russian translating quickly in his head.
“Я никому не принадлежу,” he replies, voice wavering a bit. He takes that moment, that shock on Lukin’s face that is quickly shuttered away, to reach for the handgun with his realrealreal hand, and doesn’t look away as the metal bites into his still healing temple.
Before anyone can shoot him, stop him, Bucky pulls the trigger, a loud and deafening bang echoing in the room as his body drops. Blood pools around him, soaking his hair and slicking his skin and the floor.
His blue eyes stare unseeingly up at the ceiling, and the guards surrounding him are surprised and even unnerved to see that they’re still moving- looking around. Blank and unaware. Lukin watches, calm and collected as Zola writes down on his clipboard.
“Как он до сих пор жив?” One guard asks, tiptoeing forward, cautious.
“Он такой же, как и капитан,” another whispers.
Zola is muttering to himself as the cowering assistants finally gather themselves, collecting medical supplies to save the soldier’s life. The new fist of HYDRA, Zola had once called him, and Lukin would have to agree.
“Если бы он выстрелил дальше, он был бы мертв.”
It never wondered why they had shaven It, or where the heavy scarring had come from, eventually healing until it was barely seen, and why It had no memory from before. It can only remember the punishments of after, that surely It must have done something to deserve them.
When It dreams, It dreams of shots ringing in Its ears.
Steve watches with narrowed eyes, arms folded over his chest, as Stark enters the cell. He had stayed up all night, even watched the interaction between Natasha and Wolf that felt way too private for him to be spectating, but he stayed anyway, nervous for this moment. Nervous for what was to come. He’d watched Wolf flinch and twitch and experience unimaginable pains in his sleep, nightmares that left the man shivering and cowering in the corner for hours until his blue eyes went blank and he went still.
The Winter Soldier gave nothing away when the billionaire began spouting details about the procedure that was going to happen, probably trying to make the man feel better, knowing what was going to happen while he was unconscious. The tranqs knocked Steve out for a handful of hours, varying on how much sleep he got and how much he ate the day before. Wolf was likely going to be out for far longer than Steve ever was because of the lack of food. He doesn’t envy the guy.
They’ll have to come up with a meal plan to get Wolf started. Movement knocks the thought from his head, seeing the magnetized cuffs unlocked and Wolf getting up from his spot in the corner of the cell. He’s wary; Steve understands and winces as the man’s legs almost give out from under him, mentally praying that Stark doesn’t try to get near him to help.
The two exit the cell, slow and steady, and Steve finally leaves the observation room, giving one last look to the cell, just in time to see Stark and Wolf enter the elevator. He decides to take the stairs instead. There’s no need to crowd the Soldier, not now, and hopefully not ever.
“Wanna wait with me?” Natasha pops up halfway up to the medical floor, walking alongside him. He doesn’t even twitch in reaction.
“Big day, huh? Did you ever see his face back then?” Steve asks conversationally, wondering what Wolf was like in the Red Room. Maybe he talked back then? She gives a big sigh once they finally hit the last stair landing, looking a bit tense the more they walked but at least she was well-rested from what he could tell.
“He wasn’t allowed to take it off; he ate in his room when he was allowed, and that was it. He never spoke, either. We eventually came up with a small language, just for us and Wolf to use- simple words and phrases that nobody else caught onto, but after we got past ten different translations, it got more difficult. Only so many ways you can use a tongue, hm?” Natasha winks at him, giving away the double meaning, and Steve laughs as he opens the door to the waiting room, letting her go first.
Wolf is already sitting up on the operating table, tense, eyes darting around as his arms cradle his middle. The operating room looks like Stark tried to make it look as nonthreatening as possible, but there’s only so much you can do to get rid of the sterile nature of it. There’re blankets covering a bunch of the machines, and the lights are dimmed- luckily still bright enough for them to see from up top. Steve can see Stark wearing a pair of goggles that remind him of Dr. Frankenstein, probably hooked up to JARVIS and gives him the ability to see better in the dim lighting. The operating table, which he loathes to call it, is covered in a giant Iron Man quilt, because of course, and the only things in reach of Wolf is a small metal table with tools that look like they came from Stark’s garage rather than a doctor’s kit, and a stool that the billionaire won’t use since the man hates sitting still, even for things like this.
Steve’s leg is bouncing as he sits, and he’s envious of the way Natasha can just look so poised no matter what’s going on around her. He watches as Stark says something, hands waving around and looking odd with comedically sized goggles and his usual band tee and jeans, before Wolf is given a dose of the super soldier’s version of a horse tranq. He’s out like a light seconds later.
Stark moves quickly, almost too quickly because Steve can see the metal tray almost get knocked over at least five times, carefully removing the screws. He and Natasha flinch when the first one is pulled from the mask, the one of five on the right side, the length of the screw frightening and God, what did they do to this man? He shudders and the Widow goes still with measured breaths as Stark continues without pause. Steve wonders what’s going through his head to be able to act so unaffected.
One by one, they drop to the tray, coated in blood that also starts to drip from the edges of the metal monstrosity of a muzzle, staining the quilt. Stark is sure to throw a pretend fit over it later. Steve almost looks forward to it, if only to distract himself because the last screw is being withdrawn and why isn’t the mask being removed right now? The billionaire pauses, leaning so that they can’t see Wolf’s still-covered face, bringing up a towel- Steve tenses, wondering what’s taking so long.
“Be patient,” Natasha whispers from next to him, almost causing him to startle out of the chair. She places a hand on his knee, and he realizes she’s leaning forward like he is- eager to get this over with.
Suddenly, the muzzle is removed and placed on the tray. Stark is frozen, and they still can’t see Wolf’s face, only the man’s back, but the billionaire is pulling away and looking up at them over his shoulder, eyes wide with shock. Suddenly they can see Wolf’s face clearly now- and-
And- Steve’s hands are shaking and he can’t breathe.
And- Natasha is cursing under her breath, her hands trying to stabilize him as he falls to the floor, looking down from the deck to see- to see-
To see- No- no please- fuck-
“Bucky?”
And it feels like his world is ending all over again.
Notes:
Translations (in order of appearance):
Собака : Dog
Мы вас спасаем, и вот как вы нас благодарите? : We’re saving you, and this is how you thank us?
Давай, собака, кто твой хозяин? : Come on, dog, who’s your master?
Я никому не принадлежу : I don’t belong to anyone.
Как он до сих пор жив : How is he still alive?
Он такой же, как и капитан : He’s just like the Captain.
Если бы он выстрелил дальше, он был бы мертв : If he had fired any further, he would have been dead.
Chapter 5
Notes:
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
here have some angst. seeing yalls comments on the cliffhanger from the last chapter was honestly just *evil laugh*. anyways, here's this slightly longer chapter cuz the ending scene just refused to end, i almost wrote more to it but i was like "no you must hold back. you must have something to write in chapter 6-" so. here we are.im really. not sure what to do with the uh. you'll know when you read it, but the uh. *coughshipcough*????????? i dont know if it will be. a real thing. or. is just. yknow. *shaking in my chair tryna not spoil even tho tags*. YOU'LL UNDERSTAND WHAT I MEAN. anyways have fun reading. or not? idk. *more evil laughter*
edit: fixed a continuity error 20 min after posting. LMAO
There is Russian in this, the translations are at the end in order of appearance, and many phrases are used repetitively. Mobile you can translate as you read (even tho it's kinda annoying), so i wish you luck with pc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The moment It was pulled from the sleep tank, still shivering and barely conscious, they shoved It into the chair that rang warning bells in Its head. There’s always bells and gunshots and trains and voices in Its head, but this time is different- It knows. It knows It knows It knows. The metal clamps of the machine close around Its arms, and the engineers and technicians and doctors and even the guards look nervous, like they want to escape their skin just as much as It. It can barely feel as they lock chains to Its harness.
It watches as the Secretary enters the room, a guard locking the gate behind him, looking stoic and cold as ever. In his hand is- a mask. Its mask? But. No. It’s different, It can see one of the technicians holding Its mask. The one Pierce carries is bigger, metal instead of hard plastic, and there are no straps and buckles. How will It- the warning bells get louder.
“We can’t have a repeat of the past incident, Soldier, so we’ve got some contingencies in place.” The man holds up the mask that makes It shudder. It turns Its head like It's trying to escape even though It can’t. It can’t stop the hurt noises from escaping.
“Let’s get this started, then. Shall we?” Pierce hands the mask to one of the doctors, a twig of a man with stringy hair that must be new. It growls and barks fuck you! Stay away from It! as he approaches. It knows they won’t listen.
A needle pierces Its neck, just barely missing the collar, and It can feel the burning as whatever drug they injected It with coursed through Its body. It pants and groans, fruitlessly pulling at the restraints as It grows weaker. It can hear roaring in Its ears, and It can do nothing but watch as they place the cold muzzle to Its face. It can’t move Its head away, and this is when It knows, truly, that this is different. Please please don’t do this! You can’t do this! Stop!
Its eyes widen, whimpers and cries escaping Its lips, as an engineer hands the doctor It’ll snap your fucking neck! Get away from It you piece of shit! a metal screw that he then settles into one of the many holes on the side of the mask. It can feel the point scratch against Its cheek, and It screams and tries to struggle, to do anything but the drug is settled into Its veins, Its blood, and It. Can’t. Move.
Please please don’t! Please stop please It’ll do anything. Oh- fuck! Fuck fuck fuck! It screams and wails as hands hold Its head still, as the doctor brings a drill up to the screw and the noise of the tool is loud but barely heard over Its yells as it starts to push the metal into Its face. It can feel the moment it hits Its bone and keeps going, the motion vibrating through Its body with pain and agony and oh fucking hell stop stop stop stop please stop!
The drill powers off and the doctor pulls away to grab another screw- It can still feel the agony pounding through It as It sobs, the action causes the pain to flare. It whimpers and tries to look any of the men in the eye, Pierce, even, in the eye, tries to plead as It cries, but nobody listens nobody cares nobody does anything but hold It in place as the man powers the drill up again to lodge the screw into the other side of Its face, locking the mask in place.
All It can do is scream, even when Its mouth is locked shut from the torturing muzzle, all It can do is wish for death, for the agony to be over. All It can think is What did It do? Why is It being punished? To deserve this? What did It do?
It stayed awake until number five.
When It wakes, It’s lying in a bed in a white sterile room and It is not alone. It closes Its eyes again to feign sleep. It doesn’t know what’s going on- doesn’t remember why and where and how and- It growls when It hears someone approach, and Its body tenses. Its breathing is loud in Its ears even though It knows It is being quiet and still but It is afraid because where the fuck is It? Wherewherewhere?
There’s a shuffle of clothing, a tell of movement that It cannot see, that sounds like they’re approaching It, and It jumps up, eyes snapping open to see red hair and green eyes. It snarls and lunges at her, her mouth moves but It can’t hear anything. Its hand, harsh cold metal, wrenches her toward It and It snarls and bares Its teeth in her face, spit hitting her cheek. And that’s-
That’s when It realizes Its face is not covered, Its jaw is not locked closed and It can breathe and open Its mouth and. Natalia’s eyes widen and she looks scared and It doesn’t know why. She’s pulled away from It before It can think and the engineer is in front of It, looking scared and tense and angry. Red metal encapsulates his hand that he begins to bring up, palm facing towards It and It rushes forward without thinking.
Nobody moves and the room is silent, even the guy with his fucking teeth latched into his arm. Tony grunts in pain, but he’s glad Wolf doesn’t bite any harder. He seems to be just- frozen, and he wonders what’s going through his head. Probably nothing good to have attacked him and Natashalie.
Speaking of- the triple agent is frozen next to him, staring wide-eyed at her mentor biting him. Tony sighs, careful about jostling the attack dog latched onto his fucking arm, holy shit.
“You gonna just stay there all day, creamsicle?” He tries to joke but his voice shakes, poking Wolf softly in the ribs. He’s met with a mean growl that really lives up to his name. “Okay, okay- that’s fine, just, uh- watch the teeth, hm? I’d like to keep my arm.”
Super spy takes the moment to gather herself, gentle fingers rubbing where Wolf had grabbed her, and Tony hopes she can do something about the teeth and the blood that’s soaking the sleeve of his shirt. He really does not want to lose his arm, even if he can just build himself a new one. He quite likes being all flesh and blood- and then he winces thinking about Wolf’s metal arm, wondering how much pain that must’ve been and still is. Yea, he’d like to keep his arm, thank you very much.
Wolf’s grip relents a bit, but his jaw keeps Tony’s arm in his mouth as he moves to stand from his slightly hunched-over stance. Tony winces at the throbbing sting emanating from his arm, and the sound causes the teething toddler to freeze again. He mumbles an apology under his breath.
Brown eyes meet blue, and Tony can tell the guy isn’t really there, instead lost somewhere in his head. He lets the gauntlet retreat, unarming himself against his, probably, better judgment, in hopes that not having a weapon and being at Wolf’s mercy will make the guy let him go. They stare at each other a while, and Tony’s feet are starting to ache, but eventually frostbite lets go with a lick to the bleeding teeth marks, and Tony hides a grimace at the saliva and pain. Isn’t that just sweet?
Jesus, he hopes sharp teeth don’t feature in tonight’s dreams. But just in case, maybe he’ll work on something in the lab.
“Steve, man, you have to calm down- there’s no way we’re letting you see him like this,” Sam scolds, arms folded as he blocks Steve from leaving the apartment that he was dragged to. He just- he groans and rubs his hands over his face and through his hair. He just wants to see Bucky- Wolf- whatever he wants to be called. He needs to see him.
“I’m fine! I told you a thousand times-“ “You’re not fine, and you’re not seeing him!” Sam shuts him down immediately, his voice raised in exasperation. Steve sighs and drops down on the couch in the living space. He’s so tired, it feels like all the energy and emotions were wrung out of him.
God, he can’t stop thinking about Bucky- remembering when they first found him in that cryostasis chamber, the violent reactions, the clear and obvious signs of torture- who had gotten their hands on his friend? When? How did Bucky survive the fall from the train? Fuck. Steve doesn’t realize he’s crying ‘til a sob escapes and he tries to block more from escaping with his hand. What’d they do to you? He flinches when Sam sits down next to him, an arm around his back in a sideways hug.
“I know- I know your emotions are goin’ crazy, and holy shit your pal, Bucky Barnes, is suddenly alive right in front of you- but that’s not him. That’s not him, and you have to keep telling yourself that, because he does not know you. He doesn’t. We don’t know all that he’s been through before we found him, we don’t know who did what, we don’t know. And you can’t bombard him with these emotions and ‘hey ol’ buddy of mine!’ and try to hug It better, because it’s not that simple, Steve. I know. I can’t imagine what it’d be like to find Riley back from the dead like that, turned into some sort of super assassin- but try to think of what he’s feeling-“
“That’s all I’m doing, Sam!” He exclaims, jumping up from the couch, “That’s all- that’s all I’ve been doing. I can’t stop thinking about- about how they hurt him, because I couldn’t fucking catch him in time. I can’t stop thinking about it, Sam- so please, don’t fucking say I’m not!” Steve paces, feeling like his blood is boiling, like his heart is going to beat out of his chest like he was that asthmatic five-foot-nothin’ Brooklyn kid again.
The room is silent for a while as he cools off, focusing on his breathing, and Sam simply just sits and watches. Steve can hear his heart beating and wonders when his new friend is going to get sick of his bullshit and leave, but the guy is calm as a rock, even after he yelled at him.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, letting out one last heavy breath before sitting down, “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to yell at you.” He can’t get himself to look Sam in the eye, feeling ashamed of how he reacted, even though the feelings are still there, under the surface.
“I know, man. Trust me, we’re good, okay? I can tell a lot’s goin’ through that big head of yours,” Steve chuckles miserably, “You understand, though, right? You get why we’re doin’ this?” Sam asks, careful but firm.
“Yea- yea, I get it. I wouldn’t like to be around me if I were him… It’s just- difficult, y’know?” He speaks softer at the end, matching the quiet and slightly sorrowful mood. It still feels like an immense weight is sitting on his shoulders and chest, but he forces himself to breathe through it just like he used to.
“I know,” Sam mumbles, a silent comfort by his side. Steve can’t even get himself to laugh when they sigh at the same time; instead, he’s watching the sunset, trying to not let himself spiral.
Wolf needs him to be strong, whether he knows it or not.
Its knees are aching from kneeling on the hard floor, despite the shag rug, and Its leg muscles are straining from holding the position, but It doesn’t show the pain on Its partly covered face. The leather straps wrapping around Its naked body are sticking to Its skin from the cold sweat and drinks the guests have poured on It; It almost looks forward to the freezing water hose, but Its insides shiver and there’s a wounded animal whimpering in Its head. It imagines gutting it, eating its heart, and the whimpering stops.
It observes the room around It, the people in smart suits and long, classy dresses. They all wear masks, extravagant and dramatic but all in reds and blacks. It wants to smash all of their plastic masks to pieces and jam them into everyone’s throats. It bares Its teeth and pulls at the chains holding Its arms behind Its back. It gets an electric burning burning pain from Its collar for that, and It drops Its head when Pierce gives It a warning look from across the room. Плохая собака плохая собака плохая собака плохая собака. /Вы были плохой собакой, не так ли?/ It closes Its eyes at the incoming voices in Its ears-not-ears.
“Chin up- be a good boy for me, yea?” Rumlow mumbles from behind Its right shoulder, gloved hand giving a teasing yank to Its long hair that sends shivers down Its back. It raises Its head and stares forward with lidded eyes. It wants to be good.
The man’s hand stays in Its hair as It watches Pierce talk with many different men and women, occasionally gesturing towards It. And It knows what will happen later once the night is over, can feel the phantom hands and gentle, teasing pleasure and pain mixed into one. Be good, be good, be good. It wants to be, It does It does It does-
But as fingers run through Its hair, pulling at the knots and tangles, causing momentary stinging in Its head- as Its body is touched all over, soft and gentle with a gruff voice whispering in Its ear from behind, as Rumlow makes Its body relax, lying on the comfortable plush bed with many pillows and blankets It wishes to nest in, the wounded animal in Its head grows louder. And It cannot move. And It cannot refuse. Because this man is being kind, unlike the past men and women who hurt It, and- and even though It is stuck behind Its eyes with voices in Its head, Rumlow has not hurt It, has not been rough or forceful and It keens when the man hits the spot inside of It that makes stars swirl in Its vision.
It is good, please- It’s a good dog, Хорошая собака, please please please.
“God, look at you- such a good boy. Such a good boy for me.” The moans are quiet, the voice is barely heard over the wounded animal, and It can feel Itself nodding, eyes rolling back at another spark of pleasure running up and down Its spine.
Xорошая собака xорошая собака xорошая собака.
And as Rumlow sighs, coming down from his pleasure high, It whines, and the man does what he always does- cleans It and wraps It in the soft, large blankets. He even lets It take up most of the bed. He watches with warm eyes that It doesn’t understand as It moves the pillows and blankets how It pleases, burrowing into a nest and tucking Itself in with the thickest blanket. The sharpness of Its muzzle presses into Its face and the pillow under Its head, and It closes Its eyes to sleep with a loud exhalation that warms Its face.
The man never stops watching and petting It, never stops being gentle unless other eyes are on him, and It continues to ignore the wounded animal echoing in Its head. Because It and the animal are not the same, It is sure of this because It is good, and the animal is not.
Nobody punishes It for losing control- for letting the animal take over, and It doesn’t know what to do with this information. The only one to ever be kind to It was the commander. Not the friend, Karpov, because the man had punished It before for Its errors in missions. Even if It had deserved the punishments, It doesn’t know if Karpov had ever actually been Its friend.
It tentatively scratches Its cheek, still surprised every time that the muzzle is gone and the pain in Its face is lessening. It has not been long since the thing was put into Its face, as It was mostly asleep in the icy chamber, but It has only known this pain for a while, and the fact that it is gone makes It wary. Where will the pain come from now? It doesn’t know.
The new nest It was given takes up a larger portion of the cell, and It often takes the time to adjust it and rearrange it just because It can. Nobody stops It from doing so or takes the nest away. Sometimes, when one of them visits- Sam, Natalia, the engineer -they bring It a new blanket or pillow to add, and the animal inside is happy. So, the nest is growing bigger and comfier and It sleeps often, tired from the new drinks they give It that are supposed to help It heal more and make It feel better. It doesn’t yet know if that is true, but It drinks them anyway with the straw. It wants to be good.
It walks circles around the cell; they haven’t locked Its ankles together again since the muzzle was removed, and It’s trying to ease the numbness in Its legs from not being mission-ready. It enjoys the small freedom. It uses the time It is not asleep to exercise so that It may keep Its strength because It never knows when they will send It out on a mission. Sam tells It many times that It is not ready, that It needs to heal and needs to be mentally well, but It doesn’t know what that means. Natalia says that they will not send It out, that only the Avengers can go on missions, but It does not believe her. The engineer just says the people who had It are still out there, probably searching for It, and It finally concedes to not being sent on missions in the near future. It is not happy about this.
HYDRA are the enemies of the Avengers, It has come to understand, and It doesn’t know what that makes It. Is It their enemy? Then why are the people helping It? Or is It now their ally? Their friend? Is It to be used later on as a bargaining chip against HYDRA? The questions swirl in Its aching head and It stops to rest, curling up in Its nest of plush pillows and soft blankets that stop the roaring in Its ears. It tugs at the blue sky knit blanket, wraps it around Its shoulders, and wonders where Pierce is. It hasn’t seen him since he had given It the things in the bag, since It had made him leave because It attacked him. Teach It a lesson. Something It won’t forget.
It traces Its metal fingers across the collar, listens to the metallic scratches It makes. The thing doesn’t make noises or shock It anymore. Hasn’t in a while. Its cub apologized for setting the collar off, when she became Natalia again, but It refused. It was a just punishment. It never questioned with the tablet why she got a sad look on her face after that. It sighs as It stares at the mirrored wall. These Avengers are very confusing, but It is comfortable, with the nest and the no mask and the cell that dims the lights so that Its eyes don’t hurt.
These Avengers are preferable to HYDRA, to the Secretary and the beatings and the torture chair and Karpov’s fake friendliness and Lukin’s xорошая собака. It can’t stop Itself from wanting more, the never-sated ball of it sitting deep in Its gut. It grows restless as more and more time passes, as Its face heals and the scars begin to form, and It salivates, licks Its teeth and tastes blood.
It looks up at the door with dark eyes as it opens.
Steve’s eyes adjust quickly to the dim lighting, noticing the huge pile of blankets and pillows that take up most of the floor, and, more specifically, the man that is curled up in the mess. Their eyes meet, and Wolf doesn’t look away, so he does instead. He hadn’t had the chance to come to see Bucky, feeling unready and the others kept stopping him, but everyone’s busy right now, so Steve took the opportunity when he could. And.
It’s like looking at a completely different person. Which- Sam would say he is, that this isn’t Bucky, this is Wolf, and that they’re completely different from each other they might as well be from different parts of the world, or even different planets. And it… Steve takes a deep breath and sits on the floor next to the door of the cell. It makes him ache. Absolutely and truly ache from the inside, because isn’t this his fault? That everything happened to Bucky- to Wolf? To cause him to not even know who he is?
The first few days, Steve and Sam had fought. A lot. About if there was a way to fix Bucky, to make him remember, to make everything go back to how it used to be. Sam had punched him at some point, he thinks the man must’ve broken a finger in doing so, and said that he was stuck in the past. It may have been only two years for Steve, but It’s been decades for… for Wolf.
Steve runs a hand through his hair and Wolf’s eyes track the movement. He notices the tablet lying at the edge of the nest, for what else could this be? The man who used to be Bucky now acts… unlike Bucky. And he can see that now, should have because he’s only known the man was Bucky for two weeks. But the moment his friend’s face was revealed? It was like everything else disappeared. They’d been each other’s worlds since they were kids, since Bucky quit school to help his family, since his mom had died, since they rented an apartment together, since since since. And now, there’s nothing. Steve’s heart pounds, and he’s sure Wolf can hear it from across the small room.
“Can, um… can we talk?” His voice is quiet, hesitant, and he makes a small gesture to the tablet. Wolf doesn’t show any reaction apart from a glance at said tablet. It takes a moment, but the man pulls it towards himself.
“Thank you,” Steve mumbles, sniffling, and is unsure how to continue. The one question that’s been in his head for two weeks is on the tip of his tongue, and he just wants to get it out of the way; “Do you- d’you know me?”
He doesn’t really know what he expected- maybe a shake of the head, or a nod, even, but Wolf stares at him a moment longer. He can see the man’s brows twitch and narrow, and Steve hopes he didn’t cause anything. The last thing he wants is Bucky to attack him or to hate him. He flexes his hands from anxiety and his shoulders tense as Wolf slowly writes on the tablet’s screen with his finger- the real one. Steve swallows as he observes the differences between both arms. The fact that one was born from torture.
The tablet is finally flipped to face Steve, and his eyes tear up at the words written.
‘you pierce yes’
Pierce? As in… as in Secretary Pierce? The man that’s in charge of SHIELD? The man that he’s been in meetings with and was one of the men who welcomed him back from his icy coma? God, he just wants to punch something. More and more is continued to be taken away from him and from Bucky. And he can’t help but think about what Peggy would think, that the thing she helped create is corrupt. Steve doesn’t know what he expected. But he wishes he could take it all back.
“No- no, I’m not,” he swallows, feeling nothing but cold rage, and shakes his head, watching as Wolf looks confused and angry, “I’m not Pierce.”
Notes:
Translations (in order of appearance):
Плохая собака : Bad dog
/Вы были плохой собакой, не так ли?/ : /You’ve been a bad dog, haven’t you?/
Хорошая собака : Good dog
Chapter 6
Notes:
Tags have been updated for this chapter PLEASE FUCKIN CHECK THEM OMG (i might start putting this with every chapter i have to change the tags for), and omfg this took longer to write than I thought it would, i had like 1.5k words for over a week LMAO but i finally finished today, so I'm posting it now. and yes i am kinda struggling in making a small 10-word secret language. i use it a bit in this one, and once i get the last few words made, i'll start putting my notes on the 'language' in the notes.
BEWARE. THE. DAMN. TAGS. I will warn for this one, cuz ik to some it can be quite triggering, but there is a p bad scene (that i do not go into too much detail, which is why i will not be changing to story rating to Explicit, cuz i cannot and will not ever be able to do that but it is very much obvious what's going on and it's easy to imagine) as put in the tags. IT IS DARK AND AWFUL OK???? HYDRA TRASH PARTY AWFUL. (dont come @ me, I do in fact love Wolf with all my heart and it will get better.)
There is Russian in this, the translations are at the end in order of appearance, and many phrases are used repetitively. Mobile you can translate as you read (even tho it's kinda annoying), so i wish you luck with pc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Its cub and It sits in Its nest, the nest that now takes up the whole cell and is very colorful and soft, and It listens to her talk but doesn’t take in any of her words. It can still smell iron, It can still taste blood, It can still feel the flesh in Its teeth. Some of Its nest had to be thrown out. It mourns the loss of the blue knit blanket. It sighs and lays flat on the cushy floor and Natalia stops talking, her voice no longer filling the silence.
It clicks Its tongue in an old quick rhythm, once with Its lips pulled to the sides, points of Its teeth showing, and once with narrow ‘oh’ shaped lips like It’s about to whistle. It has never whistled before, like It knows Natalia used to with her sister. Quiet.
Its cub responds after a moment, It can hear her shuffling in place, with three narrow clicks. Hurt.
It turns Its head to look at Natalia. She’s slouched against the wall, close to the door, bags under her eyes, but she smiles at It anyway. Tired, then. Not hurt. It doesn’t smile back and she sighs.
“Pierce is the one who took you away, huh?” Natalia says blandly, loud in the silent room, not expecting It to respond. It huffs forcefully, and feels the way Its chest rises and falls with the action.
It’s quiet for a while.
Quiet. Its cub clicks, sniffling as she moves and lies down next to It.
Hurt. It responds, staring into her eyes. They both know what It means.
Steve wakes to the beeping of a machine, and he can’t help but think fuck, not again- hopefully, they can pay the bill before he remembers he’s not sick anymore. His next thought is is Bucky okay? before he remembers Bucky’s dead. Then it’s did we win? and he already knows the answer to that; it’s been a while since Steve’s won anything. He can feel the bandages wrapping his body, the tape on his face, can feel his flesh stitching itself back together and how itchy it is, can feel the IV in his arm that he removes without further thought.
“Hey, man,” Sam greets from his right, only sounding a little bit scolding. Steve can’t find it within himself to feel sorry because all he wants to know is what happened. His friend must know what he’s thinking since he continues talking.
“Wolf attacked you, in case you were wondering. He got you pretty good- did you even put up a fight?” He sounds like he’s joking, but the answer is obvious. Steve gives a smile that feels as false as can be.
“Here,” Sam hands him a cup of water before continuing, “It’s only been a day; Natasha’s been hanging with Wolf, trying to get a feel for things and keep him calm. Seems to be working, but we dunno if that’s gonna change the moment he sees you.” Steve absentmindedly sips from the cup, glad to soothe his parched throat, and nods.
“Anything on Pierce?” He asks, clearing his throat when his voice comes out gravely.
“Nah, not yet, but Stark’s on it, I’m sure. We’ll find out what’s going on,” Sam sounds serious and sure, staring at him with a firm expression.
Steve sits up with a barely concealed grunt, the stiffness of his body making any major movement difficult, and he looks at the damage done- or tries to. He can feel bandages wrapping his torso, likely from cracked ribs, and he can feel freshly knitted-together bones in his right leg and foot. His face is sore, - he tongues the split lip and loose tooth - and he picks at the bandage covering stitches in his shoulder. There’s a phantom feeling of teeth there that he chooses to ignore.
“How bad was it?” Steve finally asks, looking between it all and tracing the already yellowing bruises. Sam sighs and slouches in his chair.
“Pretty bad- Stark had to get a suit to apprehend Wolf. The guy almost destroyed that too, but he managed to sedate him. Natasha did clean up while he was knocked out, and Stark brought in probably all of our linen as like, some sort of apology? I’m not sure, but Wolf’s cell is starting to look real comfy,” the joke fell flat when he didn’t react, and Sam went quiet.
Steve grits his teeth and rubs his face in spite of the pain. He can feel the frustrated tears forming in his eyes, and he quickly blinks them away the best he can. There’s nothing he can do right now, not with how injured he is- he can’t go picking fights or storming bases, he’d only end up more hurt, and that wouldn’t help anyone. He’ll have to rely on Stark, Natasha, and Sam to do the work for now, but the moment he’s healed- the very moment he’s well enough to shove his fist through a punching bag- Alexander Pierce and anyone else involved better be ready for a fight.
Its pleading eyes meet Rumlow’s even as It’s snarling behind Its muzzle. It’ll fucking kill you for this! It is surrounded by some of Rumlow’s men, the commander standing at the door, simply watching, expressionless. The man watches as they force It out of Its tactical uniform, revealing the constricting harness underneath, and It growls as one connects a strong cable leash to the back of Its collar. It’ll cut your hearts out! It barks, lashing out just as the collar emits a harsh crackle of electricity that sends It to the cold floor. The metal muzzle hits the floor first, reverberating pain throughout Its skull, and Its fingers twitch as the burning lightning stops.
“It’s our turn for some fun, commander, or we might just tell the Secretary what you’ve been doing with his pet,” Rollins chimes, chuckling as he unbuckles his belt. It whines weakly, looking towards Rumlow once more, and clumsily clicks Its tongue. Hurt. Please, stop- make it stop.
It doesn’t see the man’s face, but It already knows he won’t stop them. It is nothing but a pet to them, a dog to hurt, a thing to please them. Spots cloud Its vision at the painful intrusion, the man not bothering to use lubricant, and It howls in pain. Electricity hits It once more, a cattle prod to the ribs this time, and It blacks out.
Another hit startles It back into consciousness, - Fuck! - and It can feel the blood coating Its skin, and whatever fluids Rollins expended, when another spread Its legs once more. Please- stop. Its vision is blurry and dark, but It still finds Rumlow’s form. He looks tense and angry; It wonders if it’s because he has to share It. The commander never did like sharing. Its metal hand reaches backward to try and force the next man off, and It shakes and seizes as a cattle prod hits Its collar, causing It to activate, sending pain through Its entire body. The man on top of It does not stop thrusting into It.
Even when the lightning pain slowly numbs It, It can always feel whoever is inside It, making It bleed and cry out in agony. In the end, It cannot walk, and the small group of men has to carry It back to the base where the lab coats will fix It without question. Rumlow does not help, and no word will find its way to Pierce, It knows.
Then, back into the cold tank, It goes.
Rumlow never touches It again after that- not in the way he used to. All he does is watch as his men have their way with It time and time again, and It slowly plots all their demises.
“We’ve already confirmed with Wolf that Secretary Douchebag is part of whatever conglomerate that had control over him, and I use that term lightly because let’s admit, nobody has control over big bad and his evil bitey teeth, as evidenced by the fact they had him fucking muzzled,” Tony rants from the corner of the room, waving his hands and starting to sound angrier the more he rambles, and if Steve wasn’t so exhausted, he’d find it amusing how passionate the billionaire gets, but he’s currently trying to not fall asleep.
“Can we talk about this in the morning? It’s past my bedtime,” Steve intones sarcastically, fluffing up his pillow and lying back down while Tony scoffs like he’d just spit on his fancy shoes. The man only wears Converse when not making public appearances, and no matter what the price is now, they are definitely not fancy.
“You’re such an old man, Rogers- can’t believe you haven’t hung up your hat yet, or should I say shield?” The billionaire jests, seemingly forgetting about his rant, and he takes a seat next to the bed with a sigh. Looks like it’s time for the real report of the day. Or night, technically.
“JARVIS has already found some skeleton businesses and money transfers that are definitely suspicious compared to SHIELD’s usual suspiciousness. I’m looking into any safehouses and buildings that SHIELD owns but are being pinned as plain old offices- gonna see if there’s anything shady going on. But y’know- SHIELD. Gosh, I can’t believe I have to say I told you so, but- oh! Well, look at that! I told you so.” Stark just looks like he was handed a golden goose egg, and Steve can’t fault him for that. The man had been warning them about SHIELD since they’d met, and he was right. He chuckles a bit flatly and waves his hand.
“I know you did, Tony. And thank you… for the help with all this. I didn’t want to put you out, but-“ “Speak no more, Capsicle, all these emotions are making me sick- might need to quarantine after this. But, seriously. You’re all good, no need for the emotional speech and hug and handshake, and I don’t have any babies for you to kiss the heads of, so we’re all good. I’m getting hives- need t’leave. Sleep well, old man!” Tony leaves the room like his pants are on fire, and he imagines that’s just how the man is, especially knowing Howard. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that, right?
“Get some sleep, Tony!” Steve yells back, giving one last laugh before he settles back into the somewhat comfortable somewhat not-comfortable hospital bed.
It’s nice to have some friends in his corner again.
It’s been running a long time, probably, - so long, fucking bastards! - and It’s beginning to pant and wheeze behind the constricting plastic on Its face. It rips off the offending thing by the straps, throwing it aside as It continues to run. It was supposed to report back at the meeting point and go back to base, but It’s sick of it- sick of the missions, sick of the ice and the cold stares It bares Its teeth and barks at. It’s been a while since It was in a place that wasn’t cold as shit It couldn’t feel Its fingers, C’mon just hit the target!, and something about this place makes Its head pound but makes It feel free. Она никому не принадлежит!
It’s dark out, so It blends in easily with the shadows, and It’s gotten used to the smell of the garbage in the alleyways. It slows to a stop, seeing people crowd outside a building with neon signs. The sight is both niggling at It with familiarity and causing sickness to flood Its stomach. It bumps into a young brunette woman as It goes to disappear, and It’s irritated at the fact that It didn’t notice her.
“…Uncle?” Escapes her cherry red lips with a gasp, and Its whole body tenses, staring into her wide, different-blue why are they different? eyes. A shadow moving in the corner of Its vision causes It to keep moving. They’ve found It.
“Wait-!”
It breaks into a sprint again, not looking back at the woman calling out to It, but the moving shadows follow and find It gasping and puking up nothing two miles away. It fights back- cracks three skulls against the brick walls and tears a chunk out of a gargling throat with Its teeth, but It is subdued eventually; one of the guards is finally in range enough to use the collar’s remote, and electricity drops It to the ground. The last thing It sees is a brownstone just as the lights begin to go out in the windows. Where’s Bec-
“Отныне держитесь подальше от Нью-Йорка.”
It jolts upward with a growl, vision blurred and unable to see in the dark even as the lights grow a bit brighter now that It’s conscious. It snarls when It sees movement, cloudy red and black and there’s blood- why can It smell blood? There’s someone talking, careful and quiet, It can’t make out the words and just continues growling at them. Get the fuck away!
/Неблагодарная сука!/ It flinches with a startled whine and there’s a jolt of pain coming from Its dead arm before It realizes that It was biting down on it. There’s copper in Its mouth that is now overwhelming Its senses, and Its jaw aches and the arm burns. There’s buzzing in Its ears, and there’s the voice from before speaking again and It bares Its bloody, pointed teeth at her, because It knows now that it is Natalia.
“Hey- Wolf, I’m just trying to help-“ Lying bitch! “Shhh, it’s okay-“ It shuffles backward until Its back hits the bedframe, and their eyes meet before It darts under the bed.
“Wolf-!” /Он чудовище! Он убил моих девочек!/
It is pulled away from training by familiar faces, men that followed Karpov, and taken to the front garden of the mansion where Karpov stood, arms folded across his chest. It smiled underneath Its mask; it’s been a while since It has seen Its friend. When It goes to approach, It is stopped by a firm hand on Its metal shoulder. Karpov… does not look happy to see It.
“Ты слишком много играешь, солдат,” he says, staring with cold eyes. It shakes Its head earnestly. No- No, It would never.
“Один из моих людей сказал мне, что ходят слухи о попытке побега.” It stares at him with narrowed eyes, fists at Its sides. Are some of Its cubs trying to escape? Bitterness and sour fear flood Its mouth and stomach.
”Если что-то случится из-за вас... Я буду вынужден отстранить вас и продать американскому филиалу, который заинтересован в вашей работе.” It stands there, frozen, and can’t help Its eyes darting to look at everyone’s faces. They are all stern and angry at It, for reasons It doesn’t yet know.
Its head is buzzing, and there’s a flash of a roaring, snow-covered train. It tastes blood and grunts, nodding Its head. Karpov, the person It had once called friend, gives It another strict look before It is taken back inside. It knows, deep inside, that It won’t see the man again.
It waits until It is safe inside Its room before removing the muzzle and spitting out blood and a chunk of Its severed tongue. The fear never leaves It, and when Natalia, along with a small group of Its cubs, some young and some older, approach It days later- It knows. It knows It knows It knows.
It does not want to be removed from Its home, from Its pack, from Its family and comforts- but these girls will cause It to be taken away and It will miss them, but It is so angry so so so angry at them for ruining this for It because this is the first time It has been- been happy. They want to leave It, why would It want to go with them?, they want to leave It and take everything away from It and It is so fucking angry sad heartbroken abandoned, why are you leaving It!
It watches with sad, hooded, drugged, eyes as It is dragged from the mansion. It watches as Natalia is pulled away by the arm, her clothes soaked in blood, by a raging Madame B., fear and anger in her beautiful green eyes when they meet before she is too far to see. It watches as Its cubs are piled up in a truck and taken away to be disposed of far away from their home. Finally, as It is staring up at the roof of the van, tears escape Its eyes, and everything goes dark and hazy.
When It opens them, It is greeted by a blonde man with blue eyes, dressed in a smart suit and looking at It like he was given the world on a silver platter. And maybe he was.
Natasha holds herself stiffly as she watches Wolf lie under the bed, blood now staining more of the blankets (she hopes he didn’t hit an artery). Even now, her old mentor is far too big to fit comfortably under there, and she notices the thin mattress subtly twitch and rise in the middle.
Even though Wolf remembers their time together, there’s still tension they can’t get rid of, feelings and opinions keeping a stern grip on them. And Wolf is different now than he used to be, and she can remember how he was when she met him- observant and strict but cared for them like a… like a strange older brother of some kind. He was the closest, aside from Madame, they got to a parent.
She can still remember the fear that Wolf struggled to hide in the week before she and a few others asked him to help them escape. Natasha still wishes to ask what happened, even now, even after all these years.
Wolf is different. That’s what all this is about. Wolf isn’t the Bucky that Steve wishes he was. Wolf isn’t the war hero everyone learned about in school. Wolf isn’t the mentor that raised many of the Red Room’s finest- not anymore. She watches as he shivers and whines under the bed, eyes staring unseeingly at her. No, this isn’t her mentor anymore. What used to be an efficient attack dog is now just another number in the pound. An abused mutt that’s seen better days, and Natasha hates herself for thinking of him as such.
She shuffles forward, slow and cautious, making sure that Wolf can see her every movement. And even though he scares her sometimes, remembering the sharp sharp teeth, he is nothing but an abused dog that hasn’t seen the kind side of men in a long time. She realizes that now.
Maybe it’s her turn to show him.
Natasha stops moving once she’s within reach of the poor excuse for a bed, hand turned upward and moving towards Wolf’s shadowed form as she lowers herself to lie on the blanketed floor. She can see his brow twitch and knows he must be confused. She would be too. She was when Clint found her. But she hadn’t been used as a weapon for almost seventy years, hadn’t been treated like an animal, like a monster- her old words ring in her head.
There’s no movement, her… old friend frozen just so that not even the mattress moves with his breathing, and Natasha’s gaze is soft as he lets her place her hand on his chest. She can feel his heart beating erratically underneath her palm. His eyes are big and blue, but that’s all that gives away his emotions, just like always. When her hand holds the side of his face, his eyes flutter and he exhales lightly, finally letting himself breathe again.
Natasha gives two wide, quiet and comforting, clicks. Safe.
If she didn’t know how real this was, how serious this was, she’d think it funny that she was petting Wolf like he was a dog, gaining his trust like she did with Clint’s new one-eyed menace. Natasha sighs softly, sadly, staring down at Wolf’s head in her lap as he sleeps once more, fingers tracing the healing bite mark on his flesh arm. If this is what it takes for him to adjust and recover, then that’s okay. She’ll do her part just like the rest of them, because her friend, her brother, her mentor from way-back-when, deserves peace after so many years of fighting.
Notes:
Translations (in order of appearance):
Она никому не принадлежит! : It doesn’t belong to anyone!
Отныне держитесь подальше от Нью-Йорка. : From now on, stay away from New York.
/Неблагодарная сука!/ : /Ungrateful bitch!/
/Он чудовище! Он убил моих девочек!/ : /He’s a monster! He killed my girls!/
Ты слишком много играешь, солдат : You’re playing too much, Soldier.
Один из моих людей сказал мне, что ходят слухи о попытке побега. : One of my men told me that there were rumors of an escape attempt.
Если что-то случится из-за вас... Я буду вынужден отстранить вас и продать американскому филиалу, который заинтересован в вашей работе. : If something happens because of you… I will be forced to remove you and sell you to a U.S. affiliate that is interested in your work.
Chapter 7
Notes:
i love how i was stressing about when i was gonna finish this chapter but it basically wrote itself to the point where, close to the end i was like "ok im done ok im done ok im done" buT IT KEPT GOING so this chapter is slightly longer. guys i love Wolf so much. like. ugh i love It sm. also. did i introduce a thing in chapter 5? yes. did i forget about it when writing chapter 6? um yea. did i finally remember and add it completely last min in this one while i was rereading? fuck yea LMFAO you might even notice what it was
I'd also like to point out the inspirations for this fic is *largely* Blue-eyed matador, like i put in the 'inspired by' but also partly inspired by, even just a small bit, White Wolf and As Soft as Steel, so i highly recommend checking out those fics becuz i love them a lot. (i'm currently rereading blue-eyed matador despite also keeping up with the sequel and im trying really really hard to not let their writing style influence mine and i can't tell if im succeeding or not LMAOO)
woo i dont think i need to change the tags on this one, which is nice tbh (last min, i did add a new tag that i prob shoulda added in chapter 5 but forgot,, sooo.)
EDIT, A/N (12/12/23): i know this aint what people wanna see, but this is on pause rn cuz my brain decided to hyperfocus on walking dead. I'll be back im sure, the marvel (especially winter soldier) hyperfocus *always* comes back to me, but this month i need a break LOL i hope yall have a happy holiday.
There is Russian in this, the translations are at the end in order of appearance, and many phrases are used repetitively. Mobile you can translate as you read (even tho it's kinda annoying), so i wish you luck with pc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sliding of the cell door and the subtle hiss it gives when it locks wake It, and It notices that Its cub is no longer in the cell with It. It swallows down a lump in Its throat and scratches at Its jaw, feeling the scar tissue and the prickliness of hair beginning to grow. It can barely remember the vague, fuzzy feeling of someone running a blade over Its skin before It was shoved into the chair and the stupid fucking - Get it off! Please stop! Stop! - muzzle was drilled into Its face. It growls at the memory invading Its senses, scratches harder at still-sensitive patches of skin by Its eye, and gives a final irritated huff before It sits up against the wall.
It observes Its reflection in the mirror, noting how Its hair had grown longer, dark brown strands curling at Its neck and shoulders, and since It had been drinking the ‘smoothies’ that It was given, Its form has been filling out a barely noticeable amount under the soft knit sweater Sam gave It. It wonders when It’ll be given food It can chew, or if It will even get the chance. It is both enjoying this silence, this treatment with the nest and the maskless painless face and the soft touches, and also hating It because this is new and different from what It is used to. Will this change? Will they use It like the others? Will It be sent on missions? Does It even want to be on missions anymore?
It doesn’t think It does but-
The door slides open to reveal Natalia holding a large cup of pink sludge, and when she steps inside, so does a dirty-blonde man with blue eyes, giving It a critical look. It counts a handful of knives on his person, in the same places that It had taught Natalia to hide them, and Ah. This man is part of Its cub’s new family. Is he Its replacement, It wonders.
Natalia hands It Its sludge and sits back down next to It without a word. She doesn’t react when It presses closer, feeling the contrast of their legs and shoulders and how even though It is much bigger than Its cub, she treats It like she is the bigger one. This makes the animal happy, which It tries to ignore. The unknown agent watches them for a moment, back to the door, before sitting down in the middle of the cell. The man grunts when he lands harder than he thought he would on the blanketed floor.
“Should I be jealous, Nat?” Is the first thing he says, pointedly glancing between It and her. Its cub looks amused and shakes her head.
“Clint, this is Wolf. Wolf, this is Clint Barton- he’s the one that got me out of the KGB and helped me join SHIELD,” she introduces, and It notes how her eyes have softened with this Clint in the room. He is trusted by her, then.
Wolf clicks Its tongue with a tilt of Its head, giving Clint a long look, noticing any minuscule twitch the man makes at the scrutinizing attention. Three wide clicks, a pause, and another two wide clicks. Fine? Safe?
Natalia replies with a firm but soft click. Yes. And It replies the same. Okay.
It does not miss the fact that this Clint, one of Its cub’s trusted, does not look confused, and is pleased that she has found someone to care for her after what It did.
Okay.
When It is alone, curled up in the corner and under several layers of soft blankets, when It can hear no voices from the windowed room other than the ones in Its head, It fingers the blade in Its hand. It does not wince when the biting metal draws a line of blood from a fleshy finger. Before It sleeps, It places the knife in the sheath on Its leg, a strip of fabric torn from one of the several scratchy sheets in Its nest, that no one had yet found and removed.
-Its mission isn’t over yet.
Steve watched Clint, Natasha, and Buck- Wolf from the observation room, leg shaking and still itching from the phantom feeling of bones gluing themselves back together. Sam sat next to him eating a salad he brought down from his apartment and kept trying to get Steve to have a few bites. He’s gonna let the man assume his refusal is because of Wolf and not because he hates the Thousand Island dressing he watched him drown his salad in.
He’s had the audio muted, ‘cause he feels he at least owes them a bit more privacy (not to mention the fact he hasn’t taken his eyes off Wolf’s face- his scars his metal arm-).
“When d’you think Stark can get the collar off?” Steve almost jumped out of his chair, surprised by Sam’s question that almost felt like the guy was reading his mind. In reality, he knows Sam is just as concerned as he is, but Steve wonders if he’s that predictable.
“Not sure- he hasn’t talked about getting it off, but I’m sure the thing is driving him up the wall.”
Sam continues eating and Steve goes back to watching the three, or two, communicate, trying and failing to read lips. There’s a quiet clink of his friend placing his empty bowl on the desk.
“He already looks more comfortable,” Sam comments, arms folded over his chest as he leans back. Steve gives a vague, questioning hum.
“Wolf- he looks… better. A little bit, at least. Especially since Natasha’s been hanging with him. And, with Clint- it’s good to introduce him to more people, to get used to people again. Nice people.”
“Natasha would hate you calling her nice,” Steve jokes, a smirk on his lips.
“Yea yea, I’m not scared of her assassin-y ways, man,” Sam gives a deep, shoulder-shaking laugh, “Just don’t tell her I said that.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
After another few minutes of companionable silence, they go back up to Sam’s apartment, and Steve feels a bit better about leaving Wolf be. He is not his keeper- he shouldn’t need to feel responsible for his friend. Wolf doesn’t need that, and Steve doesn’t either. They both need space, and the time to get to know each other again. He owes him that. The world owes them that.
It is removed from the icy coffin again and again and again- can remember each time, is familiar with the feeling of ice covering It, and the feeling of it melting and dripping off Its skin.
This time is different because It had dreamed. It had dreamed of the sun It so rarely sees or feels, It had dreamed of warm laughter, of what It thinks Its voice, It could talk!, used to sound like- and they had disturbed the dream and made it disappear and now It can barely remember it. Was the laughter Its own, or someone else’s? Was that really Its voice? Or did It ever even have a voice to begin with?
Its hands shake and clench into fists, but no one notices as they sit It in the electric bruising do it again mind-numbing chair. It doesn’t fight against the thing as it locks Its arms and legs in place. It doesn’t fight as It feels the cold metal arms move and place the halo to Its head.
It doesn’t fight to keep the screams of agony inside Itself.
It stares at the plastic bowl It was given, sat on a tray with a matching plastic spoon. It does and doesn’t look familiar to food It had eaten in the mansion with the girls and Madame B., but perhaps that’s because of the location difference. It ignores Sam’s presence and picks up the plastic utensil with Its metal hand, being careful not to break it, and sticks it into the broth. It swirls the spoon, and It can see small pieces of pale meat, orange and green vegetables, and grains of rice. It stares for a moment before licking the spoon and putting it back on the tray. It picks up the small bowl with Its hands, metal and rot, and drinks from it. It can hear Sam sputtering, but he does not try to stop It.
“That works too, I guess,” he says, sounding amused. It quickly finishes drinking the soup, licking Its lips when It’s done. Sam takes the tray and bowl away, smiling- happy. It tilts Its head at him.
“Hopefully you don’t feel sick from that, but this is officially our first test on getting you to eat real food and not just super soldier smoothies. You’ll have to keep drinking them anyway, just until we can get your calorie intake up to par with Steve’s, but this is a start.”
They… They will give It food? Like food the handlers eat? Things It can use Its teeth on? It can’t stop the small upward quirk of Its lips, the animal purring quietly, and Sam’s smile grows.
“Do you have anything you’d like to eat? Something to look forward to?” It picks up the tablet and writes Its answer, quicker than It used to.
‘Meat red’. It flips the tablet over and shows Sam. He chuckles- It can see the gap in his front teeth and wonders what they think when they see Its own pointed and dangerous ones.
“Yea, I like steaks too, and burgers. Red meat’s a good one to look forward to, but it’ll take a bit longer because of how hearty it is, if you know what I mean. Gotta work up to that, y’know?” It gives him a look, eyes narrowed, and clicks Its teeth together. It does not want to wait. It can see him swallow, his brow twitching.
“Yea, I know- you… yea. Okay, I get it. Not really, but I know what you mean,” Sam rambles a bit, his fingers twitch and move but don’t do anything. Nervous. Why? It thinks it’s time for the man to leave and points to the door. He leaves in a rush.
It is left alone after that, for a while, and It spends a lot of the time sleeping. It is always sleeping. It can dream now. It hears voices It hasn’t heard before, or familiar voices It’ll never forget. Memories of old things, and things that don’t exist. A house on a cobbled street, a cramped room with rusty pipes, concrete walls suffocating It, icy tables and tanks and hands, snow and rain and forests and a beach where It can vividly feel sand between Its toes. It knows some of it doesn’t exist, but It wishes none of it did. It wishes It didn’t exist.
It is always sleeping. It is always dreaming. It is always remembering. It wishes It wasn’t.
It is sat on a soft comfortable comfort-chair, plush and not metal; the animal enjoys the scritch scratch of the nails on the material, and It just wants to enjoy the chair that does not hurt. The room is white and not bright like It thinks it usually is, but the engineer and Natalia sit close to It on stools with wheels instead of standing like the past engineers and technicians and doctors and handlers-
“Shit!” The engineer suddenly jumped out of his seat and started pacing, eyes stuck to the monitor that It is not allowed to see. The goateed man looks scared and angry.
“Stark?” Its cub looks worried, and she wheels herself over to view the screen that has the man so concerned, and It watches her skin go white and her green eyes go wide with fear.
“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck- this- seriously?!” The engineer swears loudly and frantically, “Please, tell me, Wolf, what this symbol is- please, tell me I’m wrong.” The man with scared, blood-shot brown eyes turned the screen to face It, and It sees what they are so scared of. What is your name? Кто твой хозяин? Who do you belong to? Будь хорошей сука-
HYDRA. Why’s it always Goddamn HYDRA!? He’s gonna pass out- Tony can feel his heart stuttering- what the fuck. What the Fuck? Steve’s gonna have a conniption right before he storms out and puts a fist through Alexander Pierce’s face. Tony would absolutely pay to see that, but What The Fuck!
That’s all that’s coming to mind right now- just the 3D, in-depth scan of Wolf’s collar - straight from a Saw movie, he swears - showing a lasered-in symbol on the inside of the collar, right against the Soldier’s neck. The symbol, you may ask? Fucking cut off one head, another shall take its place HYDRA. ‘Cause of course the nazi science division didn’t die out back in the 40’s. ‘Cause of course they managed to find good ol’ Captain America’s best friend in the snowy mountains and turn him into a big bad attack wolf. ‘Cause of fucking course they’re out here ready to fuck them all over- if Cap isn’t the first one there, Tony himself is gonna be the one putting a metal fist through Pierce’s face.
Another insult to injury is the striped shield and star symbol lasered in next to it, a big fat X over top- Tony can hear the people behind the design laughing beyond their graves, because he sure hopes they’re fucking dead or else they will be soon.
He needs a nap- or another cup of coffee. Why does it always have to be the shady government agencies? It feels like they’re following him. He definitely needs another cup of coffee after all this. Maybe several to soothe the light heart attack.
All of the people, the Avengers, are very quiet- somber and angry, eyes looking sad and pitying when pointed towards It. It doesn’t know why. The only one It has not seen looking sad and pitying is Not-Pierce- the copy the fake the liar the abomination It had attacked and had not seen since. It wonders if he is dead, but something tells It that these people would not be kind to It and giving It the food if that were the case.
It is brought two bowls of the brothy soup a day, It still does not check the ticking clock in the cell, but still, It knows this anyway because handlers always function on schedules unlike It.
After many of this, It is brought a sticky food called oatmeal that It had tried, but it reminded the animal too much of the bowls on the floor and the Съешь, сука and the Вылижи его дочиста so the food did not stay down like Sam had hoped.
It is given a bowl of palatable rice, instead, like the rice in the broth but with no broth. It is able to chew this, slow movements for Its still sometimes-sore jaw, taking Its time with each bite. Sam - a new on-field doctor, maybe? His metal wings are useful to get hurt people out of dangerous situations - does not get mad at It for being slow, he even looks happy sad proud.
So, now, It is given the brothy soup after long amounts of bad-dream-filled sleep, a sludge smoothie two times after, then the soft but chew-as-needed rice before another sludge, and more sleep. Sam says it is good to sleep as long as It can, that the sleep and all the food helps It heal quickly and will make It feel better. Natalia says not to tell anyone, winking with a mischievous smile when she sneaks It a small, bite-sized piece of sweet chocolate once a day. Clint says he wants to give It something called pizza but is not allowed to. The engineer sneaks, no, gives, It fruit: tiny and blue-purple, or cubed oranges, or slices of pinky-red, or slices of yellows- he does not say to not tell anyone, and he does not look mischievous. It thinks he looks sad. Not-Pierce does not say anything because It does not see him.
It always nods at all of their words, because It likes the sweet chocolates and the small fruits and all the food, but It does not tell them with the tablet that It does not like the sleep and the dreams and the memories. It does not ask them where Not-Pierce is, because It does not want the man to come and punish It, because It does not want to see the man, because It is afraid that It had killed the man, and they are waiting for It to mention him so they can take all the comforts away and hurt-
It does not ask them when all of this will end.
All It does is draw thin lines of red, underneath the blankets, on Its dead arm and hand, confirming that It indeed still has the stolen blade and that It is awake that It is not dreaming, before hiding it once more. Its mission is not complete.
Sometimes, when It wakes from the cold sleep, when Its head is numb and hurting and It is blinded with pain, It forgets about the muzzle. Forgets about the drilled screws in Its face, forgets about the pain, about the punishment. Sometimes, It tries to talk, to make noise, tries to open Its mouth because It has forgotten It can’t, and pain overcomes It once more, all new and the punishment is reinforced again. It is not meant to have a face, not meant to be seen, not meant to- to-
Sometimes, the only way It is given water is in a bowl, and It sputters and chokes and does not drink much in the end. Sometimes, It is shoved face-first into a toilet or a trough, and It is forced to breathe in the water, ice cold and boiling hot, and they all laugh as It coughs and whimpers and whines, please, forgive It, please, forgive forgive forgive, and It does not drink much in the end.
Sometimes- no, this one time, they test It by starving It. No bowl of liquid nutrition It can barely get down, no needles in the arm with the tube leading to a bag, no straw, because that doctor is dead now. They test It by starving It and placing a plate of brown-charred-red meat that is bloody in the middle right in front of It. They test It by starving It and wanting to see what It will do. Because It cannot eat, cannot remove the muzzle, cannot eat with the muzzle in the way-
It - the animal, fuck- no, It? - digs Its fingers as much as It can into the edges of the metal, gets a good grip, and pulls. It screams and roars with pain, blood mixing with the saliva in Its mouth, but It keeps pulling and pulling and pulling until a screw pops free and clinks as it hits the ground. It feels like It is removing Its entire face with the eyes and the nose and the mouth and pointed teeth, but It continues screaming, ears ringing and popping and suddenly there’s a reverberating crack from Its jaw, going slack from the dislocation, and It freezes, stumbling to the floor.
It slowly slowly slowly carefully removes Its fingers from the muzzle, whines and whimpers from the pain, eyes still shedding tears, watches as blurry, white-coated men enter the room and shove a needle into Its neck, faces grim even to It as Its vision goes black.
It does not remember if It was punished for that incident, but It does not try to remove the muzzle again.
Sometimes, when It wakes, when It startles from a bad-dream-memory and the non-existent pain, It forgets about the muzzle. It forgets that it is gone, forgets that It can move Its jaw and not feel blinding white hot pain coursing through Its face, remembers the punishment. Sometimes, It tries to talk or make noise, then thinks better of it because It thinks the muzzle is still there. It uses the tablet when given the chance, because It has no other way to- to communicate. It cannot speak, cannot remember Its voice or how to form words, it’s been so long, thinks the words might be lost forever, so It writes instead. It is disappointed that It does not know how to write that many words.
Sometimes, only a small number of times- It can use just one hand to count them, It wakes up coughing, thinking its head is being held under water, and It fills the cell with breathless, wheezing screeches and howls until Natalia comes in and wraps It up in a blanket that smells like her. The next time It wakes, Its cub is holding It to her chest even though It is supposed to be her Wolf, not the other way around. It thinks their roles are changing, that Its role is changing, and doesn’t know if It should be, could be, wants to be mad about it. Sometimes, when It wakes to Natalia asleep next to It, and she is dreaming the good things, because It can tell when she is in pain even in sleep, It looks at her and thinks she will leave It soon, that she will find better that she will abandon It and take the comforts with her, and It will have no one.
Sometimes, It cannot keep the food down, like the smoothies or the brothy soup or the rice, and It spends the day with Its head, so numb and ache-y and pounding, in the toilet- except not to drink water. It can drink all the water It wants from the bottles and cups, drink just like them without the coughing and choking and crying, but It cannot eat like them, as it seems. Not yet, Sam says. Just wait, Natalia says, be patient. It does not want to be patient, It has waited so long, so many many sleeps and so much time has passed, It’s sure, so why does It have to wait more?
Sometimes, the animal wakes up angry and hating the people, the Avengers, and It will growl at them when they enter the cell that has become Its nest, will throw pillows at them, will be tempted to use Its teeth and Its fists and the blade It has hidden but won’t. Sometimes, It imagines what it would be like to kill Natalia, like It almost did so long ago. It imagines what It would be like to rip the glowing light from the engineer's chest, what It would be like to tear into Sam or Clint’s throat and to eat and eat and eat until It vomits it all back up. It laughs when It thinks at least no one will make It lick it up anymore, and the anger goes away for a while.
Sometimes, no- this one time, It is jolted awake by a blaring alarm, flooding Its cell with bright red flashing lights, and Not-Pierce storming in holding a red-silver-blue shield with a star in the center, and It knows that design from somewhere, where- how does It know-
“C’mon, Wolf! We gotta get outta here!”
Notes:
Translations (in order of appearance):
Кто твой хозяин? : Who’s your master?
Будь хорошей сука- : Be a good bitch-
Съешь, сука : eat it, bitch
Вылижи его дочиста : lick it clean
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