warnings: series will contain content depicting violence, manipulation, torture, and death; present tropes include slow burn romance, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, angst/fluff (chapter specific warnings will be made for each new update)
summary: two opposing forces working under the same oppressor must learn to coexist, but their dissonance may be the key to their salvation
warnings: mentions of blood, needles, violence, isolation
notes: apologies for the brief hiatus! this chapter is considerably shorter than the others but it sets up the story for what is to come
summary: stuck in an endless loop of isolation, your dreams are all that keep you sane
*masterlist
The sun is warm against your face as you lay in the meadow behind the cottage. The grass prickles against your skin, but it’s a welcome feeling that you’ve come to miss after being deprived of it for so long. You can feel the cool air kiss your face and hear the rustling of the trees overheard. You can’t remember the last time you’d seen the outside world, but you’re finally free.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” You muse as you turn your head to face your companion.
The Winter Soldier sits stoically beside you, unmoving and unaffected by the scenery. He’s covered in blood, and you watch curiously as the crimson liquid drips from his metal arm onto the fresh grass below. He doesn’t care to respond to your question, but you’re accustomed to his silence. You don’t mind being ignored so long as he doesn’t leave you here by yourself.
“You would have liked it here,” you continue in spite of his silence, “it was safe.”
He turns to you emotionlessly, and you watch with unease as his bloodied hand reaches for your own. Holding you in his grasp, his squeezes until your bones crack, but you don’t react. You don’t feel the way they splinter or the pain of the fragments ripping through your skin. You can only focus on the warmth of his palm and the sight of your hands intertwined together.
You wake just as he snaps your arm, your body jolting from the sudden interruption. You instinctively reach for your forearm only to find it perfectly in tact and let out a trembling sigh as you regain your bearings. You’d only been dreaming, and the space beside you is empty as you peer over in search of the Winter Soldier. He’s still in cryofreeze, and you’re still on your own.
You lay back against the plush mattress and turn your gaze towards the window where the frilly curtains have been pulled back to reveal a deplorable view. All that rests on the other side of the glass is a brick wall, reminding you of your permanent place as Hydra’s glorified pet. You may have earned the privilege of living in the artificial replica of your old bedroom, but you know the chances of ever feeling the sunlight on your skin again are slim to none. Only in your dreams may you feel the warmth of the sun and the summer breeze along your face, and only in your dreams can you find companionship in the Winter Soldier.
It’s been three years since you last spoke to him, promising to alleviate his mind from the horrors Hydra had implanted in exchange for the answers Zola had withheld about your grandfather. In that time you’ve learned to keep your head down and mouth shut; obedience is your salvation, and with the Winter Soldier gone you know the only person you can trust to keep you out of harm’s way is yourself. Arnim keeps you on a tight leash, and no other guard or researcher is willing to risk facing his wrath by showing you mercy.
The days move by slowly, but you’ve grown numb to the passage of time. Your routine is always the same— wake from your nightmares, report to the lab for blood draws, wait for any incoming patients who may need your healing touch, shower, sleep, and wait for morning to start all over again. It’s a miracle you haven’t somehow gone insane, but you hold onto what little shred of hope you have that your soldier will wake to keep you going.
You’re out of bed and roaming the halls towards the research lab by the time the clock in your room strikes eight. They don’t send guards for you anymore— another privilege your compliance has earned you— as Zola considers it to be a waste of resources. You know better than to be late, better than to wander in search of some form of escape. The scientist also knows you’d never leave without your accomplice, and it is for that reason alone he doesn’t mind the bond you had foraged in duress. You don’t have the courage to take off on your own, and your unnatural attachment to him prevents you from abandoning him here to endure further torture for your transgressions. Anything that can be used to control and manipulate you is welcome in his eyes.
Hydra’s team of researchers is busy at work when you enter the lab, and no one bothers to acknowledge your presence as you push past the heavy doors. The air is uncomfortably cold, your simple cotton white gown doing little to keep you warm as your bare feet pad across the cement floor. Though you’d earned freedom from your previous cell, your new room hadn’t come with your previous wardrobe. You longed for your sweaters or even a pair of socks, but Zola insisted you were still a year away at least from earning that privilege. Until then, you wore only what was provided to you.
With no one to block your path, you silently make your way towards the center of the room where the cryochamber rests. The metal steps creak with your weight as you use the support to reach the glass window at the top, gazing upon the still features of the Winter Soldier. You make it a point to see him with every visit to the lab, your palm resting against the frigid metal as you watch him sleep and wonder if he too is plagued with dreams of you the same way he haunts your own. You understand there’s no possible way for him to know you’re there, but sometimes you hold your breath in anticipation of him miraculously opening his eyes to greet you. It never comes, and yet you never deviate from your routine.
“Good morning, Project,” Zola greets with a faux smile and airy demeanor as he enters the room, effectively rupturing your moment of tranquility with the soldier. You’re not entirely fond of the title he’s bestowed upon you, but the use of your real name has been forbidden by all personnel in the building— his way of humiliating you and dehumanizing you further.
You wordlessly make your way towards him as he motions for you to take your place on the exam table. You don’t protest when he tightly winds a rubber band above your elbow, and you hardly flinch when the needle pierces your skin and blood begins to ooze out into the tubes. It took him a month after your capture to develop a needle strong enough to pierce your skin without your body rejecting it; after that, sample draws became a regular occurrence.
“Your abilities are stubborn,” he tells you as he watches the viles beside your bed fill with crimson fluid. “I have yet to successfully transform your blood into a serum that can be administered to the wounded and the sick without exerting your physical form, but so far I have had no success.”
“I read the journals,” you tell him flatly, your haunted gaze fixated on the cryochamber across the room. “My grandfather tried to do the same, but it’s not possible. My blood is useless if it isn’t flowing in my veins, the magic wears off. I act as the totem, and I can only heal what I touch.”
“Your grandfather was incompetent,” Zola sneers harshly, and though you’re used to his insults the sharpness of his tone has you shrinking back in fear of being reprimanded for your doubt. “I have the time and resources available to me that he did not. So long as I have you, I will accomplish my mission and Hydra shall live forever. All thanks to you, my dear.”
You don’t respond, choosing to remain silent as your vacant gaze returns to the needle in your arm. Blood trickles down the entry wound and begins to trail down your forearm, but you make no effort to stop it. Your body will continue to produce more as your blood cells regenerate, and the suffocating routine of your life under Hydra will continue until you find a way out of this cage. You miss the days when your only worry was facing the wrath of the Winter Soldier, and all you long for now is his hand around your throat and his blood on your palms to keep you warm.
The cycle continues, and you’re left longing for what once was.
~~~
The unrelenting chill of the snow on your bare feet burns your skin in a way that would be immobilizing to most, and yet you persist. Your bloodied soles leave footprints in your wake, but you force yourself to continue forward. You can hardly see past the strong winds, but through the flurry you can make out his silhouette in the distance.
Metal palm outstretched towards you, his offer of salvation is silent as he beckons you forward. You feel as if he grows further with each step you take, but you’re desperate to reach him before the storm worsens. Freedom is so close you can taste it, all you must do is take his hand and you’ll be saved.
Your fingertips barely brush against his cool palm before you’re thrown into the dark, stolen from your dream with a gasp as someone shakes you awake. A nurse sits on the edge of your bed, fingernails digging into your shoulders and features full of panic as she frantically speaks Russian at you. Between your lack of comprehension of the language and your residual drowsiness you can’t make any sense of what she’s saying.
“I don’t understand,” you tell her impatiently, brows furrowing together as you squint your eyes and try to make sense of her alarm.
“Soldat! Soldat!” She tells you while beginning to pull you out of bed. You struggle against her and try to shove her away, but this only spurs her frenetic movements further. “Awake!”
Your blood feels like ice in your veins as you’re met with the word, and you look upon her face in search of any insincerity. You find none, only fright and unease from your lack of urgency. You scramble onto your feet as you grab onto her for support in the wake of your trembling legs and begin to shake her senselessly.
“The Winter Soldier is awake?” You ask her, and despite the language barrier there’s a flash of recognition on her features as she gives you an affirming nod.
“Zola says it is so. Must go now!”
You don’t allow her the chance to say anything else as you shove past her and through the open door, sprinting towards the lab. After three years of isolation and numbing insanity, he’s finally being released from cryo freeze. Your rational mind is out the window, and you don’t stop to think whether he’ll recognize you or even want to move forward with the deal you’d made. Your only focus is on seeing him once more to prove that this isn’t another dream.
summary: you find an unlikely ally in the Winter Soldier, and Zola reveals a harsh truth
*masterlist
“Sir, the Asset is awake and exiting the laboratory.”
Arnim looks up from his desk and focuses his attention on the grainy image being portrayed on the screen. The Winter Soldier strides through the hallways with a sense of purpose, and despite the poor quality of the cameras the scientist can still detect the vengeful determination written across his features.
“Should I send for back up?”
“No,” he hums pensively, watching the soldier turn the corner towards your room. He smiles faintly with piqued interest and leans back in his chair with a sense of ease. “Switch the monitor to the Project’s feed. Let us see how this plays out.”
Your throat burns as you take a sip from your cup of tea, and you have trouble swallowing down the liquid due to the soreness from your bruises. The use of your powers combined with the Winter Soldier’s iron clad grip on your neck resulted in the slow recuperation of your body, and you could do nothing now but rest and enjoy the soothing drink a merciful nurse had brought to you along with a fresh nightgown from your replicated wardrobe.
No one has bothered you since you’d been thrown back in here, so you’re surprised to hear a sudden bang against your door. You flinch, the liquid sloshing around in your cup and spilling over onto your fingertips with your movements. Another bang follows, and you’re barely given enough time to set the tea aside before the lock breaks and the heavy frame slams open. The Winter Soldier stands rigid in your doorway, his shoulders rising with each trembling breath he takes as he spots you sitting on your cot. Neither of you move, and the air feels as if it’s gone cold.
“Soldier?” You utter meekly, the sound of your voice finally spurring him into action as he surges towards you. You scream when his rough hands grab hold of your upper arms and hoist you up from the cot with vicious strength. He holds you in the air so you’re face to face, your feet dangling below you despite how desperately you try to find purchase on the floor. His steely blue eyes are full of wrath, his lips contorted into a menacing snarl, and his tight grip on you prevents any attempts to escape his grasp.
“What did you do to me?” He demands through gritted teeth. Sweats beads across his forehead, strands of hair sticking to the surface and allowing you a view of his face. His eyes are frenzied and panicked like a wild animal caught in a trap, and you know you must choose your words very carefully in order to avoid agitating him further.
“I only did what Zola asked,” you insist desperately, eyes welling with tears that you fight to keep from shedding in fear of upsetting him further. “I healed you, that’s all!”
“Liar!” He barks ferociously. His fingers dig painfully into the flesh of your arms and you sob, unable to stop the tears from falling as he starts to shake you. “You planted images in my mind, interfered with my programming—“
“I just wanted you to stop!” You wail desperately. You fear he’ll snap your neck if he shakes you any harder. “I needed to heal you, but Zola was going to let you kill me and I just wanted to push you off of me. I wasn’t trying to trick you!”
“I could crush your windpipe in a second, and no one would bat an eye,” he warns lowly, pulling you closer so that you’re forced to meet his chilling stare. Your pounding heartbeat rings in his ears, and he can smell the nervous sweat that perspires throughout your entire body. Your wide eyes well with tears, and you frantically shake your head in protest at his threat. Good. He wants you to be afraid of him. You’ve grown too comfortable here, and who better to remind you of your place than the man who had brought you to Hydra himself.
“You heard what Zola said, it doesn’t matter what happens to a girl who can bring herself back from the dead, so I suggest you tell the truth.”
“I-I swear I didn’t mean to!” You plead through breathless sobs, snot trickling down your nose from the onslaught of tears. You squirm pathetically in his grasp in a feeble attempt to free yourself, but you know it’s pointless. “I don’t control minds, I can’t create illusions— all I can do is heal whoever I touch wherever I touch them! That’s it, I swear! It’s in the journals, Zola knows it!”
The soldier’s slate blue eyes continue to burn into your own, but you can feel the way his fingers loosen a fraction of their grip on your arms as he finally puts some distance between you both. You can tell by the look on his face and the subtle crease of his brows that he’s taking your words into consideration, and a small part of you is optimistic that he’ll take them to mean the truth. You have no reason to lie, just as he has no reason to spare your life, but you’re hopeful you can somehow meet in the middle.
“Your first day here the doctor said the totem could heal physical and mental ailments… Can you do the same?”
“I don’t— I’ve never tried,” you stammer truthfully with a fretful shake of your head. “I was touching your temple when it happened, I just wanted to push you away, but my veins were on fire and I could feel tingling in my arm… so maybe I did accidentally undo whatever they’ve inflicted upon your mind.”
A pregnant pause fills the room as he simply stares you down while processing your words. Though he doesn’t particularly care for you, he doesn’t make you out to be a liar. In the short time he’s known you you’ve been nothing but meek and needy for his approval. You’d learned quickly not to talk out of turn, that obedience was key to survival, thus it wouldn’t make sense for you to lie now, especially to him. By touching him you had accidentally unlocked a new gift you hadn’t even realized you possessed. At the same time, the Winter Soldier had discovered a way to break free from his programming.
He lets you go abruptly, and you hit the floor with a wince before stumbling back onto your cot. With your arms free you can finally wipe away the wetness on your cheeks and brush your runny nose along the collar of your nightgown. His fingertips have bruised your arms, and he watches with silent interest as they start to fade into your skin. You’re the most fragile creature he’s ever encountered yet somehow the most resilient. A part of him wants to break you, to test how far he can go before you snap, but the part of him Hydra had buried away deep inside wanted desperately to save you from this place.
“Do you like it here?” He asks you suddenly, the question taking you by surprise.
“I don’t think that matters anymore.”
“If you touched me again, would more memories resurface?” He prompts you in earnest. You can see the desperation swimming in his eyes, the way he almost seems to suffocate on the sense of hope that blooms within him. He hasn’t allowed himself the feeling in years, already accepting his fate as an unwilling weapon for Hydra’s dirty work, but everything’s different now. And it’s all because of you.
“I don’t know, but I could try again if that’s what you want,” you reply feebly, anxiously wringing the fabric of your nightgown between your fingers. Your innocent eyes peer up at him through damp lashes, and he swallows down the flutter in his chest that follows the sight. It makes him sick.
“What is your fascination with me?” He demands suddenly, tone stern enough to have you cowering back in distress. “Why are you so eager to please? I made you a prisoner here, you should hate me. You should be afraid of me.”
“I am afraid,” you admit meekly, head hung low in shame and cowardice. You don’t dare look up to meet his scrutinizing stare, instead choosing to focus on the silk fabric draped across your lap. “I’m terrified of you, but I know you’re like me. You do what they tell you because you have to. You follow orders to survive, to please Zola, but I know you don’t want this.”
“And how would you know that?” He demands testily. You sniffle, finally mustering up the courage to meet his face.
“Because who would?” You profess with a tearful smile. “I know it’s pathetic, but I… I find comfort in your presence. You’re the first man to ever see me, to touch me, to know my name… to know what it’s like to have your freedom taken from you and your past locked away. We’re the same.”
“We’re not,” the soldier reminds you firmly, “I’m not your protector, I’m not your friend.“
“I can help you. I want to help you, and you can help me.”
He falters then, eyeing you suspiciously as he questions, “How could I help you?”
“I still don’t understand why my grandfather would work for Hydra even if it was to save my mother. The story doesn’t sound right, and I need to know the truth. I need to know why he hid everything from me, and I know Zola has the answers, he just won’t let me have them.”
“If I get you the answers you seek, you’ll help me overcome my programming?”
“I swear,” you avow in earnest. You watch with bated breath as he seems to contemplate your offer. His brows knit together with uncertainty and his hands clench uncomfortably at his sides as he simply stares at you. You’re not stupid enough to trick him, he knows that, and you have a stake in the game so there’s no reason to go back on your word. He so desperately wants to be free from the shackles of the Winter Soldier, but hope was dangerous in a place like this.
“If you decide to take my offer, I need you to answer one question first,” you declare to break the silence. He looks upon you curiously, daring to kneel before you so you’re eye level. You swallow thickly at the sudden closeness and try to still the rapid beating of your heart, desperate to get the answer you’ve been after since your arrival but terrified to utter it aloud.
He says nothing, only giving you a single nod as a cue to continue speaking. You let out a trembling breath, fighting the urge to look away from him as you find your voice.
“The night you found me in the cottage, was it— Did you kill my grandfather?”
A heavy silence fills the air, and though his features remain neutral you can feel as if something has shifted. The room feels tense, and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth in an effort to keep from losing your composure. You need to know the truth before you continue any further, before you risk being locked in the dark again for your intended transgressions against Hydra and the doctor.
After what feels like an eternity, the answer finally falls past his lips.
“It wasn’t me.”
The relief that washes over your face is instant, and it causes something ugly within him to fester. He knows he’s lying, but you believe him so easily and so earnestly that it feels like a sin. You trust him completely, and he’s taken advantage of that. You may be the key to his freedom, just as he is to yours, but the plan will only work so long as you see him as an ally. Confessing to the murder of your grandfather would make him the enemy, and all of this would be for nothing.
He tries to convince himself that remorse is pointless; the blame lies on you for being so utterly naive. However, no matter how hard he tries to tap into the unfeeling soldier he’s been conditioned to be, all he feels is suffocating guilt for taking advantage of a girl who feels she has no one else to turn to but her captor. Obedience had been beaten into him, but you readily complied without question. Eager to please and desperate for attention after being deprived of it for so long, you made the perfect accomplice.
His penance will be breaking you free of Zola’s prison and releasing you from Hydra, and that is a promise he vows to keep.
“Didn’t I tell you to play nice, Soldat?”
Zola stands in the doorway with an unreadable expression on his face, his hands clasped behind his back and posture relaxed as if he hadn’t just caught his prized experiments conspiring against him. You freeze, stomach pooling with dread at being caught alone with the Winter Soldier. Though the doctor never explicitly said to keep away from one another, you can’t imagine he’s pleased to see you sitting with your face only inches apart from your handler.
Two soldiers enter the room and roughly grab hold of your accomplice. Though you know he could easily overpower them, he doesn’t fight back as they drag him out of the room. You watch horrified, meeting Zola’s uncaring gaze as he gestures for you to follow him.
“It would be in your best interest to come with me.”
You know better than to argue, so you quickly rise from your cot and obediently follow the scientist down the hallway to a new room you’ve yet to see before. The air is frigidly cold, goosebumps immediately trailing along your arms as you survey your surroundings. The room is sparsely lit with only a single fluorescent lamp hanging above you. A metal chair rests in the corner paired with a machine you can’t quite make sense of, but you’re quick to notice the restraints.
In the center of the room you see the Winter Soldier being shoved against a metal backboard. Two men fasten his restraints while doctors scramble to attach various wires and tubing to the assassin. You meet his empty stare and feel your heart stutter in your chest at his resigned nature. The fire he’d had earlier in your room is extinguished, and all that is left is brittle defeat as he accepts his fate.
“What are they doing to him?” You demand desperately. You whirl around to face Zola only to immediately be backhanded as you turn. Your head whips to the side as you let out a pained yelp, tears immediately welling in your eyes as your mouth parts in silent shock. The room stills, and you bite your lip to keep from crying at the humiliation of it all.
“You’ve forgotten your place, girl,” he warns lowly. “He is none of your concern. Your loyalty is to Hydra, to me, and the Winter Soldier will not be here to help you should you choose to go against me.”
“I’m sorry,” you utter shakily. Your entire body trembles from the fear and shame of being disciplined for all to see. Deeming your remorse satisfactory, Zola lets out a faint huff of amusement before deciding to answer your question.
“He’s been out of cryostasis for far too long,” the doctor states dispassionately, his focus now on the monitors as he takes note of the soldier’s vitals.
“Cryostasis?”
“We keep him frozen in suspended animation to prevent him from aging. He’s our greatest weapon, and we can’t risk losing him to time.”
You’re horrified at his response, but the doctor remains dispassionate towards you as he continues on with his work. You watch as the handlers force a muzzle onto the Winter Soldier, completely dehumanizing him in a way that has your stomach churning. You can do nothing but watch on helplessly while the last of his dignity is stripped away from him and hope the same fate does not await you.
As if reading your thoughts, the doctor continues, “I thought of creating a chamber for you, but after studying your blood sample I’ve come to realize such a procedure is not necessary. Did you know your body is constantly producing new blood cells? It rejuvenates itself to the point of decelerated aging. You grow static with every second that passes.”
“You mean, I won’t age?”
“Based on my calculations, there will come a point in time where your powers will deem your physical form satisfactory and keep you stagnant. You may live to be a hundred and still look to have only aged a day. Near immortality does not require cryostasis.”
You’re not sure how to take the news of learning you’ll live forever. You’re grateful you won’t have to suffer the same fate as the Winter Soldier, but decelerated aging is its own form of imprisonment. You’ll outlive all of the people in this room, Zola included, and what will become of you then? Are you really fated to spend your immortal life as Hydra’s pet? Your only solace is the fact that the Winter Soldier’s prolonged lifespan will leave you with at least one familiar face, at least for some time.
Your companion is encased in glass, and as Zola gives the orders to initiate the cryostasis he manages to find your eyes in the crowd of scientists. Your throat feels thick with the amalgamation of emotions you try to swallow down in fear of earning another slap across the face from the doctor. His stormy blue eyes that are usually filled with rage have now softened as he looks upon you one last time. Your plans of freedom have been thwarted for now, and though you’ve already given up hope of ever escaping, he silently swears to uphold his end of the bargain as soon as he’s released.
Your heartbroken face is the last image he sees before the ice freezes over and he’s taken by a chilling darkness. The job is done, and the Winter Soldier will be kept in his chamber until he is needed for the next mission.
You hope he’ll remember you when he finally wakes up.
Hii I follow you on your atla acc I wanted to ask if you'd write a continuation story of zuko x reader fire lilies from the new movie that's coming soon
hi oh my gosh, thank you for reaching out. as you’ve noticed @melzula has been on hiatus for over a year and i apologize for no new content. i would definitely be open to making new pieces based on the movie, especially ones that add onto fire lilies, it just depends on my motivation/inspiration levels. it’s happened before where i took a long break then got inspired and came back so it’s definitely possible. i’ll never say no to writing for atla or coming back to my other blog, but i don’t have a timeline as of right now for when i’d write any new pieces
warnings: manipulation, deception, mentions of pregnancy & health complications, death, mentions of blood, choking, bruising, angst
notes: taglist is open and playlist has been updated ! also any questions or comments about the series are welcome :)
summary: you sign a deal with the devil and conjure the wrath of the Winter Soldier
*masterlist
When you finally will your eyes to open you expect to be greeted by darkness. Instead, a warm glow casts over your face as you groggily rub the last bout of sleep away from your eyes and slowly sit up in bed. You don’t remember where you are at first until your attention lands on the neatly folded medical gown at your feet, and you shudder at the realization of being back in your room once more.
You can’t recall passing out and have no way of knowing how much time has passed, but you remember the events that had occurred in the lab and the dead nurse you had failed to save. You had been so close to death, the taste of freedom on the tip of your tongue, but Zola had ripped it away from your grasp. You’ve proven yourself to be a worthy asset, and as a result your fate is now permanently sealed. You’ll never go home, and you’ll never leave this building for as long as you hold the totem’s gifts.
It dawns on you suddenly that there hadn’t been light in your room before, and you quickly shift your focus towards the lamp tucked away in the corner of the room. Brows furrowed with uncertainty, you take notice of the new metal table placed against the wall and the book that sits on its surface. None of the furniture had been there before, and though someone had placed it here in your sleep without your knowledge you feel as if it’s some kind of trap.
Instead of immediately investigating the mysterious journal waiting for you across the room, you first choose to change into the fresh medical gown once taking notice of the blood caked into the fabric of your current one. While you’re not sure how the stains had been scrubbed from your skin, you’re grateful no one had tried to undress you themselves during your period of unconsciousness. You grimace as you suddenly realize you can’t recall the last time you’d taken a shower— you hope you’ll get to have one soon.
A note is resting upon the frayed journal when you finally muster the courage to approach the desk. You hesitate for a moment as you take in the brown leather book; it feels familiar, but you can’t quite place it despite how intensely you rack your brain for answers. You lift the paper carefully, hands steady despite the nervous churn of your stomach as your eyes begin to scan across the letterings sprawled on the page.
“As promised, Hydra always rewards good behavior. Enjoy your new lamp— you’re going to need it.”
You set the note from Zola aside with a sigh before grabbing the book and returning to your cot where you can read comfortably. You have a feeling this notebook is going to occupy the rest of your time, and you just want to get it over with. Whatever’s inside, you’re confident it must pertain to your grandfather and his studies. The answers you seek lie within the pages, and you need to know the full picture of your powers and how you came to possess them if you want to survive this place.
The first few pages are full of images and archeological jargon that Zola had already explained to you previously, so you skip forward in search of something new. You recognize your grandfather’s penmanship in the sloppiness of his words, but you’re able to make out his writings as you land upon a journal entry.
“March, 1939
I know the totem exists, and it is of great importance I find the artifact before it’s too late. I have no choice but to accept the grant Hydra has offered for my research in exchange for my findings. Alba is running out of time.”
A frown pulls at your lips as you finish the passage. None of it sounds familiar, and you don’t ever recall your grandfather mentioning a woman by that name. By the frantic nature of the paragraph you assume she must have been someone important to him, and for whatever reason it was because of her the researcher had abandoned his previous works in favor of the ancient totem.
“May, 1939
Arnim grows impatient. I have yet to find the answers they seek, but another expedition is to occur next month. I had no luck in Nayarit or Zacatecas, but I’m hopeful for Yucatán. I’ve sent Alba home. It’s not safe to travel in her condition. I worry she won’t last much longer, but Hydra cannot know of her poor health. They’ll kill her themselves if they discover all of my work is for her benefit.”
“June, 1939
I write this quickly under the guise of moonlight. The totem is here, I’ve found it at last! I have left it hidden while the men blindly search. Tomorrow I will act— I will take the totem and run. I know these forests like the back of my hand, and I will lead them off my scent until they are lost in the vast wilderness. I will return to Guanajuato and fulfill my promise to Alba. I know I can no longer save her, but there is still hope yet for the child-“
The door to your room slams open abruptly, causing the journal to go flying out of your hands and onto the floor as you jump like a child caught staying up past their bedtime. You look from the discarded papers to the doorway to find Arnim standing with a tray of food. Your stomach growls uncomfortably at the sight— you haven’t had anything to eat since your last meal with your grandfather, and though you technically can go months without sustenance that doesn’t stop the feeling of hunger that begins to creep within your stomach.
“I was hoping you’d be awake,” the man notes thoughtfully as he steps into the room and places the tray on the table. Your eyes never leave the doorway as you wait for a second presence to enter the room, something Zola notices immediately. Mistaking your unmoving gaze for fear, he reassures you, “The Winter Soldier is gone on an assignment. It will just be you and I for today.”
You’re careful to mask the disappointment you feel at his absence. You know he cares little for you, but he’s all you’ve come to know in this place. His acts of mercy are the only ones you’ve been shown, and he’s been the only one to not look at you as an object to be used. In spite of the fear and apprehension you always felt around him, you also found some sick, strange sense of comfort. You’ve never been alone with the doctor without him as a buffer, and you can’t deny the sense of longing you feel for his presence. You hope he’ll be back soon to resume his duties as your handler.
“How long have I been asleep?” You question distantly, your focus now resting upon the tray of food. You’re distrusting of the man, but your hunger is starting to outweigh the fear of a possible trick.
“Four days. I kept track of your vitals while you slept and all appears to be well. You should be back to your full strength now, but I still believe it would be in your best interest to eat.”
“Is it poisoned?” You retort skeptically only to earn a chuckle in response.
“I understand the hesitancy, but I can assure you it is merely a regular bowl of soup. Consider it another privilege earned for your cooperation.”
While you’re still distrusting of the man, your hunger takes over your rational thoughts and prompts you to reach for the tray. You grab the loaf of bread from its place on the porcelain plate and take a greedy bite, savoring the flavor in spite of its staleness after being deprived of food for who knows how long. As you eat, Zola takes notice of the discarded journal on the ground and picks up the papers that had strewn across the floor.
“I take it I interrupted your reading,” he muses passively while flipping through the disorganized pages. You slow in your chewing at his statement and take a moment to quickly swallow your food so you may ask him the question burning at the forefront of your mind.
“Who is Alba, and why was my grandfather so desperate to find the totem for her?”
The short statured man lifts his gaze to meet your own, clearly taken aback by your question. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen genuine emotion on his face that didn’t align with arrogance or malice, and you’ve somehow managed to catch him off guard with what you thought was an innocent question.
“He really told you nothing of your ancestry, did he?” Zola retorts with a silent disbelieving laugh. “He kept you hidden all these years, isolated from society without ever telling you the truth, and yet you are still adamant that Pedro Valdez was a ‘good man.’”
You slink back in shame at his biting words as you avoid his gaze in favor of staring at the tray on your lap. Your soup will go cold if you don’t eat now, but you find that your appetite has suddenly vanished. Your previous sense of hunger has been replaced with shameful dread, and you feel like a scorned child being lectured for their naivety. You loved your grandfather, and you know he’d tried his best with you, but it seemed the longer you spent here under Hydra’s watch the more you began to doubt his character. Would a good person really throw away their morals to work with Hydra? Would a good grandfather keep you locked away for your own safety without ever taking the time to explain the truth in lieu of vague answers and rushed excuses?
“Who is Alba?” You repeat more firmly despite the shakiness of your voice. A glint of amusement flashes in the doctor’s eyes as he leans against the desk and mulls over his next words. You know he has the answer you’re desperate to hear, and his delay is just another form of mental torture meant to make you writhe with desperation— he wants you to know your place, to know it is him who controls your strings and your fate. You have no choice but to wait for his answer, and your obedience does not come without a reward.
“Alba was his apprentice, a graduate student studying under him with the hopes of becoming his research partner. She was highly intelligent and full of drive, and in time Pedro began to view her as a daughter in place of a colleague. I suppose we have her to thank for your grandfather’s sudden interest in a topic of research many had brushed off as old folktale.”
“I don’t understand… what did she have to do with any of this?”
“We kept tabs on your grandfather after hiring him as the lead researcher for the Longevity Project, including intercepting his letters,” Zola explains. You watch with uncertainty as he opens the journal and rests the open pages on the table. “Alba was deathly ill, and your grandfather hoped to save her with the totem. Her ailments were incurable, and such conditions were only worsened by her pregnancy.”
You set the tray aside and cautiously get up from the cot. Arnim watches but does not interfere as you approach the desk and hesitantly pick up the journal once more to see the page he’d left open. You expect to be greeted with more text, but instead you’re met with the image of a younger woman. Her peaceful smile starkly contrasts the sickly features of her face as her frail hands rest comfortably upon her protruding stomach. Her eyes are warm and familiar, and you swallow down the rising bile in your throat as you take notice of the fact that she almost looks like you.
“Alba knew neither she nor the child would survive the birth in her condition, and she also knew only one of them could be spared by the totem. Pedro swore to her he would save her child even if it came at the cost of her own life, and he did. He faked his own death to keep us off his scent then gave the totem its new host before disappearing into the countryside of Guanajuato.”
You feel sick to your stomach, and you can no longer bear to look at the photo of your mother any longer. You harshly slam the journal shut before turning away in order to hide your tears from the watchful scientist. You’d never seen that photo before, never knew of its existence, and that had been a purposeful decision on your grandfather’s part. Not once had he ever shared any details with you about where you came from or what had happened to the rest of your family. Every question was avoided or redirected towards a different topic. Why would he hide this from you? You had a right to know about your own Mother, to know that it was your fault she couldn’t be saved, that her life had been cut short to spare yours.
Steady tears begin to stream down your face but you’re quick to brush them away. You don’t trust Zola enough to be so vulnerable around him, but that’s exactly what he wants. Too engrossed in your resentment and your grief, you don’t notice the pleased smile he wears on his face as he watches you fall right into his trap.
“You may think me evil, a monster with no regard for others, and perhaps you are right,” he notes thoughtfully, “but your grandfather was not so different. He cared for his own interests and hoarded a gift that could have helped countless lives. He kept your own mother a secret from you while forcing you to live in isolation. Maybe he was telling the truth when he said he wanted to protect you, or maybe he was resentful you took the totem meant for his daughter—“
“What do you want with me?” You interrupt shakily, tightly shutting your eyes in an attempt to cease the onslaught of tears that threaten to fall.
“We simply want to restore the natural world order as it should be,” he explains cautiously, his voice even and full of sincerity like you’ve never heard from him before. “I am not the liar your grandfather was— you are a prisoner here, but that does not mean your life must be miserable. Allow us to use your gifts for the betterment of humanity and your prison could become a paradise! Punishment only comes with resistance, my dear.”
You say nothing for a long while, simply standing frozen in place as you allow the tears to dry upon your cheeks and mull over his proclamation. You don’t know who you can trust anymore. Zola has put you through nothing but torture since you’d arrived here, but at the very least he’d made his intentions clear from the beginning. Your grandfather had raised you as his own and done all in his power to protect you, but he’d lied to you your entire life by concealing the truth. Maybe it would be in your best interest to give in to his requests. Resistance would be futile, and you knew he was right when he said it would only end poorly for you to fight back. It was all an illusion of choice, neither option would truly work in your favor, but perhaps you could make the most out of your time here as an unwilling test subject.
“Okay,” you finally breathe in quiet defeat, accepting the fact that there is no other alternative. Zola grins, and you can’t help feeling like you’ve signed your soul to the devil himself.
“I knew you would make the right choice,” he praises. “I believe you’ve earned yourself a shower.”
You perk up at the mere mention of finally getting to bathe yourself properly, and without another word you quickly follow the man out of your room and towards the showers. Your mind is still reeling from what you’ve just done, but you know there’s no turning back now. You allow yourself to naively believe that perhaps your talents could be used for good, that while his methods may be unethical and orthodox in nature, Zola truly does want to help humanity through you. If your grandfather had been open to working for Hydra, a man who had raised you on the principals of being compassionate and forgiving, then maybe you could be too.
You’re so lost in thought you don’t realize Zola has stopped in the middle of the hallway until you nearly collide into his back. You falter in your steps and stumble backward to avoid disturbing him, but he doesn’t seem to notice your clumsy mistake.
“I must make a detour before I take you to the wash room,” he informs you, and it’s only then that you notice he’s stopped in front of another door. This one is notably different from your own, still made of steel yet somehow less overbearing in stature and style. It doesn’t require a passcode or multiple locks to open, simply a swipe of his card is sufficient enough to gain access.
Your mouth falls open with silent terror as you take in the sight before. On the other side of the door rests a room that looks exactly like the one you’d inhabited at the cottage. From the plush purple carpet to the frill curtains hanging above a window that only showcases a view of a brick wall, it’s almost exactly as you left it. You almost expect to see blood on the floor from your first encounter with the Winter Soldier, but it’s spotless.
“What… what is this?” You question breathlessly after finally regaining your composure. Despite the calm front you try to put on you’re horrified at what you see. None of this belongs here, and you know this must be another form of cruel mental torture to break you down even more than you thought possible. The uncanny familiarity brings you no comfort, and all you feel is a suffocating sense of unease.
“When I said all of your grandfather’s belongings belonged to Hydra, I meant all of them. Everything in the cottage was confiscated including your own creature comforts,” he explains away as if it is nothing but a harmless gesture. He steps foot into the room and heads towards the closet, but you don’t dare follow after.
You watch as he opens the shutter doors— the same ones the Winter Soldier had torn through right before you’d stabbed him with the letter opener— and produces one of your sleep gowns from inside. “Perhaps you’ll find this more comfortable than the medical gowns we’ve provided previously.”
“Do I get to sleep here now?”
“Not so fast,” he tuts condescendingly. The door slams shut harshly behind him as he steps back out, and you hear the quiet click of the lock barring you from setting foot inside. “You are still on a probationary period, but should you prove yourself to be an obedient asset we can revisit what privileges you may have access to.”
You don’t bother to argue your case or demand your belongings be turned over to you like you once would have. You know it will get you nowhere; just because the Winter Soldier is gone on a mission does not mean Zola can’t discipline you himself. You keep your mouth shut and your head down, instead choosing to follow him towards the showers without uttering a single word.
Once alone and under the hot running water, you allow the shower to wash away all the grime and the guilt. You let the regret you feel at agreeing so easily to Arnim’s request circle down the drain and push any doubt to the back of your mind. You feel so numb, so empty over all that has occurred today, and you want nothing more than to return to your cot and hide away in the dark.
For a brief moment, you wish you had never woken up, but the thought disappears just as quickly as it had appeared, and you let the water cleanse you of your morbid ideations.
~~~
You’re still awake when a soldier bursts into your room and begins shouting at you in what you’ve come to learn is Russian. You can’t understand what he’s saying, but you can feel the urgency in his tone as he barks out orders and frantically gestures for you to follow him. You stumble out of bed in a panic, your heart racing and entire body immediately on edge as you nearly trip over your nightgown on your way out the door.
In spite of being wide awake, you feel completely disoriented as you rush through the maze-like hallways towards the lab. You can hear the commotion from inside bleeding out into the hallway, various medical personnel fluttering about the room as you burst through the doors and look around for any sort of explanation.
“Y/n!” Zola shouts sharply, allowing you to find him amidst the sea of doctors. You push through the crowd to finally catch a glimpse of what all the fuss is about, but when you finally reach his side and look upon the exam table you find yourself feeling sick to your stomach.
The Winter Soldier lies unconscious and profusely bleeding from his stomach beneath the harsh florescent lamps hanging above him. His eyes move rapidly beneath their lids in his sleep and his chest rises slowly with each wheezing breath his body takes. He’s still alive but barely, and you have to clasp a hand over your mouth to smother the horrified gasp that attempts to escape you. Any sane person would be glad to see the person responsible for their captivity on the brink of death, but you only felt panic bubbling within you and a frenzied sense of desperation to save your soldier.
There isn’t time to waste, so you don’t wait for orders before pressing your hands down on his wound and willing your magic to course through your fingertips and into his flesh. There’s so much blood, the room reeks of iron and your hands turn crimson within seconds, but you don’t care. He can’t die, he can’t leave you here to fend for yourself without the only person who understands what it’s like to be a toy for Zola. He may hate you and everything you represent, but that didn’t matter to you now. You needed him to survive this.
“He was distracted,” Arnim spits venomously, his tone dripping with disdain as he watches you work, “sloppiness almost got him killed. We need him alive, y/n. Do not fail us.”
You ignore his foreboding warning and shut your eyes tightly to avoid any other distractions or sensory input. You can already feel yourself growing tired, but the gush of blood against your palms has dwindled significantly and you know the wound is starting to mend itself closed. You let out a breath, shoulders easing ever so slightly as you determine you’re in the clear now. Your quick work had spared his life, and when you’re done he’ll be as good as new.
You don’t see his eyes fly open in a frenzied panic when he finally startles awake. His metal hand shoots out and grabs hold of your neck, and your startled scream dies instantly in your throat as you fight to keep one hand on the wound while the other helplessly tries to pry his fingers from your windpipe. You don’t have a letter opener to defend yourself with this time, and you don’t dare try to agitate the wound in front of Zola in fear of punishment. You can do nothing but allow him to suffocate you in his manic state and hope you can finish the job before you run out of oxygen.
A nearby guard raises his gun to shoot only for Zola to raise a hand in protest. “Leave him be. If he breaks her she can be fixed. Our only priority is his survival.”
You blanch at his callous apathy towards you, his words ringing in your ears as your vision begins to grow hazy around the edges. You don’t have much time left before the Winter Soldier finally snaps your neck, but you can’t fail to fulfill your only purpose in front of the doctor. You don’t want to go back to living in the dark without light or a shower, you don’t want to be isolated for days at a time, you don’t want to be forced into submission.
He squeezes harder and you can taste blood as you cough. This doesn’t feel like the same man that had attacked you in your bedroom. He had moved with purpose then, a soldier on a mission determined to complete it, but there was no resolve in his actions now. His eyes were empty as if not recognizing his own hostility, and his movements felt artificial as if on auto pilot.
Your fist beats wildly at his arm, but this only prompts him to pull you closer with an agitated growl. His warm breath fans against your face as he stares you down, your noses nearly touching from the proximity. Your ears are ringing and the color from your face is draining. You’ll be dead any second now.
In a final desperate attempt, you manage to press your hand against his face and push with what little strength you have left. Your fingers rest upon his temple, your palm on his sweaty cheek, and you can feel searing tingles spread across your arm upon contact. You can’t make out what’s happening other than the burning sensation in your veins and the weakening of your own body.
Miraculously, he lets you go.
You fall to the floor a heaving mess, resting upon your hands and knees as you cough blood upon your nightgown and fight to catch your breath. Your neck is coated with ugly splotches of purple that fail to fade as quickly as they had in the cottage, and your color has yet to return from the lack of air. You don’t have the strength to get up from the floor, but you’re able to lift your head just enough to meet the enraged eyes of the Winter Soldier.
“What did you just do?” He breathes through trembling lips. “What did you do?!”
You scream when his metal fist slams down onto the exam table and leaves a dent upon the surface. He moves to lunge at you only to feel a sharp needle protrude through his neck. He slumps over instantly, effectively sedated by Zola who looks down at you unfeelingly.
“Lock her back in her room.”
You feel a pair of hands lift you by the armpits while another collects your limp feet from off the floor. The walls are spinning, and you keep your eyes closed to lessen the dizzying sensation. You have no idea what just happened, why he had become so enraged when letting you go or why the doctor had looked at you as if you’d committed a horrible sin. You hadn’t failed to save him, and yet it felt as if you were in trouble.
You’re locked away in your room by the guards and left to rejuvenate your energy for when you’re needed next. Resting your hands upon your sore neck, you swallow past the knot in your throat and will the tears away.
You had saved him, and he had rewarded you by crushing your windpipe with his metal fingers. Once more the only human touch you receive is from the Winter Soldier, and once more it is at the expense of your throat
What a wonderful reward.
~~~
The Winter Soldier’s first waking thought when the sedative finally wears off is the girl.
He sits up from the exam table with a snarl only to find the room empty. All that remains from the previous chaotic scene is the blood on the concrete floor and the hole in his suit from the gunshot wound. He presses a hand upon his stomach only to feel no pain, confirming you had been successful in your attempt to heal him.
His head aches, and he shuts his eyes with a disgruntled groan as he recalls the feeling of your fingers pressing against his temple. Your touch had done something to his mind, calming him while unraveling the bounds of his programming all at once. He couldn’t make sense of what he’d seen, but when you’d placed your hand upon him he’d been exposed to glimpses of memories he could not recall. An older woman with graying hair, the smell of popcorn and the lights of a carnival ride, a blond boy with kind eyes and tattered clothes. All of it had disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared, but for a brief moment he had felt human.
The feeling had stirred something ugly within him, and all he felt was a burning resentment for what you had done. Why did you insist on humanizing a man who had spent years convincing himself he was content being a mindless weapon? Nothing good would come of this if Zola were to discover you had somehow found a way to break through his programming with a mere touch of your fingertips. The confusion and desperation he felt at being given access to his own mind just to lose it within seconds was suffocating, and there was no one to blame but the girl.
He wills his aching body off of the exam table with the determination of a man scorned and begins his journey towards your room. He demands answers, and you’re going to give them to him whether you’re willing or not.
It’s time you finally learned your place.
~~~
tag list: @poofieblogs @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @lalehrose @iminyourceiling @n1ght-mares-from-h3ll
If you get this, answer with 3 random facts about yourself and send this to the last 7 people in your notifs! Let’s get to know each other better! (Anon or not, it doesn’t matter)
warnings: mentions of guns/gunshot wounds, depictions of blood, death, a crude comment is made by Zola implying assault (nothing happens he’s just gross), angst with some light fluff
note: apologies for the delay but the new chapter is here and things are happening! tag list is still open and the playlist has been updated
summary: forced to navigate your powers in the midst of your grief, you must prove your worth to Zola under the watchful gaze of the Winter Soldier
*masterlist
You don’t know how long you’ve been left here in the dark. You try to keep track of the hours that pass, but somewhere along the way you realize it’s pointless. To maintain your sanity you just have to believe that someone will come for you at some point. Until then, you make no efforts to leave your cot.
The quiet gives you time to think, and in the stillness you can attempt to process all the turmoil you’ve been put through since you left your grandfather at the dinner table. You know he’s dead, but you’re not completely certain who killed him. You want to think it wasn’t the Winter Soldier, and for your own mental soundness you choose to believe that. You weren’t downstairs when the gun had went off, but when you rationalize it, it makes complete sense; he was busy searching for the totem and subsequently dealing with you, so he wouldn’t have had the time to deal with the older man. Someone else must have been in the house, and someone else must have fired the bullets you’d heard downstairs.
All your life he’d instilled the importance of keeping you hidden from the unknown predators lurking in every corner of the world, but he’d never told you who exactly he was so terrified of. And he’d never told you the very people seeking to use your gifts for sinister gains were the same people he had spent years working for. He told you you’d been born with the ability to heal yourself and others, never once mentioning any sort of ancient totem, and he told you he would do everything in his power to keep you safe, but it was because of his lies and deceit that you were here now.
Grief consumed your entire being, but so did anger. Could this have all been avoided if he’d just been honest from the beginning? Maybe you could have been more prepared for their ambush, you could have done something different, and maybe you wouldn’t have been so pathetically clueless as Zola recounted the sins of your grandfather for all to hear. You feel guilty for being filled with resentment towards the dead, but you also feel justified. Concealing the truth as a means to protect you had only done the opposite, and you’d never be able to ask him for the answers you so desperately wanted. Only Hydra held the key to the old man’s past, but you doubt they’d hand it over willingly and without censoring unfavorable details.
You gasp as light suddenly floods your room, scrambling onto your feet in alarm as you’re broken from your ruminative trance. Finally freed from the isolating darkness, you watch with trepidation as the metal door to your prison is abruptly slammed open. The doctor walks in with a pleasant smile, and behind him follows the hulking frame of the Winter Soldier. You swallow softly with unease at their unanticipated arrival, your eyes never leaving the larger man’s frame as he remains planted in the doorway. You realize then that he’s here as a warning; Zola knows you fear the soldier’s wrath, and he knows you’d never dare act out of turn in his presence.
“Sleep well, I presume?” The doctor asks with a sardonic grin.
“How long have I been in here?” You ask meekly.
“Only eighteen hours, my dear. I needed time to sort through your grandfather’s belongings before I was ready to begin my work.”
“His belongings?” You gape in surprise, stomach churning with unease. “You have his things?”
“Our things,” he corrects you pointedly. “Any research, documents, or artifacts in his possession were funded by Hydra and as such are considered our property. You included.”
You tremble with unease as he moves closer, examining you for any changes or unrest. “I see you didn’t change into the gown I left for you.”
“I couldn’t figure it out in the dark,” you admit abashedly, prompting a huff of amusement to escape him.
“Light is a privilege you have yet to earn,” he taunts before turning his attention to the Winter Soldier. “Ensure she gets dressed then bring her to me once she’s done.”
The stout man disappears into the hallway and once more you’re left alone with the Winter Soldier. You swallow nervously and quickly move to grab the gown in fear of being reprimanded for failing to follow Zola’s orders. Your unsteady hands clutch the polyester gown against your chest as you will yourself to meet his watchful gaze, effectively capturing his attention as he returns your stare. You can feel yourself begin to warm under his scrutinizing watch, and you’re promptly reminded of the fact that you need to undress.
“Um… Could you turn around, please?” You prompt meekly, voice wavering and lacking conviction. The man remains unmoving, simply staring you down and failing to provide any sort of verbal response. You hurriedly continue, “I-I promise it’s not a trick. I’ll change into the gown like the doctor asked, I swear, but please…”
A tense pause fills the room, your heart pounding in your chest as you fight back the tears that begin to sting your eyes and prepare to lose the last shred of dignity you have left. Just as you set the fabric aside to begin removing your night gown he finally shifts to face the wall and allow you the privacy needed to change. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and quickly begin to undress in fear he’ll change his mind.
You hastily slip out of your nightgown and into the hospital gown provided by the doctor. The fabric is cool against your warm skin, the light blue material running down to your knees to keep you modest. You’re grateful to at least have underwear underneath, but in spite of being covered you feel exposed and barren. Each new encounter with Zola is more invasive than the last, and you dread what’s to come when you leave the safety of your room.
“I’m finished,” you alert the man meekly, nervously clutching your hands in front of you as he turns to face you once more. Though you can’t find it in you to lift your eyes from the ground, you still make it a point to express your gratitude. “Thank you… for not looking…”
He remains quiet for a long time, studying your submissive stance and trying to comprehend the gentleness of your words. You were unlike anything he’d ever known in all his years under Hydra, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t seem to understand you. You were too soft, too weak, too unassertive— you didn’t belong in a place like this in the presence of a man like him. People like you didn’t last very long here, and while he knew he should care little about your fate, a small part of him wanted to believe the outcome for you would be different. You were an asset just as he was, even if your skill sets starkly contrasted one another, and he hoped you could prove your use before it was too late.
“Follow me,” he gruffly utters, choosing not to acknowledge your thanks as he steps out into the hallway. You swiftly trail after him, keeping close to his side while taking extra care to avoid brushing against him. Your stomach is in knots as you try to anticipate what Zola has in store for you, and you find it hard to think of any kind of outcome that would end well for you.
“Where are we going?” You dare to question after turning into a different hallway, peering up at the taller man in hopes he’ll answer.
“Zola’s lab,” he says detachedly. “Hydra wants proof before they begin wasting resources on his studies.”
“Proof?”
“Of your capabilities. You have to prove your worth before they decide to reopen the Longevity Project.”
“Are you a project?” You ask only to receive a sharp glare in response. It shuts you up immediately, and you decide not to push the matter any further. Though he’s been the only one here to treat you with at least some form of decency since you arrived, you can’t let yourself forget that he is not a friend. No one here is.
You wait for his scowl to soften before prompting him again, “What’s your name?” You receive no answer, but the silence is unbearable and you’re desperate for his approval, so you offer, “My name is y/n.”
“I don’t care.”
You’re stunned by the harshness of his abrupt answer, but there isn’t time to recover as you finally reach your destination and walk into the lab. A handful of men dressed in lab coats fill the room, flittering about as they prepare for your arrival while Zola barks out orders in a language you can’t understand. He takes note of your presence alongside the Winter Soldier and smiles, clasping his hands together in delight before beckoning you forward.
“You are just on time!” He exclaims gleefully while ushering you into another exam bed. “We have a very busy schedule today, and it is in your best interest to cooperate.”
You open your mouth to question the man only to let out a startled yelp at the sudden intrusion of a sharp needle stabbing into your arm. You look up to see an unbothered nurse pushing the object into your vein then pulling at the bottom of the syringe so that crimson liquid begins to fill the tube. You scowl, but she only lets out a soft chuckle of amusement; she knows there’s nothing you can do, and any attempts at fighting her efforts will only end poorly for you.
“The nurse is just doing her job. As I discovered when administering your sedative, only the strongest of needles stand a chance at piercing your skin. We must be swift and precise in our movements when drawing blood samples.”
“Is that all you need? You’ll take my blood and then you’ll kill me?” You demand helplessly. The doctor does not respond right away, and you take notice of the way his gaze never leaves your arm as the nurse removes the needle and the puncture wound disappears in a matter of seconds.
“That is yet to be determined,” he finally replies. “We were lucky to find your grandfather’s research journals when we raided the cottage.”
You falter at the mention of your home, chest aching for a place you can never return to. You don’t miss how he mentions other people had been in the cottage that night, and it only fuels the belief that the Winter Soldier was not the man responsible for your grandfather’s death. It had to have been someone else in the house.
“He described in great lengths how you were bestowed the totem’s gifts as well as your capabilities and your limitations, but, as we all know, Doctor Valdez turned out to be a traitorous liar, and his words hold little value in Hydra’s eyes. We cannot blindly trust the writings of a dead man, and so the responsibility to prove the validity of his findings fall upon you, y/n.”
“How do I do that?” You murmur hesitantly, wishing you could disappear back into the darkness of your room as you feel the scrutinizing stares of the personnel in the lab.
“Tell me in your own words what powers you possess,” the scientist presses you dubiously. You falter, swallowing down the saliva that pools in your mouth from your nerves. You don’t want to tell them anything, to give them the secrets your grandfather had so fiercely protected, but you knew you had no choice. You could tell them the truth willingly, or the Winter Soldier could force it out of you. The answer was obvious.
“I was born with the power to heal myself and anyone I touch. It’s why I didn’t die from strangulation that night, and why the stab wound disappeared after I touched him,” you explain tepidly while casting a glance towards the Winter Soldier. He remains perfectly poised, but a faint glint of discontent flashes briefly in his eyes at your reminder of that night.
“I… I can’t die,” you continue with a harsh swallow, blinking back tears from the reminder of eternity. “I can’t get sick, I can’t get hurt— at least not permanently. The greater the wound is the longer the recovery time, whether I’m healing myself or someone else. It’s why you were able to sedate me. My body was drained from treating his injuries along with my own, and the sedative helped prolong the recuperation process.”
“Can you bring someone back from the dead?” Zola demands abruptly. A tense silence fills the air, and you can sense the energy shift in the room as everyone awaits your answer.
“I don’t… I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve never tried.”
“There is a first for everything, my dear,” he tuts with a knowing grin.
You watch with uncertainty as he looks to the Winter Soldier and gives him a single nod. Before you can even process the act the assassin draws his gun from its holster without warning and fires a single shot. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest as you scream, hands flying to cover your mouth and eyes immediately welling with tears as you watch the nurse who had drawn your blood earlier crumple to the floor in a heap. Your ears ring and you feel like you can’t breathe as you watch crimson liquid slowly ooze from the bullet hole in her forehead and onto the ground beneath her. Your body goes into panic, and you feel just as you had when barricaded inside your closet in the cottage.
“Revive her,” the doctor commands, roughly grabbing you by the arm as he pulls you off of the exam table and throws you onto the floor. You land on your hands and knees with a painful hiss, your fingers finding purchase in the pool of blood as another sob escapes you. You can hardly see through the tears, can hardly breathe from the panic that constricts your lungs in a way that only allows for short gasps of air as you scramble to pull away from the metallic puddle.
You scan the room frantically in search of help, but every face you land upon is devoid of emotion or sympathy. No one moves or speaks, only watching on in constricted silence as they wait for you to make a move. You peer through your tears at the man responsible for the lifeless body before you, but his eyes remain glued to the floor. He doesn’t dare look at you, but by the tense tick of his jaw you know he feels your gaze upon him. He won’t help you, he can’t help you, and you understand that now.
“If you want to live I suggest you get to work quickly,” Zola threatens. “The answer I seek can already be found in your deceitful grandfather’s journals, but I must see for myself to prove his words are of substance. I will not ask again.”
You choke down another sob and force your body to move closer towards the lifeless nurse. Your blood stained fingers tremble as you move to press your hands against the wound, your palms turning crimson as the warm liquid continues to stream from her forehead. You take a deep breath and shut your eyes tight to avoid having to look her in the face as you begin to concentrate your energy on healing her. Dread pools in your stomach as you venture into the unknown territory of your powers. You don’t know if you can do it, but you know you have to try if you want any chance of survival.
You feel the tingling sensation in your fingers first before it spreads to your palms and begins to creep up your arms. A dull headache starts to settle at the center of your forehead but you ignore it, choosing to push through and focus all of your energy on repairing the damage done by the gunshot. Slowly, the pool of blood begins to seep its way back into the crevice of the hole as the flesh inside works tirelessly to mend itself back together. Your veins feel like they’re on fire, and yet you continue.
Progress is slow, but you can tell it’s working by the way your body starts to grow fatigued. Your ears are ringing now, and the headache grows worse. You feel like you can’t breathe, but you know if you stop you’ll be the one with a bullet hole in their forehead. You grit your teeth with an effortful grunt, a single tear streaming down the bridge of your nose and landing onto the ground below you. Another drop follows, trickling into a puddle of red that only seems to grow with each passing second.
A stunned gasp sounds from across the room, and you’re too focused on the task at hand to notice the tears you cry are droplets of blood. The substance pours from your nostrils and out of your ears, and you can hardly see straight as your vision begins to haze. Your veins have turned dark and scrawl up the expanse of your arms like thorns as your energy is expelled into the lifeless corpse. You’re dying, and you know you are, but you can’t find it in you to care. Death is a far more merciful end than spending the rest of your days kept as a prisoner.
Across the room the Winter Soldier watches on in horror. In all his years under Hydra he’s never seen such a gruesome display, and despite not knowing the extent of your abilities he’s observant enough to understand that reviving the nurse is killing you. He can’t fathom why Zola would risk putting you through such torture for someone so easily replaceable, and though he’s made the effort to remain as detached from you as possible even he can tell this has gone on long enough.
“Doctor—” he interrupts feebly only for Zola to raise his hand and effectively silence the soldier’s attempt to speak out of turn.
“Remember your place, Soldat.”
Time seems to slow as your body withers into nothing. The headache is paralyzing, and all you can smell is the iron of your blood streaming down your face. You can hardly think, but you’re coherent enough to know that you’ve changed your mind— you don’t want to die anymore. Surely whatever Hydra puts you through can’t be worse than the searing pain you feel deep in your flesh.
Just when you think you’re about to take your last breath, a pair of hands grab onto your shoulders and pull your limp frame away from the nurse. You collapse instantly, writhing in pain as you violently cough out the pool of blood from your mouth to make space for your greedy gulps of air. You can’t move your limbs, but your body feels like it’s on fire. Your ears continue to ring and your head is pounding, and you can hardly make out the face of Arnim Zola as he hovers above you with a knowing smile.
“It seems Pedro was telling the truth in that journal of his,” he notes thoughtfully, casting a glance towards the deceased nurse. The blood you had so desperately fought to return had resumed its place as a puddle on the ground beneath her. You had almost killed yourself to save her, and in the end none of it mattered. Zola had never truly wanted you to revive her; instead, he made you a spectacle for all to watch.
“His writings state you can only bring a person back from the dead at the cost of your own life. The totem saved your life by bestowing its powers onto you as a host before disintegrating into dust, and this cycle will continue should you ever choose to make such a sacrifice.”
You want to ask him what he means when he says the totem had saved your life, but you’re too exhausted to form the words. Your energy is depleted, and your body’s sole focus now is rejuvenating you back to a healthy state. You don’t attempt to speak despite how desperately you wish to utter the words on your mind, only able to allow your head to lull to the side while you fight to keep your eyes open.
“You have done a great service to our cause, y/n. Because of your efforts, we can officially resume the Longevity Project,” he announces proudly. Your lips tremble as you try to utter a response, to make any kind of sound to showcase your displeasure towards his praise, but your efforts are to no avail. It won’t be long until you lose consciousness, but you fight tirelessly to delay the process.
Sensing your distress, Zola shakes his head with a reprimanding tut. “Do not be so upset. Your compliance will not go unnoticed— Hydra always rewards good behavior. Be proud of your work today.”
A single tear slides down your blood stained cheek before you finally succumb to your exhaustion and allow the darkness to swallow you whole. Zola’s face is the last thing you see as your eyes flutter shut, and at last your powers can begin to heal the extensive trauma your body has endured. Blood has stopped pouring from the crevices of your face, but the mess still remains, and the thorns have yet to vanish from your arms and legs. You’re in a deep sleep, and no one will be able to wake you until you are healed.
“Help me bring her to her room, Soldat,” Zola commands once confirming you’re fully unconscious. “Someone will clean her up there.”
The Winter Soldier follows orders without question, kneeling down to scoop your limp figure from off the ground and holding you securely against him. Even in your state of rest, your body curls instinctively against him as if aware of the comfort and protection he provides. Your bloodied cheek presses against his chest as you let out a slow exhale, and once more he feels that uncomfortable knot begin to form in the pit of his stomach.
His touch becomes more delicate, and his pace is mindful of your sleeping form as he follows the doctor out of the lab and down the hallway towards your room. He can’t recall ever holding someone so intimately, having them turn towards him for comfort instead of running away in terror. Your face pressed against his chest is the tenderest touch he’s felt in years, and he loathes the ache that settles in his heart every time your lashes flutter in your sleep.
Zola ushers him forward as they reach your room, holding the door open so that he may lay you on the barren cot. A fresh medical gown sits at the foot of your bed, and he takes notice of the newly placed lamp near your resting space. The desolate gray walls are bathed in the warm glow of the bulb, and he wonders if you can sense the absence of the dark in spite of your deep state of sleep. The sound of your cries that had followed the door shutting behind him your first night away from the cottage abruptly invade his thoughts, but he’s quick to push the memory away before he can feel shame or remorse. It seems more often than not he’s reminding himself that you are not his responsibility, and he must not feel any semblance of guilt for following orders, but such sentiments prove to be easier said than done.
Just as he backs away from your cot a nurse steps into the room with a wash bin and a sponge, her posture timid underneath the watchful gazes of the scientist and the soldier. She doesn’t dare speak and instead chooses to lower her gaze to the floor as she awaits her next orders.
“Let us leave the nurse to do her job,” Zola says disinterestedly as he begins his departure towards the lab, but the Winter Soldier remains frozen where stands. His stormy eyes never leave your still face, brows furrowed with discomfort at the thought of abandoning you in your state. He couldn’t understand why he cared so much, but it felt wrong to entrust your comfort in the hands of another stranger. Hydra was full of monsters, himself included, but he at least knew not to inflict harm unless commanded. The same could not be said for Zola or the nurse.
“Soldat,” he repeats impatiently, whirling around to reprimand the man only to pause when he takes notice of the way his attention has been captured by the wash bin. The doctor scoffs. “What, are you going to give her a bath?”
His tone is meant to be mocking, full of condescension and judgement, but the soldier is unfazed. The nurse shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other as she looks to Zola for answers, unsure if she is still needed. It’s then that he realizes the asset has no intention of moving anywhere, and he falsely believes the man is interested in more than simply making you presentable again.
“You dog,” he chuckles with a knowing grin, “I see what it is you are after. You’ve never been alone with a pretty girl, and now you seek to satisfy what is only a natural instinct— any man can understand. I suppose you deserve a reward for your efforts; Project Longevity is only possible because you brought her to us, after all.”
The doctor only has to give the nurse a single look before she’s rushing out of the room, clearly not willing to risk defying orders and ending up like her counterpart had during Arnim’s demonstration. The Winter Soldier still makes no move towards you nor away from you, and he dares not correct Zola on his assumptions. It’s better to let him think his interests lie in his own personal gains than to piece together the unnatural attachment he was beginning to develop towards you.
“Do what you must and report back to the lab as soon as you are finished. We need to prepare you for your next mission,” the stout man instructs, giving no more thought or concern to the matter as he shuts the door behind him and leaves the two of you alone once more.
Finally free of the doctor’s presence, your protector moves to kneel beside the cot. Your chest rises slowly with each breath you take, but it sounds less labored now that you’re free of the lab’s torment. Your veins have lightened significantly, but it’s clear to him you still have a long recovery ahead of you before your body is able to wake itself. You don’t move when his metal fingers brush faintly against your cheek in silent exploration, and he’s grateful you’re unaware of his presence. He doesn’t care about you, and he doesn’t want you to think otherwise.
“Stupid girl,” he grumbles with a vexed huff. He reaches for the washcloth left behind by the nurse and dunks it into the wash bin before ringing out the suds. “You should have let yourself die. You’d be better off…”
His movements are careful as he delicately lulls your head to the side in order to gain full access to the expanse of your face and lightly begins to wipe away the grime. His work is meticulous as he repeats the motions of wiping your skin, dunking the cloth into the sudsy water, ringing the towel, and starting over again. The bucket runs red when he finally finishes his work, and with the blood now absent from your skin he can admire your features more carefully.
Zola wasn’t entirely wrong— the soldier had never seen a creature quite like yourself, and though he’d been morphed into the perfect weapon he wasn’t completely unfeeling. He could acknowledge your beauty and appreciate the smoothness of your skin anytime your body was pressed against his own. He could appreciate your naivety and sheltered nature as someone who had been locked away from society much like himself. He was beginning to realize you both were alike in more ways than he cared to admit, were both unwilling prisoners to circumstances beyond your control as a result of one man’s ego, and if he gave himself the opportunity he could learn to like you. You would understand him, humanize him just as you had when you’d first arrived here in Siberia, and his existence would be less lonely.
And yet in spite of it all, he hates you. He hates you for giving him hope, for making him feel, for making him question his motives and beliefs. He wishes he’d never found you in that cottage, and he realizes now that choosing to stay here with you had been a mistake. You weren’t his responsibility, he knew this, and yet he kept seeming to prove otherwise.
He rises from his place beside your bed without bothering to change your gown or clean the mess of water in the tub. He resists the urge to take another glance upon your sleeping form and instead makes a brisk exit out of your room to report for his next mission. For once he’s glad to have an assignment waiting for him— he can channel his anger and frustration on his next target without raising suspicion from his handlers, and the distraction will do him good.
When you wake he’ll be long gone, and you will have no knowledge of the way the Winter Soldier had shown you mercy by tenderly cleaning the blood from your skin. You will know nothing of your silent protector, only recalling the way he had callously killed the nurse you had tried to save. You will think yourself lucky to have survived his wrath, and he will maintain his image as the heartless Hydra assassin you know him to be.
You’ll never know how desperate he is to free himself from the thought of you.
~~~
tag list: @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @lalehrose @iminyourceiling @n1ght-mares-from-h3ll
hi guys, just wanted to apologize for no dissonance update today. i’ve been pretty good the last two weeks about posting updates on sundays but the weekend got away from me :/ hoping to have chapter three up tomorrow !
warnings: mentions of blood, death, loss of autonomy, no comfort
summary: you survive the Winter Soldier’s assault only to find there is a fate worse than death waiting for you
*masterlist
The morning sun envelops your skin in a comfortable warmth, combating the chill of the morning dew that kisses your fingertips with every brush against the rose bush. You’re six years old and naive to the severity of your circumstances, but no danger can come to you here in the garden with your grandfather.
“Careful, mija,” he warns from over his shoulder when you get too close. “There’s thorns.”
You pay no heed to his warnings as you reach for the biggest rose bud in the bush, the thorns pricking you instantly. You quickly yank your arm from the leaves with a hiss and cradle your injured hand to your chest. It only burns for a moment before subsiding immediately, and you watch with disquieted anticipation as the cuts on your skin begin to fade into nothing. There is no trace of blood, no faint inklings of pain, not even a scratch left from your carelessness.
You turn to your grandfather who has watched the whole ordeal from his place on the grass and lamely offer your hand to him. “Why can’t I bleed?”
He sighs pensively as if searching his brain for the right words to explain your predicament. Instead, he merely takes your hand in his own and gives it a comforting squeeze.
“You are… the most special girl in the world,” he tells you with a careful smile, “with the most special gift. A gift that keeps you safe from harm, that stops you from getting sick, that can stop others from getting sick if you choose to help them.”
“If I can help others then why do I have to stay here?” You ask innocently, too naive to note the panic that briefly washes over the man’s face.
“It’s safer this way,” he says with earnest. “We don’t know who we can trust with your gift. As long as we stay here, no one can ever find us, and no harm will ever come to you. I promise.”
You wake to blinding fluorescent lights hanging over you and stale air infiltrating your lungs as you suck in a panicked breath. You attempt to raise your arm to shield your eyes only to find you can’t move; you’re chained to a bed in an unfamiliar place, quickly shocking your body with dread and unease as you struggle to recall the events that had led you here.
Your heart beats fast against your rib cage as you will your vision to adjust to your surroundings in hopes of making sense of everything. You’re able to make out the dingy metal walls of the room you’re in and the steel door that bars you from freedom— various pieces of machinery fill the space as well as tables of what you can only deduce to be medical equipment. Only your arms are restrained, the rest of your body free to move within the loose fabric of your nightgown. You’re grateful no one had attempted to strip you down during your state of unconsciousness, but this thought does little to ease your anxieties over what occurred while you were out.
You remember the masked man and his fingers around your throat— your punishment for your pathetic letter opener ambush against him. You remember not being able to breathe while the Ronettes droned on in the background. You remember the gunshots and your poor grandfather’s screams, your attacker’s brute strength as you succumbed to the darkness. You remember that there is no returning to the life you once knew.
Your eyes sting with tears you dare not let fall, an action that saves you your dignity as the door to your prison swings open with a deafening slam against the concrete wall. A short statured man in a trench coat and glasses waltzes in with an entourage of guards and medics, his demeanor light and airy as if walking into any ordinary exam room. You swallow thickly as your frenzied eyes scan the sea of unfeeling faces before you until finally settling upon a piercing glare that has you freezing in place.
The man responsible for your chains stands only a foot away from your bedside, his steely gaze never once leaving your trembling frame. His muzzle is missing, and without the chaos that had been present during your first meeting you can finally get a good look at his face. His lips are etched into a permanent frown though his facial expression remains neutral. His chin is strong, his jaw sharp, and if not for the pure terror you felt in his presence you might have even dared to call him beautiful. Instead all you could think of was the rage burning in his eyes as he choked you to the point of unconsciousness. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was here to seek vengeance for the letter opener you’d lodged into his shoulder.
As if reading your thoughts, the man in the coat lets out a quiet chuckle as he rests a hand upon your attacker’s shoulder. It isn’t until now you notice the shiny metal appendage he bears, his artificial fingers twitching at his sides in response to the abrupt physical touch. You don’t recall seeing or feeling them upon your throat when he’d pinned you beneath him, but you’d been so terrified and desperate to escape it must not have even registered in your mind. Every new detail you uncovered about the man made him all the more intriguing, but it also made you all the more petrified about what was to come of you in this strange place.
“Don’t worry, he’s been told to play nice,” he assures you with a condescending grin as he comes to your bedside and begins to undo your restraints. “These were just a precaution in the event your sedative wore off. I worried your condition might overpower any tranquilizer I gave you, but it seems I concocted the perfect dosage for a girl as special as you.”
“Who are you? Why did you bring me here?” You demand frantically, the brave front you put on immediately crumbling once the metal armed man moves to silence you. The shorter man raises a hand to signal him to a halt, sparing you from another brutal assault.
“I am Arnim Zola, and you’re here-“
His sentence comes to an abrupt halt as he pulls a scalpel from the tray beside your bed and tightly grabs hold of your wrist. Before you can even process the presence of the blade he forces your palm open and slices through your flesh, causing you to reel back with a pained hiss. Bright red blood oozes from your palm, but the discomfort only lasts a moment before the liquid is reabsorbed through your skin and the wound stitches itself back together as if nothing had ever happened.
“-because of this.”
Your bottom lip trembles as you clutch your palm defensively against your chest, tears you can no longer keep at bay finally sliding down your cheeks. Pathetically, you whimper, “I want to go home.”
“This is your home now,” he utters callously, “and you are now considered property of Hydra for all intents and purposes.”
“Hydra? I-I don’t understand…”
He chuckles faintly. “It appears your grandfather kept many secrets from you, just as he kept them from us. He was a selfish fool, and you have him to thank for all of this.”
You shudder at the mention of your grandfather, the sound of gunshots ringing in your ears once more as you muster the courage to meet the gaze of the silent assassin. He hasn’t spoken a single word since your arrival, his features emotionless to the scene unfolding around him, but his stormy gaze remains glued to your face like a watchful guard dog waiting for the order to attack. You wonder if he’s responsible for your grandfather’s death, or if someone else had done the job while he searched the house for you. Everything had happened so fast, and your mind was still trying to process all that had occurred, you couldn’t be too sure.
“He was a good man,” you breathe out indignantly, shoulders trembling with the sobs you forcefully choke down your coarse throat, “and he didn’t deserve to die.”
“Pedro Valdez was a liar and a traitor,” Zola corrects you, “see for yourself.”
A manila folder is tossed haphazardly upon your lap, and you look at the scientist with uncertainty before hesitantly opening the documents inside. An image of your grandfather in his younger years greets you first, causing a quiet sob to slip past your lips as you gingerly lift the photo for a closer look. He doesn’t have the same edge to his features you’d always known, the uncertainty and apprehension he always carried absent from the photo. This must have been taken before you’d been born.
You carefully pull a file from the stack tucked inside and begin to skim through the pages for answers. You take note of the fact that they have his date of birth, physical descriptors, and details surrounding his educational background; it’s clear your grandfather is no stranger to these people, and it only makes you all the more on edge about your fate. You can feel the heat begin to crawl up your neck and spread through your face as you scramble to put the pieces together, but you find yourself stopping dead in your tracks when you notice the small plastic rectangle paper clipped to the page.
You brush your fingers faintly across an ID badge with your grandfather’s name on it and another photo of him. A red insignia of a skull with six tentacles is stamped beside his face, and underneath it reads the words “Lead Researcher: Longevity Project.” Your lips part in quiet shock, your mind reeling from the new discovery and your heart pounding rapidly against your chest. Your grandfather told you he’d once been a professor, a detail you’d never questioned given his extensive knowledge about the world and the plethora of textbooks you had access to in the cottage. Never before had he mentioned working for any sort of secret organization, but it seemed his past had finally caught up to him.
And now it was you who’d pay the price for the secrets he’d kept.
“Your grandfather was a famed archaeologist and researcher in the scientific community,” Zola begins to explain when you fail to break out of your shocked trance. “At least he was until he began to focus his studies on an ancient artifact said to be nothing but the work of outdated fables lost to history. Dr. Valdez was adamant about its existence and desperate to find it by any means necessary.”
“The indigenous peoples of Mesoamérica told tales of a sacred totem left to them by the Gods. This totem possessed the power to heal any ailment or sickness, both mental and physical, and in special cases could even reverse one’s biological clock if the Gods thought them deserving enough. Of course, with such power came struggles over who would be deserving of these blessings. The fighting and the avarice angered the gods, they felt their gift was not being respected or used for its intended purposes, so it was taken from the mortals and hidden far from civilization in the hopes it would only be found by someone worthy. No one believed of its existence, and so it remained hidden for centuries.”
“No one except my grandfather…” you deduce shakily, struggling to find your voice after your long bout of silence. “And you.”
“Smart girl,” Zola compliments with a patronizing smile. “We gave Valdez the resources necessary for his research and expedition in exchange for the totem. He set off with a group of men into the jungles of Mexico only to never return. We thought him dead and his research lost, so we scrapped the Longevity Project in its entirety.”
“How did you find us?” You demand suddenly. The metal armed man shoots you a warning look for raising your voice, and once more you shrink back against the mattress like a scorned child awaiting punishment.
“The old man grew careless and was spotted by an informant. We came to realize he was not dead but merely a deserter— his transgressions were to be punished, and Hydra would reclaim what was rightfully ours. We sent our greatest asset to the cottage in search of the totem, but instead the Winter Soldier found you.”
The Winter Soldier. That was his name. You risk taking another quick peek at the man— his stormy blue eyes, his perfectly structured face, the burning red star stamped on his glinting metal bicep. The title was certainly fitting; each time you looked at him a cold chill passed down your spine, your heart pounding with adrenaline and your breath catching in your throat. He was beautiful, and certainly reminiscent of the type of man you’d dream about when you began to succumb to the loneliness of the cottage.
Gingerly resting your fingers upon your throat, you realize he’d been the first outsider to ever lay eyes upon you and the first to grant you physical touch. You’d been denied socialization and intimate contact your entire life, only ever interacting with your grandfather and only being given platonic affection. You should be scared of him, and a part of you definitely is, but some depraved part of you is full of intrigue to learn all you can about the mysterious man. You yearn to feel him again, albeit with the hope he’ll be gentler this time, and to gain his protection in place of his wrath.
However, when Zola produces your letter opener from his coat pocket you’re quickly reminded that you’re far from being in the Winter Soldier’s good graces. The silver blade is still coated in his blood, dried and flaking along the edges, but the evidence of your attack still resides. He remains unmoving, though you’re able to detect the subtle pull at the corners of his lips. Unbeknownst to you, you’d not only wounded his shoulder but also his dignity with your little stunt.
“You stabbed this little blade into the shoulder of our deadliest assassin, and he almost killed you for it,” Zola recounts thoughtfully while beckoning the man to step forward. “He would have done so in a heartbeat if not for this.”
The Winter Soldier refrains from uttering a single word as he begins to undo the buttons of his tactical jacket. You watch with bated breath as he shifts the material just enough for you to see the bare skin of his right clavicle. He isn’t looking at you anymore, his gaze lowered to the floor as if ashamed of the spectacle being made of him. Dried blood coats his skin, but there is no entry wound present where you’d stabbed him. There isn’t scar tissue or scabbing, not even a scratch. It’s as if nothing had ever happened.
“You did this,” the doctor states mater-of-factly. He begins to approach your bedside slowly, his walk menacing in spite of his short stature. You hold back a gasp when he roughly grabs hold of your wrist once more, features scrunching with trepidation of another slash to your palm. Instead, he yanks you forward so that your faces are merely inches apart. “I do not yet know how you were bestowed these powers or how they work within you, but I do know there is no totem— there is only you, and as such you will repay the debt owed to us by your grandfather. You are now the property of Hydra.”
You shudder at the finality of his words, tightly shutting your eyes in vain as silent tears begin to track down your face. You wish this could all be a dream, and when you open your eyes again you’ll be greeted with the sight of your grandfather sitting at the breakfast table. Instead, you are met with the uncaring, scornful scowl of your captor. There is no going back, and you understand that now more than ever.
You wish you could die.
“Take her away, I’m not ready for her yet,” Zola says dismissively after finally unclasping his fingers from your wrist. You nearly topple over the edge of your bed from his abrupt release, but a strong arm quickly catches hold of your bicep before you can do so. You peer up through wet lashes to meet the pitiless stare of the Winter Soldier and swallow with nervous anticipation at being left in his care.
“Get up,” he commands firmly. Your eyes widen slightly at the sound of his voice, his tone rough yet unwavering as if he doesn’t get the chance to speak very often. Nonetheless, his demand has you immediately scrambling out of the bed faster than your legs can keep up with. You stumble again but manage to catch yourself before he’s forced to intervene again. Your body still appears to be wearing off from the sedative, and you carry yourself like a clumsy fawn learning to walk for the first time as your bare feet pad against the cold concrete floor.
You walk in silence alongside the soldier out of the exam room and into the hallway. Harsh florescent lamps hang above you to light the barren walls, and it seems the rest of the building they’ve brought you to is just as cold and desolate as the room you’d woken up in. You have no idea where you are now or how far away from home this place is, and with no sense of direction you know any chance of escape is fruitless. Besides, even if you did have some sort of coherent understanding of the layout, you stood no chance against the Winter Soldier.
You immediately lose any sense of direction you have once the brooding man takes a right into a different hallway, and you make a point to match his brisk pace in order to avoid being left behind. It seems he’s eager to have you off his hands, and you can’t find it in you to blame him. Just as you start to grow lost in your thoughts he stops suddenly, causing you to stutter in your steps to avoid running into him.
“You’ll stay here,” he utters monotonously while pushing open the metal door before you. Inside lays a sparsely furnished room, only a small cot with a neatly folded hospital gown on top occupying the space. You can feel the cold chill from the room beginning to seep out into the hallway, causing you to shiver with unease.
“Are you going to kill me?” You blurt suddenly in a panic. His features remain blank, and he only nudges you forward into the room.
“You and I both know that’s not possible.”
You let out a trembling breath as your fingers subconsciously find themselves pressing against the column of your throat once more. The pressure of his hold around your neck should have suffocated you instantly, your trachea crushing from the strength of his metal fingers, and yet all he got for his efforts were purple blotches along your skin that disappeared almost instantly. You were the sole survivor of the Winter Soldier, and he resented you for that; he’d never had to look his victims in the face after a mission had been executed. They always stayed dead.
He starts to shut the heavy door behind you once you’ve fully step foot into the room, but your sudden shout for him to wait has him faltering in his task. You look upon him with eyes full of sincerity and shame, tears beginning to pool at the corners while your bottom lip begins to quiver. Expecting you to plead for your freedom, you catch him off guard when you remorsefully utter, “I’m sorry.”
The usually stoic soldier is stunned, and it shows on his face in the way his eyebrows raise in time with the widening of his eyes. His mouth twitches as if struggling to find the right response. He was responsible for bringing you here in the first place— it was him who’d strangled you to the point of unconsciousness and murdered your grandfather in cold blood. You should despise him, you should be looking at him with contempt like so many already do, and yet you’re offering apologies for defending yourself against his assault.
You can tell by his reaction that he’s never heard that phrase uttered in his direction before, and now you’re not sure if the act is enough to get in his good graces. If anything, it seems as if you’ve struck a nerve. He remains unmoving for a long time, but after a heavy pause of silence he finally continues to shut the door and leaves you with one last profession.
“There are things worse than death.”
The metal door slams shut behind him, leaving you in complete darkness and deafening silence. You swallow nervously and blindly search for the cot, sinking down onto the uncomfortable flat surface once you make contact. Finally alone and free from scrutiny, the weight of all you’ve endured settles upon your mind and body. You’ll never see your grandfather again, never get to open a new record after dinner, never get to sleep in your own bed— you’re completely and utterly on your own now, and it feels like the end of the world. It all becomes too much to bear, and before you can stop it a fresh wave of tears begins to fall down your face as you sob into the thin pillows of the cot.
The sound of your sobs echoes through the dark room, drifting out into the hallway where the Winter Soldier stands listening to your guttural cries. He understands you are now an unwilling prisoner like him, an asset for Hydra to exploit at the expense of your autonomy and your sanity, and yet he felt completely detached. Just because he’d brought you here did not make you his responsibility, and he wasn’t going to risk punishment by helping you in any way, shape, or form. Detachment was key to survival here, and you weren’t an exception.
He makes his way back to his own quarters where he’ll lie in wait for his next bout of orders, your cries becoming fainter when he shuts the door behind him. He doesn’t bother to undress or make himself comfortable as his handlers may arrive at any given moment, but he allows himself the chance to lay and think. A part of him resents you— though he’d found what Hydra was looking for, he’d failed to execute a kill. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d had to showcase his defeat for all to see at the doctor’s request. And then you had the nerve to apologize for causing his shame and discomfort.
Your cries die off after an hour into complete silence, but sleep still evades him. You managed to humanize him when the Winter Soldier was meant to be an emotionless machine. You looked at him not as a weapon but as a man, and it stirred something deep within his core that left him feeling unsettled.
warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of blood, death, strangulation
a/n: woo first chapter of the new series! taglist is open and the playlist has been updated (located on the masterlist)
summary: The Winter Soldier is given a new mission, and your quiet life comes to an abrupt halt
Siberia, 1964
The cool air burns his lungs when he takes his first breath. His gasps are greedy, as if remembering how to breathe for the first time, but the muzzle wrapped around his jaw makes the task feel almost impossible. Goosebumps trail along his skin as the mist begins to clear and the fresh air begins to infiltrate his chamber. Two soldiers grab him then, and he doesn’t have it in him to fight back as they drag his limp body towards the medical wing.
The stale fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling are nauseatingly blinding as his eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden intrusion of his vision. The voices around him come in and out like a vacant fog, but he can still make out the harshness of their tone as they bark out orders to one another. He thinks these voices are new, and he faintly wonders how much time has passed since he’d last been released from his icy cage. Such thoughts are abruptly interrupted as the soldiers slam his body down into a metal chair, their fingers working quickly to strap him down as if afraid he might suddenly become coherent and snap their necks with a single vice like grip. Judging by the rapid beating of their hearts and the sweat that perspires on their faces in spite of the cold climate, he knows such an incident has occurred before.
The medical staff rushes around him as they check his vitals and stabilize his body from the sudden change in climate. He doesn’t realize the mind wiping has begun until he’s writhing in agonizing pain as his brain is reset to mold him into the unfeeling soldier they’ve trained him to be. The electricity ceases, the red journal opens, and the same code he’s heard so many times before is recited until only a vacant haze remains in his mind. He feels nothing but a restless unease until his handler speaks, and he’s quick to fall in line as if someone had flipped a switch inside of him. He speaks, voice gravelly from disuse and sounding foreign to his own ears, but the words easily fall past his lips all the same.
“Ready to comply.”
“Welcome back, Soldat,” the handler greets unfeelingly. A manilla folder is callously dropped onto his lap, and he takes great care in opening the files to access the details of his mission. A picture of a graying man is the first piece of information to catch his attention, the elder’s features solemn despite the paranoia clear in his eyes. The text beside him states he is a retired archeologist turned recluse hiding in a quiet Mexican town so secluded you can’t spot it on any ordinary map. ‘Priority level target’ is written in bold red lettering across the photograph, and it doesn’t take the soldier long to understand what is expected of him from this next mission.
“Everyone thought he was crazy,” the handler explains with a dry chuckle, “a failed researcher grasping at straws, but his work has proven to be true. This man has discovered the key to everlasting life, the cure to any and every sickness, the remedy to a dying man’s ailments— and he’s chosen to keep it all to himself.”
Another picture is presented to him then, and despite the graininess he’s able to make out an intricately carved stone the size of his palm. The etchings on its surface make it appear ancient and foreign to modern times, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever encountered on any mission before.
“This totem is the key to near immortality, healing anyone that holds it in their grasp to perfect health. It was said to be nothing but a figment of ancient folklore, but it’s real, and this man has it. Your mission is to extract the totem by any means necessary. Kill the scientist and anyone that stands in your way. No witnesses. This assignment is your most important yet— should you succeed, Hydra will live forever.”
The impassioned sentiments of the handler send chills down his spine as his mind races to process the onslaught of information that has just been dumped upon him despite only being conscious for a short while. His chest rises and falls in time with the rapid beating of his heart, and he swallows any doubts that dare try to make their way up his throat. He can do nothing but give a single nod of determination as he wills his steely gaze to meet the eyes of his superior. He’s never failed a mission before.
“Hail Hydra.”
And this one will be no different.
~~~
Guanajuato, Mexico
You’ve just finished the last of your soup when your grandfather sets his newspaper aside and looks upon you with a fond smile. Your home is quiet and tranquil, just as it is every evening when you sit down for dinner, but such stillness is a luxury in your grandfather’s eyes. He’s worked tirelessly to keep you safe from danger and free from want, and every dinner that passes, no matter how mundane, is a victory in his eyes.
“I have a surprise for you,” he tells you with a mirthful smile, “in my bag hanging on the coat rack. I found it while I was in town buying groceries.”
You look at him with piqued interest, and when he gives you a single nod you leave your place at the table in search of his bag. You assume it must be a pastry from your favorite bakery in town or a new item of clothing, but you’re shocked to discover a vinyl record sits waiting for you inside.
“Grandfather, how did you get this?” You exclaim through a gasp, delicately brushing your fingers along the cover in admiration. The Ronettes smile up at you as you gaze upon the cover art with awe before looking back at the man. “I hope it wasn’t too much!”
“Don’t worry about that,” he assures you gently, “I only want you to be happy. This life of ours isn’t easy, but I know how much you love music, and I’ll do all I can to make it feel less lonely for you here.”
You hum pensively in response to his profession as you lower your head in quiet defeat. You try not to dwell too often on the fact that the only person you’ve ever spoken a word to is your grandfather, and the only home you’ve ever known is the walls of your cottage tucked away in the outskirts of a secluded town. You’ve never traveled anywhere further than the garden out back, never had a friend, never gone into the city to buy groceries. You know why you can never leave here, and while you’ll do anything to keep yourself and your grandfather safe, you’ll never be able to cease the longing ache you feel in your chest every time you receive a new album.
“May I be excused?” You request quietly. He offers you a wordless nod of approval, and without saying anything more you rush up the creaky stairs to your bedroom in eager anticipation. You haven’t received a new record in some time, so you’re excited to finally have new music to listen to.
You quietly shut the door behind you once you’re in your room before making your trek towards the window to pull back the frill curtains. There’s a full moon out and the stars twinkle beautifully over the expanse of grass stretched out beyond your home. Everything is quiet, and without a second thought you return to opening your new record and placing it on the turntable. Your movements are careful as you set the needle down, the speakers crackling to life as the disc begins to spin and the music begins to play.
You dance about your room as you change into your comfiest nightgown and put your clothes into the hamper. You try to convince yourself that you’re just like any other young woman your age listening to the Ronettes while she uses the wash bowl to clean her face after dinner. You feel a sense of unbearable guilt any time you begin to grow restless of being in this cottage; your grandfather sacrificed so much for you to be here, and you never want him to feel like his efforts are unappreciated or resented. Besides, what waits for you outside is a far worse fate than being cooped up with the man who’s raised you since birth.
You’re not sure how long you’ve been lost in thought sitting at your vanity, but you’re abruptly startled out of your rumination by the sound of the front door bursting open. You gasp, heart immediately leaping up your throat as you quickly rise from your chair to grab your robe so you may go downstairs and investigate. However, the sound of your grandfather’s desperate shouts has you standing frozen in place. Your blood goes cold, lips parting in quiet fear and eyes wide with panic at his frantic pleas.
“N-No! No, please, I don’t have it! It’s gone! Don’t do this, please! Don’t-“
A single gunshot rings out through the house. The sudden silence is deafening, and all you can hear is the ringing in your ears accompanied by the blood rushing to your head. You feel like you’re going to throw up, your entire body uncomfortably cold while your eyes sting with tears that steadily fall onto the plush carpet beneath your feet. Your mouth opens with a silent sob, but you’re given no time to grieve. You can hear the stairs start to creak as heavy footsteps begin to ascend towards your room, and you know whoever had infiltrated your home is now coming for you next.
You scramble frantically around the room in search of a weapon to defend yourself, and the only thing you can get your hands on is the letter opener on your desk. You clumsily throw yourself into your closet and will the doors to close, immediately sliding to the floor and pressing yourself against the wall. One hand firmly clasps the handle of the blade while the other is pressed tightly against your mouth to muffle the sounds of your labored breathing. The footsteps pause outside your door, and in the quiet you pathetically realize you’d forgotten to turn off the record player. They know you’re in here, and it will only be a matter of time before they find you.
Despite the unbearable ringing in your ears you’re able to hear the low groaning of the door hinges as it’s pushed open. Your chest is heaving, and you can hardly see past the tears that continue to well in your eyes, but by some miracle you’re able to remain quiet. You might not be able to stay hidden for long, but you hope the element of surprise will at least help your chances of survival. Each thud across the carpet sends a jolt of panic down your spine, your knuckles turning white from the sheer force of your grip on the letter opener.
Just moments ago you’d been enjoying your favorite meal with your grandfather like you did every day before. Now he was dead, his body waiting for you downstairs while you hoped to whatever God was out there for some form of salvation. You didn’t want to die- you couldn’t die. You hadn’t seen the rest of the world, hadn’t gotten the chance to meet new faces and explore what life had to offer beyond the cottage. In spite of everything, you hope you can at least put up a good fight before they try to kill you.
The footsteps suddenly halt in front of the closet door, the owner’s silhouette casting a shadow through the shutters that blankets you in complete darkness. You hold your breath, not daring to make a sound and hoping the drums of the Ronette’s song still sounding from the record player drowns out the hammering of your heart. Neither of you makes a move, and some naive part of you believes they won’t think to open the closet and will give up on their search of your bedroom.
The assailant’s hand shoots out and begins to jiggle the knob. You can’t help the gasp that leaves you then, the sound only agitating their movements further. The door is locked, but by the ferocity in which the shadow pulls at the door you have a feeling it won’t keep them out for long. The door is ripped off its hinges, and without a moment’s hesitation you lunge forward.
You move without thinking, too afraid to face the intruder and too frantic to aim for your target. Your attack is successful in lodging the letter opener through his suit and into his skin, but your blind aiming results in you stabbing into his shoulder instead of his chest. In spite of your poor attempt, it effectively catches the man off guard and gives you a window of opportunity to escape. You quickly move around him and make a mad dash for the door, but you only make it a foot out of the closet before he has you in his grasp.
His fingers catch your hair in a vice like grip and yank backward with all of his might. You cry out in agony, your scalp aflame and your neck feeling like it might snap from the whiplash. He tosses you onto the ground as if you weigh nothing, and you aren’t given a fighting chance as he immediately cages you in between his legs and reaches for your throat. Your eyes go wide with panic at the feel of his hands slowly squeezing the breath from your lungs, and you use all the fight you have left within you to try and pry yourself from his grip.
“Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you! You know I will adore you ‘till eternity…”
You manage to hear the distant voice of Ronnie Spector past the ringing of your ears and vaguely recall the dinner you’d shared with your grandfather just hours ago. It had started just like any other night, but now you found yourself mere seconds away from death. Had you known it would be the last meal you’d have together, you would have sat with him longer and asked about his day. You realize bleakly that at least if he manages to kill you you’ll be reunited with him soon.
“Where is it!” The stranger growls through gritted teeth. You can’t answer even if you wanted to, a sob being the only thing you manage to get past your constricted throat. Your cries only seem to infuriate him further, and through your tears you can make out his calloused features and icy stare. His eyes are the softest blue you’ve ever seen despite the wrath they hold, but you can’t make out much more due to the muzzle he dons and the curtain of hair that hides his features.
The room begins to spin and your throat feels like it’s on fire, and still you scramble to come up with a way to save yourself despite the reality facing you now.
No one is coming to save you.
~~~
The doctor goes down without a fight, not that the soldier had ever believed otherwise. By the frightened recognition in his eyes the Asset knew his arrival had been a dreaded but expected one. No one can hide from Hydra for long, and it would only have been a matter of time before his secret was discovered. He sweeps the entire first floor for any sign of the totem only to come up empty handed, but he hasn’t lost hope yet. He knows it must be in the house somewhere, otherwise Hydra wouldn’t have bothered to waste the resources necessary to free him from his frozen prison.
A faint melody cascades down the stairs into the dark hallway, prompting the assailant to move cautiously towards the sound. A gentle glow emits from the cracks of the closed door above, and he can hear the subtle creaks in the floorboards from the unknown inhabitant. Nowhere in the files was it mentioned that the doctor had an accomplice with him in hiding, but the newly discovered detail did not detour the soldier from his mission. The totem must be somewhere in that bedroom, and he’s prepared to kill whoever stands in his way.
The stairs groan beneath him with each step he takes, his heavy boots thudding deafeningly against the wooden floors. He wants his victim to know he’s coming, to strike panic into their hearts so they freeze like a deer caught in headlights and have no time to prepare for his approach. The Winter Soldier always finds his target, so there is no point in fighting what is to come.
The door is unlocked, allowing him easy access to the bedroom. The plush violet carpet beneath him softens his footsteps as he surveys the area for any signs of life. The room looks seemingly empty, the only movement coming from the frilly curtains fluttering in time with the breeze that wafts through the open window. He makes his way towards the frame, peering out into the dark for any sign of movement in case his target had managed to escape, but there is no one.
“The night we met I knew I needed you so…”
The melodic voice pulls him away from the window as he moves towards the record player resting upon the nightstand. The vinyl crackles to life with each spin of the turntable, but the sound of music is not enough to mask the rapid beating of his target’s heart. His enhanced hearing allows him to easily pick up on what the average person would miss, and the subtle sound easily leads him to their hiding spot.
He follows the ragged breathing towards the closet tucked away in the corner of the bedroom. The cracks in the shutters aren’t large enough to allow him a view of his victim, but the rush of their blood overpowers the music that continues to play in his presence. These doors are all that separate him from the totem, and it is this thought that spurs him forward to yank at the knob. A panicked gasp comes from inside, only fueling his sense of urgency as he finally tires of fighting the lock and instead rips the door off of its hinges.
A young woman surges forward from the darkness with a strained cry of determination, and before the soldier has time to react a metal blade is suddenly lodged into his shoulder. He yells out in annoyance and discomfort at the feeling of the weapon digging between flesh and bone, but it isn’t enough to disarm him. She uses the abrupt distraction as a means of escape, but she barely makes it past his towering frame before his arm shoots out and grabs hold of her hair. She cries out in agony at the assault as he yanks her backward and slams her onto the floor. Her body thuds clumsily across the carpet, the chaos causing the needle to gratingly skid across the vinyl.
“Be my, be my baby! My one- So won’t you please, be my, be my baby! My one and only baby!”
He straddles her floundering figure, knees closing in on her ribs to prevent any chance of escape while his hands make quick work of wrapping around her neck. She wheezes, eyes wide in panic while her arms flail wildly through the air for some form of purchase against him. One hand helplessly tries to pry his fingers away from her throat while the other beats desperately against his torso. He feels nothing, no pain from her pathetically weak fist or turmoil for the brutality he uses against her meek form, only a calloused determination to find the totem and complete his mission.
“Where is it?” He growls through gritted teeth, voice coarse from long periods of disuse. She can only offer an incoherent sob for an answer as she continues to fight against him. Tears fall down her delicate cheeks, and while the thought disappears just as quickly as it had arrived in his mind, he finds himself admiring the beauty in her pain. It wasn’t her fault she’d been caught in the crossfire of his mission, but his orders were clear, and he’d rather take her life than risk the wrath of his superiors should he disobey them.
Her inability to give him the answer he desires only spurs his anger further, and he finds himself growing impatient at her fruitless tempts to fight him off.
“Give up the totem, stupid girl or I’ll-!”
His threats are abruptly disrupted by the sudden feeling of her fingers digging into his stab wound. He shouts in protest but his hold only grows tighter around her neck. She convulses beneath him at the pressure, eyes beginning to roll back as the oxygen leaves her lungs, but her grip remains strong. Oddly, he notices the sudden painful intrusion begins to ebb away in spite of the pressure she maintains against the wound. He knows he should feel agonizing pain considering it’s a tactic he’s used himself before, but there’s nothing but a dull ache.
Her hand falls limp at her side as she finally succumbs to the lack of oxygen, and he’s quick to release his hold as he rises from the ground and moves away from her figure. Pensively, he presses his own hand against the lesion only to feel nothing. The entry point is gone, and all that remains is dried blood and a tear in his tactical suit. The stab wound seems to have just disappeared, as if healed magically on its own.
His frenzied stare shifts down to the carpet where her unconscious figure lies, her bloodied fingers twitching against the fabric of her baby blue nightgown. Her chest rises and falls slowly with each ragged breath she takes, and when he looks upon the column of her throat he notices the bruising of his fingerprints left behind on her skin is beginning to fade into nothing. Her touch had healed him, and now she appeared to be healing herself. The Soldier’s brows furrow in uncertainty and confusion as he attempts to put the pieces together.
A grave realization comes to him then, stomach pooling with dread as he quickly collapses to his knees beside her to examine her bruising more closely. With the gentlest touch he’s ever managed on a mission, he languidly forces her head to lull to the side to get a better view of her throat. The bruising on her neck has vanished completely, and the sight is more than enough proof to confirm his suspicions. The powers Hydra has been searching for all these years lie in this very room. The doctor was telling the truth— there is no totem.
hi guys! just wanted to pop in considering i’ve been radio silent the last few months. in spite of my hiatus i actually have been cooking up a multi chapter bucky fic titled Dissonance. i’ve already written the first two chapters and come up with a storyline, it just needs some editing before it’s ready to be published so stay tuned ! <3
ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut I H/C -comfort
☆ steve hears it all the time ── @mischievousmoony I S
it takes some coaxing to get you used to steve’s size
☆ peaking in high school ── @/mischievousmoony I F
there's only one thing that could possibly be going better for steve harrington—you finally realizing he's been flirting with you for months
☆ summer buzz of cicadas ── @little-miss-dilf-lover I F
you're on road trip, driving across the states in a car that's definitely not made for such travels. you take a detour through hawkins for some hometown nostalgia, stopping by to check in on your favourite —only— nephew, dustin before he graduates high school. and it's then you meet his suspiciously aged older friend once again, only you don't quite remember him like he does you
☆ a humble descent ── @ellecdc I F
who he calls accidentally
☆ takeout for two (and a half) ── @/ellecdc I H/C
who gets pregnant early in their relationship
☆ earth to dingus ── @/ellecdc I F
Of course Steve leaves you under Robin’s supervision for maybe twenty-seven-and-a-half minutes only for you to wake up after suffering a head injury unable to recall that you’re dating the biggest dingus from high school in your severely concussed state.
☆ love line ── @/ellecdc I F
who asks her boyfriend to be her boyfriend
☆ the town flasher pt2 I @/ellecdc I F
Dustin's older cousin moves in with Claudia and Dustin at the beginning of summer. She's worried about how secretive Dustin has been and finds him hanging out with someone much older than him. Assumptions are made, accusations are thrown, chaos ensues.
☆ all that matters ── @colouredbyd I H/C
when borrowing steve’s car ends in an accident that destroys his darling car, you’re left shaken and terrified of his reaction. except when he finds you, it’s painfully clear he couldn’t give a fuck about the car.
☆ sweep you away ── @/colouredbyd I F
when Steve wakes up with a concussion in a hospital bed after a crawl gone wrong, he can’t help but fall for you—the pretty girl sitting by his bedside—completely unaware that you’re already his girlfriend.
☆ tolerate it ── @/colouredbyd I A + C
you accidentally overhear steve calling you “clingy” to robin. instead of confronting him, you retreat into silence, letting your hurt fester. steve notices and becomes desperate to understand, but the more he reaches out, the wider the distance grows.
☆ good old-fashioned lover boy ── @rimtrbl I F
3 times steve harrington couldn’t keep his hands off you, and the 1 time everyone called him out on it.
☆ nettles ── @levanterhaze I A
You've known about the prophecy since the day you were born. The curse of the older sister. Ever since you and El were raised together in that sterile, white hell—shaped into weapons of war—you knew your life wasn't yours. Dying wasn’t brave. It wasn’t noble. It was simply the inevitable conclusion you had been walking toward since birth.
☆ beyond the sea ── @luveline I F
Steve finds a girl in his pool. A very wet, very bloody, and very scaly girl.
max hates the way billy treats girls, steve is nothing like billy
☆ mike wheeler pt2 pt3 ── @/formallery I F
mike realized his parents didn't love each other when he was very young, and he rationalized this as all couples don't love each other. that's until he sees the way steve treats you.
☆ forever ── @urawizardharry I A + F + S
In which Steve doesn't realize that his way of coping with Nancy and his breakup is hurting Y/N in the process. He also doesn't notice that Billy Hargrove is not only trying to take his throne, but the girl he's loved forever too
☆ enemy territory ── @underoospeterparker I F
☆ ugly little thing ── @/underoospeterparker I C
☆ in the dark pt2 ── @/underoospeterparker I A
When Steve gets migraines, he gets angry. This time, he takes it out on you. Or, you're Steve's punching bag, and this time it hurts too much.
☆ let’s hear it for the boy ── @chestharrington I F + S
steve has a problem. he can't cum unless he's thinking about you. except you're his friend and he definitely doesn't have any romantic feelings towards you. at least, that's what he tells himself.
☆ hidden things ── @gnarly-words I F
despite dating for over a year, your boyfriend still doesn't know everything about you.
☆ if tomorrow never comes ── @hellfire--cult I A + F + S
The doom of the world ending has you thinking if you should be honest for once in your life. You might not survive, you might not live to see tomorrow, and you didn't want to regret anything... But he was still hung up on his ex... Yet, you feel the need to look for him before the battle... You weren't the only one with that idea.
☆ back on you ── @keerysfreckles I A + C
steve realizes how he affects people twice in one day, after a confrontation with dustin henderson, then his girlfriend.
☆ playing with steve’s hair ── @loveshotzz I F
☆ the henderson variable ── @loupiotesworld I F
☆ if you leave ── @helaintoloki I A + F
your strained friendship with Steve finally reaches its breaking point— can he fix it before it’s too late?
☆ future with you ── @hanwritesthings I F
a glimpse into what you and steve are up to eighteen months after the final battle.
☆ request ── @voidreynolds I A + C
being tortured by russians under the mall you work in, with the boy you have grown rather fond of was not on your summer to do list…
☆ i think we’re alone now… ── @lesservillain I S
after days of endless bullshit and with an ever growing need for your boyfriend, you finally come home and get to spend some much needed alone time together, with a closeness you've never shared before.
warnings: lots of angst and yearning but with a happy ending, no usage of y/n when referring to reader, reader isn’t described physically but is depicted as new wave, heavily inspired by cliche 80s romcom tropes
notes: so i actually got the idea for this fic when s4 came out but just barely got around to writing it. i’ve never written for steve before so hopefully this is a good first try! also this piece takes place in between season 3 and 4
summary: your strained friendship with Steve finally reaches its breaking point— can he fix it before it’s too late?
“Why are we here?"
“Come on, you telling me you don’t remember this place?” Steve jests with an inquisitive brow before reversing into the nearest parking spot.
“Of course I do,” you reply with a muddled frown, staring at the familiar rundown neon sign from your childhood, “but isn’t bowling for little kids and like, old people?”
“Wow. I’m hurt,” he says with feigned offense, prompting the quietest of laughs to escape past your previously sealed lips. “Just because I watch over the little rug rats every once and a while does not make me old. It’s not a crime to simply want to a pay a visit to old memory lane, you know?”
“We haven’t been here in years, Steve. Why now?” You ask, and you don’t miss the flash of guilt that briefly washes over his features. You don’t mean to be ungrateful for the rare quality time he’s trying to spend with you, but you can’t help wanting to question his sudden need to be present in your friendship when he’s had no problem putting you on the back burner for the last few years.
“Just felt like going bowling,” he offers with a sigh as he shifts the gear into park and shuts off the engine. You undo your seatbelt and get out of the car before he has the chance to open your door for you, prompting him to overcompensate by sprinting towards the entrance so he can beat you at opening the door. You can’t help the amused huff that tumbles past your lips as you roll your eyes and quietly thank him for his unnecessary act of chivalry. He’s really rolling it on thick, but despite his pleasantries your guard remains up.
The bowling alley is exactly as you remember it despite not setting foot in the establishment since seventh grade. The grody neon carpets stick to your shoes with each step you take, smelling of stale soda and cheap beer as a result of endless spilled cups. The scent of greasy snack bar pizza wafts through the air and makes your stomach churn with unease, but you keep your complaints to yourself for Steve’s sake as you wordlessly follow him over towards the shoe rentals.
“Does an hour sound good?” Steve asks while pulling out his wallet to pay the necessary fees required for a lane and two pairs of shoes. “I figure it’ll give us some time to grab food before I have to take you home so you don’t miss your curfew.”
You cringe at the mortifying reminder of the fact that you still have an early curfew despite being a senior in high school, only feeling all the more pathetic in Steve’s presence as you mumble your approval of his plan and swipe your shoes from off the counter. You don’t wait for him as you hastily make your way over to your assigned lane and seat yourself on the splintered bench nearby. The sound of his footsteps soon follow after, but you don’t dare look up from tying your laces as he silently sits beside you and begins his own preparations.
Steve can feel the tension radiating off of you as you silently get up from the bench and begin to search the racks for your desired bowling ball. He knows your friendship isn’t exactly what it once was, but he thought you’d be more appreciative of his nostalgia fueled gesture. Instead you were wary and withdrawn as if he was some sort of stranger and not the boy you’d been friends with since you were four. He didn’t know how to approach you or break the ice in a way that didn’t feel forced, just as you didn’t know how to voice the frustration and rejection you felt every time you were around him.
You don’t hate Steve even if it feels that way to him. In fact, that’s the furthest thing from the truth. You adore him, and you’ve had the most painfully cliche crush on him since you went to the Sadie Hawkins dance together in eighth grade per your mothers’ requests. You knew you never stood a chance against the girls that had come and gone in his life, so you’d convinced yourself you were okay with being his friend even if you couldn’t have him the way you’d always dreamed of. Your mothers were close friends, your families intertwined in a way that meant he could show up at your front door whenever he wanted and vice versa, and there had been a time where you’d been inseparable. You were stuck together forever, and initially you didn’t mind the fact.
But the years began to go by and the closeness between you dwindled. Girlfriends, parties, and social capital took precedence over your time together. Almost daily meet ups became sparse until they eventually disappeared all together. Steve would find time for you here and there when he did remember your existence, but it was never the same. You just couldn’t shake the feeling that this whole “visit” to memory lane was just some sort of pity hang out to make up for his abandonment, and as a result you couldn’t find it in you to appease him by playing into the bit like you once would have.
“You in the mood for soda?” He asks in a blatantly obvious attempt to return to your good graces. “I’m buying.”
“No,” you answer bluntly, silently kicking yourself the minute you see his face fall at your tone. You rush to fix it by blurting, “Water would be good though.”
“Great,” he breathes out with a flustered smile, anxiously rubbing his palms against his jeans before rising from the bench. “A water for the lady it is.”
You humor him with a barely audible chuckle and follow his lead towards the snack bar for your drinks. The alley is suddenly more crowded as the afternoon rush begins to take over the lanes, forcing you to move closer to him in order not to bump into the people that hurry past eager to start their games. Your hand brushes against his suddenly, and you both find yourselves yanking back your respective limbs as if you’d been burned. Neither of you addresses the moment, but there’s no ignoring the nervous fluttering your stomach that results from feeling the warmth of his touch.
Doing his best to look anywhere but at you, Steve halts suddenly in his tracks as he spots the perfect distraction to rid the air of awkwardness. “Hey, look! They’ve still got that old jukebox here.”
You stutter in your steps to match his abrupt halt and follow the direction of his eagerly pointed finger to land your gaze on the aforementioned jukebox. The music player sits in all its ancient glory against the wall near the entrance to the arcade room. No one’s bothered to play a song since you’ve been here, but Steve is anxious to change that as he begins to dig into his pockets in search of a quarter.
“I wonder if they have your favorite song on there,” he notes fondly as he chivalrously produces a quarter and places it into your clammy palm.
“My favorite song?” You retort with a raised brow.
“‘Genius of Love,’” he reiterates with a furrowed brow and pointed look as if it’s obvious. “You’d play that tape at my house basically every time you came over and it used to drive me crazy. You seriously don’t remember?”
“Of course I remember,” you scoff indignantly, unable to keep the annoyance out of your tone, “but that was five years ago, Steve. Things change.”
“Okay, fine, whatever, I don’t know what your favorite song is,” he shoots back defensively. By the impatient placement of his hands on his hips and the way his lips part in anticipation for an argument you can tell his own restraint is beginning to wear thin at your sour attitude, and it only serves to make you all the more angrier. “But I bet you probably don’t know mine either.”
“You tell everyone your favorite song is ‘Livin’ On a Prayer,’ but it’s actually ‘Everything She Wants.’ You’re just too embarrassed to admit it because you don’t want people knowing you listen to Wham.”
The argument he’d had prepared immediately dies in his throat as you shoot him a pointed glare, almost daring him to challenge you, but he knows he has no chance at winning any sort of fight with you. You have him nailed to a T, and unlike him you clearly still made the effort to be a good friend despite the distance that had grown between you both. He feels awful, and the look of disappointment that briefly flashes in your vengeful eyes only serves to worsen the pit of guilt building in his stomach.
“Look, Steve, can we just drop the act?” You press him quietly, the softness of your voice taking him by surprise. He’d expected you to yell at him, call him names, everything he deserved for being a horrible friend, but you find you don’t have it in you to be angry anymore. All you feel is an ache for what once was, and you know now there’s no point in denying the inevitable even when he calls your name so despairingly.
“Come on,” he murmurs desperately, swallowing down the lump that was attempting to make its way up his throat. “I’m trying, okay? I really am.”
“I know you are, but I think it’s time we face the facts.”
Anguish settles in your chest and still you force yourself to get out the words that have been dying at the tip of your tongue for months. There’s no going back now, and the finality of your tone makes that depressingly obvious to Steve as he hangs onto your every word.
“We haven’t been close since middle school, and even before then I could see that our friendship was on its last legs. You forgot about me the minute you met Nancy Wheeler, when you became friends with Dustin, and when you started working with Robin at Scoops. I just kept getting pushed further down the line, but I told myself I was okay with fading into the background so long as I could still be there when you needed me. When you finally did remember I existed too.”
“It’s not like that-“ he desperately pleads only for you to cut him off and continue your vulnerable rant.
“You’ve been putting me on the back burner for years, and maybe you never realized it but I did,” you profess dejectedly, voice still remaining even despite the trembling of your lips and the stinging of your eyes. “And I’m realizing now that I can’t do it anymore.”
“Please just let me fix this,” Steve begs hoarsely. Tears of his own threaten to fall as he reaches for your hand only for you to pull away immediately. “Please, I can be a better friend. I want you in my life, I-I can prove it!”
“I think you should take me home now,” is all you can manage to say as you wordlessly walk off in search of your shoes. You leave him standing distraught in the middle of the bowling alley as he tries to process the fact that you’ve basically denounced what little was left of your relationship together. His face is hot with rejection and embarrassment as he faces the judgmental stares of onlookers who’d watched the whole ordeal unfold, and he can do nothing but accept defeat as he gathers his things to leave.
The car ride home is silent save for the sound of The Smiths on Steve’s radio and the quiet sniffles that mange to escape you every now and then. Neither of you speaks or even dares to look at each other. You don’t think he completely hates you considering he’d still opened your door for you and had agreed to bring you home instead of abandoning you there, but he’s also the quietest you’ve ever seen him in the years you’ve known him, and that isn’t a good sign. Your outburst had been a long time coming, but you’re starting to regret your decision of blowing up on him so publicly. You try to remind yourself it needed to be said, and yet you can’t help the gnawing sense of guilt in your aching chest.
You’re thankful you live close to the bowling alley. Despite feeling like an eternity, it only takes ten minutes for Steve to pull to a stop in your driveway. He puts the car in park but leaves the keys in the ignition, his solemn gaze glued to the dashboard as Morrissey drones on about the old house. You clear your throat and open your mouth to speak only to find you don’t have the words. What else can you say that hasn’t already been expressed? You don’t want to kick him while he’s down; you figure he’s already endured enough of that to last him a lifetime.
“I, uh, I guess I’ll see you around,” you finally manage to get out, chancing a glance at him. He doesn’t respond or even lift his head to acknowledge you’ve spoken to him. Steve remains unmoving, his stare blank and fingers gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. You swallow thickly and blink back your tears as you let yourself out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
You don’t look back as you fish your keys out of your pocket and will your trembling hands to still enough for you to unlock the door. You keep it together as you quickly rush up the stairs towards your bedroom, grateful for the fact your parents are still at work and you have the house to yourself to wallow in your grief.
Your room feels unbearably cold as you flick the light switch on and kick off your shoes by the closet door. A part of you feels nothing but regret, and you wonder if you’ve made a mistake by cutting Steve off from your life so abruptly. However, the rational part of you knows you only would have driven yourself insane if you continued to let him treat you like a spare tire. You have to move on, and you try to convince yourself that it will only be a matter of time before the ache begins to dull and you can finally forget about what once was.
You numbly begin to search through your CD rack for a soundtrack to your pity party, but you find yourself beginning to falter as you realize you can already hear music playing. Brows creasing in confusion, you strain your ears to listen closer and determine where the sound is coming from. You initially assume you must have left your boombox on before you left, but when you reach the device you find that it’s still switched off from when you last used it.
A tap at your window makes you jump as you whip around in search of the source. A beat passes before another tap follows, and you’re barely able to make out the tiny pebble that clacks against your window. You rush forward to push the frame up only to see Steve gearing up to toss another. He clumsily halts his movements when you poke your head outside and releases the mound of pebbles he’d collected onto the ground now that he finally has your attention.
The driver’s side door of his car is wide open and his radio cranked loud enough for you to hear. His face is full of determination as he cups his hands to his mouth and shouts your name over the sound of OMD playing on the speakers.
“Your favorite band is Depeche Mode!” He yells empathically as if experiencing some sort of epiphany. You furrow your brows and crane your neck as you struggle to make out his words over the music. You have no idea what he’s saying, but you also know you’re seconds away from a noise complaint and cannot handle having another argument in public for onlookers to see.
“What?! Steve, turn that off! My neighbors are going to kill you!”
“Not until you come down first!”
You groan in annoyance as you harshly slam your window shut before rushing back down stairs to put an end to his nonsense. Steve is already standing on your front steps when you swing the door open, and you’re grateful he’d managed to lower the radio to a sensible volume in the time it took you to reach him.
“What is wrong with you?!” You exclaim incredulously with panicked eyes and worried brows. “You couldn’t ring the doorbell like a normal person?”
“Would you have answered if I did?” He shoots back. You open your mouth to protest only to fall silent as you realize he’s right. Huffing out in annoyance, you cross your arms defensively over your chest and give him a pointed look that signals for him to continue. He swallows thickly, your sharp stare causing him to lose his nerve for just a moment, but he’s quickly able to regain his composure for the sake of your friendship.
“You said I don’t know your favorite song and you’re right,” he sputters excitedly, only earning a frown from you in response that prompts him to quickly continue on, “but I know your favorite band is Depeche Mode, and you love their song ‘Get the Balance Right.’ You also love The Smiths, Blondie, the B-52s- everything and anything new wave even though your parents give you such shit for it.”
You swallow as you shift uncomfortably from one leg to the other. The passion in his words has your heart in stuttering your chest, but you try not to let your stupid little crush on him get the better of you. Just because he happens to know a few of your favorite bands doesn’t suddenly make him friend of the year. Your disgruntled features make it obvious he hasn’t won you over just yet, and so he continues.
“You still sleep with the teddy bear I gave you for your tenth birthday, but you think I don’t know about it because you stash him under your pillow every time I come over. You also think I don’t know your new favorite movie is Pretty in Pink because you told me you hated it when I took you to see it in theaters only to immediately buy the soundtrack the next day. You love when it rains even though you catch a cold every single time, and the only thing that makes you feel better is the chicken noodle soup from the diner.”
You mouth parts in quiet shock as he continues to list all the personal details he’s learned about you in all the time he’s known you. Your face grows hot at the mention of the bear, and you avoid making any eye contact with him as you achingly worry your bottom lip between your teeth. All this time you thought Steve knew nothing about you, about the interests and quirks that made you you. You thought he couldn’t be bothered to waste his time paying attention to the little details when he had more important things to worry about like girls and prom, but now you know nothing could be further from the truth.
“So yeah, I don’t know your favorite song, but I know the important stuff like your favorite foods, your favorite color, and the fact that you’re the most incredible girl in Hawkins and I was an idiot for not realizing that sooner,” Steve professes breathlessly, face full of desperation as he looks at you with pleading eyes for you to believe him. “I’m a complete asshole that doesn’t deserve another minute of your time, and you can totally tell me to piss off and slam your door in my face because I deserve it, but I don’t want to give up on us.”
“Steve,” you breathe out shakily, eyes prickling once more with tears that you impatiently brush away. “Steve, I don’t know what to say…”
“Say you’ll have me back,” he all but begs you, achingly taking your trembling hands in his own. “I know I’ve been a horrible friend, and I was stupid to think one trip to the bowling alley would just magically fix years of neglect, but I really miss you. I know you think I don’t notice when you’re not around but I do and it kills me.”
“I miss you too, Steve,” you admit with a watery laugh, your hold on his hands desperately tight as if he’ll leave again once you let go. “But how do I know you’ll keep your word when you’ve gone back on it so many times before? How do I know you mean any of this?”
“Because I love you,” he says simply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. His excited features carefully morph into a look of longing and utter adoration. “I love you, and I spent years looking for the right girl not realizing the perfect one was in front of me this entire time. That’s why I invited you out today, why I’m trying to be the friend you deserve… because I realized there’s never going to be anyone else but you. It’s always been you.”
You aren’t given time to respond as Steve suddenly cups your face and pulls you closer so that his lips can finally meet your own in an impassioned kiss. The gasp that had catapulted itself up your throat dies instantly as you practically melt against him, fingers gripping onto his forearms and digging into the sleeves of his jacket to keep you upright in spite of the terrible trembling of your legs. Your eyes flutter shut, your lashes tickling his skin as his hands trail down and find purchase on the small of your back.
Steve is warm to the touch, a sharp contrast to the biting evening air that follows the setting sun. Your entire body feels as if it’s vibrating, and yet you can’t find it in you to pull away as he pulls your body flush against his own. You’ve dreamt of this kiss since you were thirteen, longed for him to see you the way he saw Nancy and all the other girls at school, but you’d given up any hope of such childish daydreams coming to fruition. And yet here you are standing on your front porch, arms draped around his neck and lips refusing to part as ‘If You Leave’ continues to play from his car speakers. You feel like the lead in a John Hughes movie, but you can’t find it in you to complain.
When you’re finally forced to part in order to catch your breath, you remain close in each other’s embrace as he looks into your eyes with a breathless smile. “Was it worth the wait?”
“Don’t push your luck, Harrington,” you remind him with a playful roll of your eyes only to immediately pull him back in for more. And he certainly isn’t complaining.
You know you still have so much to work on when it comes to your relationship with Steve, and he knows it’s going to take a lot more than an impassioned kiss to earn your trust back, but you both have to admit this is definitely a good start.
After all these years of pining and uncertainty you’re finally together again, and this time, Steve isn’t going anywhere. Because there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here in this moment with the most perfect girl in Hawkins.
