Summary: You’ve been trained at the red room since you were six. After becoming a more than competent agent, you were sent to Hydra to be enhanced. The ultimate weapon.
Pairing(s): Wanda x reader (romantic, but later on), platonic!Steve x reader.
Warnings: emotional breakdown, angst, steve being a great dude, no wanda this chapter guys thought i should focus on building friendships w the rest of the team.
a/n: so basically just the start of our friendship with steve. sorry guys this chapters kinda shit 😭.
The next morning, you woke up from your sub-optimal sleep. Well, you weren’t sure you could call staring blankly at the wall, sleep. Whatever, you didn’t feel tired anyway. What you needed was an outlet, something you could put your energy into. You weren’t sure what time it was, the sun outside wasn't shining yet, it must've been early. You put on the first thing you see in the closet Tony stocked for you. A black hoodie and some gray sweatpants, that would work just fine. You walked out of your room, the hallways were quiet, thank you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room —3:30 AM— yeah, no wonder it’s quiet. You kept walking, not sure what you were looking for, maybe you were just looking for a distraction from your thoughts that got too loud in quiet moments like this. Finally, you found a door labeled, "Training Room.” You walked in, almost in awe of how spacious the room was.
The door slid shut behind you, leaving the training room wrapped in a low hum of silence. The place looked almost sterile in the dim light. Sleek walls lined with panels that probably did a dozen things you couldn’t name, machines standing idle, their displays dark. The mats in the center were spotless, smooth enough to reflect the faint overhead glow. Rows of equipment sat along the edges — weights, treadmills, racks of strange tech that looked too advanced to be just exercise machines. A punching bag hung near the corner, swaying faintly though no one had touched it.
Everything felt sharp-edged, precise. Even the air was cooler here, conditioned, carrying a faint metallic bite. It wasn’t cluttered the way normal gyms were; every piece of gear had its place, everything arranged like it had been measured twice before being set down.
Your footsteps echoed a little too clearly against the hard floor. No voices, no sounds of sparring—just the steady, quiet hum of machines asleep but ready to wake. It was high-tech. Polished. Controlled. A room designed for people to push themselves past their limits. And now it was just you, standing in the middle of it, with nothing but silence pressing in from all sides.
After the pure astonishment wore off, you got to work. The clock on the wall read 3:32 a.m. You weren’t sure what the core of your actions were—restlessness, boredom, or just the fact that sleep still didn’t come easy—but standing alone in the training room, the choice had felt obvious. Move or drown in stillness.
You started with push-ups, each rep crisp and controlled. Your muscles burned faintly, but it was nothing compared to what most people would feel. Pull-ups next, palms gripping the cool metal bar, and your arms lifted your body easily, again and again. Sit-ups, squats, lunges. Each movement executed perfectly, as if your body was built to endure.
When you moved to the treadmill, the steady whir of the belt was the only sound in the quiet room. You pushed the speed higher and higher, feeling your lungs working hard, but not truly tiring. Sleep-deprivation and adrenaline weren’t enough to slow you down. You switched off mid-stride, chest heaving slightly, but not from exhaustion. Only from habit.
Weights came next. Every press, every curl, every slam against the bag in the corner. You alternated exercises methodically, testing yourself. Pain flared, but fatigue? Not yet. Your body simply didn’t know it. Hydra had conditioned this. The serum had enhanced it. You could push forever. And so you did.
Hours passed. Hours that might have crushed a normal human. Not you. Your focus never wavered; your stamina was relentless.
Then the door hissed open.
You froze mid-motion, half-turned toward the sound, eyes scanning. Sunlight spilled faintly from the hall, slicing across the cold fluorescent glow. Whoever stepped in looked startled at first —and then concerned— watching you move like you’d been at it forever.
The clock read 10:04 a.m.
It hit you suddenly, you’d been here, pushing yourself, for almost seven hours straight. And yet, you still felt nothing.
The figure at the door didn’t move immediately, just stared. Steve, you realized. His arms were crossed, eyes narrowing as he took in your posture, the sheen of sweat on your skin, and the fact that you weren’t even breathing hard enough to seem winded.
“You… you’ve been at this for how long?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and concern.
You paused mid-lunge, hands on your knees, turning to glance at him. “ A few hours or something like that.” Your tone was flat, almost tired, but not from exertion. It was casual. You could have kept going for hours more.
Steve ran a hand over his face. “I’ve never… I mean, I’ve seen super-soldier training, but—this? This is ridiculous.”
You shrugged, moving toward the free weights. “I wasn’t tired.”
“That’s not human,” he muttered, stepping fully inside now, closing the door behind him. “Even Banner would have collapsed by now.”
You picked up a pair of dumbbells, lifting them in controlled, rhythmic curls. “I’m used to it.”
The statement hung in the air, obvious but unspoken: Hydra’s serum, the enhancements, all of it. He’d seen hints of it before, but watching you push yourself, limitless, made it undeniable.
Steve’s brow furrowed. “You’re not just stronger. Your body doesn’t quit. Your muscles don’t ache. Your lungs… hell, even your heart doesn’t seem to get stressed the way it should. Seven hours, and you’re just… fine?”
You set the weights down, rolling your shoulders. “Fine enough.” And you were. The only thing dragging on you was your mind, restless, conditioned to expect threats, to fight, to survive. Your body was more machine than human now.
He shook his head, finally muttering something under his breath: “Unreal.”
And in that quiet, empty training room, reality sank in. Seven hours of relentless motion. And you could keep going. You could keep going until the walls bled, until the floor shook, until morning turned to night again—and you’d barely notice it.
Steve didn’t speak again for a long moment, just watched, absorbing the raw, unyielding presence of what you had become. And you, of course, kept moving.
He stayed in the doorway, quiet, his arms hanging loose at his sides. The training room smelled of sweat and metal, a hum of machinery filling the empty space like it was the only living thing there. The faint flicker of overhead lights cast elongated shadows across the weights and machines, turning the polished metal into glimmers that felt almost alive in the dark. He tried again, voice gentle. “Hey… you’ve been at this a long time. Maybe we get some breakfast? At least something.”
You didn’t look at him. Your hands clenched and unclenched around the metal bars of the dumbbells, flexing against the tension coiled in your arms. The muscles beneath your skin moved independently, rigid and unyielding, yet beneath that strength there was a strange hollowness, a vacuum of sensation you couldn’t fill. “I don’t need it.”
“I don’t need it,” you repeated automatically, flat and cold. “I’m fine.”
Steve’s eyes softened, but he didn’t give up. He shifted slightly, the floor creaking faintly under his weight, a small, human sound that contrasted with the mechanical hum surrounding you. “I insist. A quick bite. Nothing fancy. Then you can—whatever you want. But you need to eat.”
You shook your head violently. The motion was sharp, almost jerky, like a reflex. “No. I don’t need—don’t need anything!”
Steve stepped closer, voice quiet but firmer, trying to anchor you without pushing. “You’ve been at this for… hours. All night. You need to rest. You need to—”
“I’m fine! I can… I can handle it!” The words erupted before you could stop them, sharp and brittle, scraping against the air like metal on metal. Your jaw clenched, the tendons in your neck taut, and the breath caught painfully in your throat. “I don’t need anyone! I don’t need… anything!”
Steve stopped, hands raised in a calming gesture, his face soft but unwavering. The faint lines of fatigue etched around his eyes, the subtle sag of his shoulders, spoke of quiet battles fought in silence. “Okay. Okay… slow down. I’m not here to fight you. I just don’t want to see you destroy yourself.”
And that’s when it broke. Something you’d held in, numbed, bottled for months—years, maybe—shattered in a single, ragged breath. You dropped the weights, a loud thud echoed, reverberating against the walls and bouncing across the empty room. Your knees buckled and you sank to the floor, forehead pressed to the cold mat, arms wrapped tight around your own torso as though trying to hold yourself together physically when your mind refused to comply.
Your voice trembled, raw, hoarse, breaking in ways you hadn’t allowed anyone to hear. “I… I don’t feel anything! Nothing.” You spoke not just aloud, but through every line of your body. The silence that had been your default, your shield, cracked around you, though tears didn’t come, and the raw tremor of exhaustion vibrated through your entire frame. “I push. I push and push, and it doesn’t matter. I– I’m… so tired, but I can’t stop. I can’t feel anything. I’m just… hollow, Steve. I’m empty! And it doesn’t—nothing—makes it stop.”
The words spilled out, a torrent that no one could touch or fix, reverberating against the walls as if the space itself was echoing your torment. Your shoulders shook violently, muscles flexing involuntarily from hours of relentless movement, yet it wasn’t the kind of shaking that comes with fatigue alone—it was the skeletal rattle of someone screaming in a void, of someone fighting against absence itself.
Steve knelt beside you, careful, his presence quiet but solid like a wall you didn’t want but needed. The subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of the room, grounding you without you realizing. He didn’t touch at first. He didn’t speak over you. He just let you unravel, let your body speak the silence that had grown so loud inside your chest, gave you space to collapse into yourself, to finally let go.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, voice low and steady, almost a whisper. “It’s okay to feel it. It’s okay to… need something. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”
You pressed your face harder into your arms, your body rigid with tension, a taut string pulled too far. Every fiber of you screamed, yet outwardly, the room might have seemed quiet, the only movement your chest rising and falling against the cold mat. “I—can’t. I can’t anymore,” you choked out, voice brittle, the sound almost swallowed by the room. “I just—”
“Shh,” Steve said gently, finally reaching a hand just near your shoulder, not touching, just a promise in the air, a tether for someone who felt like they were drifting endlessly. “I know. I know. It’s too much. It’s okay to break.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, the numbness gave way to something you could almost name—pain, though not the sharp sting of tears or the shallow burn of exertion. It was a hollow, gnawing ache that clawed at your chest, tore at your ribs, hollowed your gut. It was the kind of ache that left no outward mark, no dramatic collapse, no visual cue—but inside, it roared with the weight of everything you had repressed.
And it hurt so badly you didn’t care. Because in that quiet, silent, torturous recognition, it meant you were alive.
You stayed on the floor long after your sobs had slowed, long after your body had stopped shaking with the intensity of hours of exhaustion and emotional release. Your chest heaved softly, hair plastered to your forehead, eyes red and stinging. Steve’s presence remained a quiet weight nearby, just there. But you didn’t look up. You didn’t trust yourself to.
When he finally offered a hand—hesitant, careful—you snatched it, more out of instinct than trust, and let him help you to your feet. The training room, quiet just moments ago, suddenly felt enormous and full of judgment. Each echo of your own movements made you flinch.
“Let’s get you something to eat,” Steve said gently.
“No,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “I… I don’t need it.”
He didn’t push, just nodded, letting you move ahead of him. You walked down the corridor, shoulders hunched, palms gripping the edge of your shirt. Every step felt like it carried the weight of the breakdown you’d just unleashed, like the echoes of your crying were still bouncing off the walls, painting everyone’s image of you with fragility you didn’t want them to see.
By the time you returned to your room, the rest of the compound was alive with morning activity. You didn’t stop to see anyone. You didn’t even register their greetings or murmurs. You closed the door softly behind you and sat against it, knees pulled to your chest.
The day stretched on like a slow, suffocating haze. You stayed in the room, lights dim, blinds drawn, pretending to read or study the shadows on the wall. Every creak, every footstep outside, made your stomach twist. You couldn’t face them, not now. Not after what had spilled out of you.
Your body ached, exhausted in a way that wasn’t just physical, but you ignored it. Food, water, sunlight—all of it could wait. You just… couldn’t. Not yet. You kept the door closed, the blinds tight, the world outside a distant, untouchable thing.
You told yourself it was self-protection. You told yourself it was because you needed time. But deep down, you knew it was more than that. Embarrassment, shame, vulnerability… the raw, unfiltered version of yourself that had clawed its way out in front of Steve.
You wanted to shrink. You wanted to disappear. Not because you weren’t allowed to be seen, but because being seen—like that—made everything feel impossibly fragile.
And so the rest of the day passed with you locked away in silence, shuffling between bed and desk, staring at the same walls, the same quiet, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.
You didn’t move. The sunlight spilling through the blinds cut slashes across the floor, dust motes floating lazily in the light, but you couldn’t bring yourself to notice. Every sound from the compound outside—footsteps, faint voices, the hum of elevators—twisted in your chest like a physical ache. You couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face them.
For a long while, you just sat there, still, silent. You weren’t crying anymore. You hadn’t cried in this moment, or maybe you hadn’t cried truly for years. That raw, ragged outpouring in the training room had been loud, desperate, and yet… hollow. It had come from a place that didn’t have tears left to shed. Just the ragged, rhythmic exhalation of air, the tremble of muscles exhausted from the work you’d pushed yourself through, and the strange, hollow ache of your chest—the reminder that you could still feel something, even if it was just the dull echo of emptiness.
Minutes stretched into hours. You traced the edges of the key in your hand, watching the light glint off its surface, wondering if it mattered. If anything mattered. The silence pressed in, heavy and thick, like a blanket made of static, smothering everything else.
The walls of your room had started to feel smaller with every passing hour. You’d spent most of the day curled up in corners, lying on the bed, pacing back and forth, but the air felt stale no matter where you moved. Every breath scraped at your lungs, heavy, suffocating. The humiliation from earlier hadn’t faded—it sat inside you like a stone—but you were tired of suffocating in it.
Not out forever. Just… air. Something that wasn’t recycled through vents and laced with memories of every breakdown, every pair of eyes that had seen you unravel. You pressed your ear to the door, listening. The hallway beyond was quiet. A hum from the compound’s lights, faint footsteps in the distance, the usual background noise. Nothing close.
You eased the door open. It creaked—too loud, too sharp—and you froze, heart hammering. Nothing. Silence. You slipped out barefoot, moving quickly and light, every step calculated.
The corridors stretched long and empty, polished floors reflecting the dim glow of ceiling lights. You kept close to the wall, hugging shadows, ears straining for sound. Once, you ducked back at the distant echo of voices. Twice, you paused at intersections, waiting for patrol-like footsteps to pass. Every movement screamed of practiced stealth, old instincts resurfacing. If anyone had been watching, they would’ve seen the way your body remembered this—silent, precise, like slipping through enemy territory.
The compound was alive even when it seemed still. Elevator doors opened far down the hall, laughter drifted from a rec room you didn’t dare peek into, and faint music echoed from somewhere below. You slipped past it all, unseen. Almost free.
The exit loomed ahead, a sleek set of double doors leading out to the courtyard. Beyond them was open air, sky, wind. The thought of it quickened your pace, pulling you forward before your nerves could catch up. Your hand was already outstretched, fingers grazing the cool metal of the door handle, when the world betrayed you.
A calm, clipped British voice filled the hallway.
“Attention. Subject attempting unauthorized departure.”
It wasn’t just in the hall. It wasn’t just in your ears. It carried everywhere—broadcast through the compound’s speakers, clinical and merciless.
Doors slammed open down the corridor. Voices rose in confusion. Somewhere above, feet pounded against stairs. You swore under your breath, yanking at the handle, shoving at the doors—but they didn’t budge. Locked. Reinforced.
“Goddamn it—” Your voice cracked, panic clawing through your throat. You pounded the door once with your fist, the sound echoing, then backed away, chest heaving. The humiliation hit harder than the panic. Everyone heard that. Every single one of them—your mistake, your desperation, turned into an announcement. Like you were a prisoner trying to escape her cell. Like you weren’t even a person, just some liability.
You turned, back pressed to the doors as voices drew closer. They were coming—too fast, too many. The footsteps ricocheted through the hall, names being called, questions shouted. You wanted to melt into the floor, wanted to disappear, wanted to take Jarvis’s stupid calm voice and crush it until it stopped existing.
The footsteps rounded the corner.
You could practically feel the whole compound shifting, footsteps scrambling, whispers spreading. The blood roared in your ears, every muscle wound tight like you were back in enemy halls, every exit a trap.
The steady rhythm of boots pounded closer, too close. You froze for half a second, then instinct smothered reason. Fight or flight—and you’d never been taught to run.
The second the figure rounded the corner, you moved. A blur. Your hands shot out, seizing an arm, twisting, your weight slamming them down onto the tile with a harsh crack. You pinned them with a knee, fist already raised to strike.
Your chest seized. The world snapped back into focus. The person you had slammed down—his face was right there, flushed, startled, and unmistakably Steve Rogers.
Your breath stuttered, shame crashing in so hard your grip loosened instantly. You scrambled back like you’d been burned, your hands shaking, your pulse still hammering in fight mode. “Shit—I didn’t—”
Steve coughed, sitting up with a grimace but without anger. “You’re fast.” His tone wasn’t sharp, wasn’t accusing. In fact, he seemed impressed.
You pressed your back to the wall, sliding down until you hit the floor, burying your face against your knees. “I thought—” you muttered into the fabric of your sleeves, words raw, uneven. “I thought someone was coming to drag me back.”
Silence stretched for a beat. Then the soft scuff of Steve moving closer, though he stopped just out of reach. “No one’s dragging you anywhere,” he said firmly.
That only twisted the knife of shame deeper, because some part of you didn’t believe him. Not when Jarvis had exposed you, not when your first reaction was violence against the only person who’d shown you any gentleness.
Your throat burned, but you forced yourself to lift your head, meeting his gaze just long enough to rasp, “I didn’t mean to—” before looking away again, ashamed to even finish the sentence.
Steve stayed where he was, arms loose at his sides, eyes steady on you. “You look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin,” he said finally. He said matter-of-factly.
You pressed your back against the wall, gaze sliding away. “I just need air.”
Natasha, who had just walked in a second after you took Steve down, tilted her head. “Air, or an escape?” You didn’t bother answering. She smirked faintly, like she expected as much.
Steve gave her a look—subtle, but enough to shift the edge out of the room. He turned back to you. “Alright. Ten minutes. Outside. I’ll come with.”
That earned him a sharp glance from you. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Good,” he said simply. “Then it won’t bother you that I’m there.”
Natasha raised a brow, clearly amused. “Play nice,” she muttered, brushing past both of you toward the main hall. “Don’t let her vanish.”
Steve ignored her. He just gestured lightly toward the exit door. “Fresh air’s this way.”
For a second you considered resisting—fighting tooth and nail just on principle—but the sterile walls were closing in on you again, every inch of the compound pressing down like a cage. And the truth was, the idea of outside air settling in your lungs sounded necessary.
Without a word, you pushed past him, shoving open the door. The first sweep of cool wind hit your face, carrying with it the scent of wet concrete and grass, and something inside you eased in a way you hated to admit. Steve followed a step behind, hands in his pockets. You stood on the edge of the compound’s courtyard, arms crossed, breathing in the air like it might burn through the heaviness in your chest.
Steve broke the silence after a while, voice low. “See? Not so bad.”
You didn’t look at him. “Don’t get used to me saying thank you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, a small smile in his tone.
The quiet settled again, but this time it didn’t suffocate.
