Aftermath
Pairing: Winter Soldier x Handler! Female Reader
Tags: Hurt/Comfort. Reluctant Handler.
Warnings: Implied SA, Referenced torture. Implied HTP.
Summary: Nine out of ten vials recovered should have been enough, but they weren't. She patched him up behind closed doors, and utterly against protocol.
Word Count: 2.6k
Against Protocol Masterlist
She'd sent word to have him brought to her quarters when they were done, wording it carefully: "Asset to Handler's quarters for post-correction assessment."
Clinical and procedural. The kind of language that slipped through without raising flags.
Because she knew what happened in that room. And she knew that afterward, no one would give him a single consideration except her. After all, the serum ‘fixed’ almost any trace of damage in a brief period of days.
The shower had been running when she heard the door. A soft mechanical beep, then the pneumatic hiss of the seal releasing. She'd frozen for a moment, water still running over her shoulders, listening.
By the time she stepped out and pulled on her standard-issue clothing, he was already there standing just inside the threshold. Waiting.
He stood at attention, or what passed for it in his current state. Shoulders back, gaze forward, hands loose at his sides. But she could see it immediately. The split in his bottom lip, still seeping. Dark bruising spreading across his left cheekbone where something had connected hard. His right wrist, the human one, mottled purple and swollen beneath the edge of his sleeve.
Nine vials intact out of ten. A 90% success rate on a solo infiltration into a fortified laboratory.
It hadn't mattered.
The punishment had been swift and clinical. She hadn't been there -she was never in the room when they did this- but she could see the aftermath written across his body. The way he held himself too carefully, his breath shallow and controlled. The micro-flinch when he shifted his weight, favoring his right leg.
"Bed," she said quietly, gesturing toward it.
He moved immediately, but the first step betrayed him. A hitch in his gait, barely perceptible but there. He compensated, muscle memory overriding pain, but she saw it.
She crossed the distance between them, closing the space before he reached the mattress. Her hands went to his belt, fingers working the buckle open.
He went very still.
"It's fine, now." she murmured, not looking up at his face. "Sit down."
He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, movements stiff and deliberate. She knelt, unlacing his boots with quick, methodical pulls. First the right, then the left, setting them aside. His socks were damp with sweat and grime, the fabric sticking slightly as she peeled them off.
Then she returned to the tactical pants, tugging them down his thighs, past his knees.
That's when she saw it.
Blood. Dried and smeared between his legs, dark against pale skin.
Her hands stilled.
She didn't need to imagine or ask. The evidence was there, written on his body alongside all the other violations they justified as discipline.
She swallowed and finished removing the pants, folding them and setting them on the floor. When she straightened, she observed him closely. His lips were cracked and dry, the healthy one nearly as bad as the split one. His skin had that drawn quality, slightly grayish beneath the bruising. Dehydrated. Of course he was, why bother with water during corrections?
She retrieved the water bottle from her desk and brought it to him.
"Drink."
He looked at the bottle in her hand, then at her face. He didn't move.
"Just a little," she said softly.
His hand rose slowly, fingers closing around the plastic. He brought it to his lips and took a careful sip.
Then another.
And another.
His body seemed to remember all at once: the thirst, the need. Water spilled from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin as he drank deeply, draining the bottle until it crumpled empty in his grip.
She took it from him gently. His eyes followed the empty bottle, then flicked back to her face. Not asking -he wouldn't- but there was something there. A need he couldn't voice.
She crossed to the mini fridge beside her desk and pulled out another bottle, the plastic cold and slick with condensation, and returned to him.
"Here." She pressed it into his hand, her fingers brushing his for just a moment. "Drink it all."
This time, he didn't hesitate.
Her gaze fell on his compression shirt, still on, the dark fabric hiding whatever other damage they'd inflicted.
"The shirt," she said, gesturing vaguely. "I changed the sheets today. They're going to get dirty, so take it off."
As if his sweat-slicked, bloodied body wouldn't taint them. A flimsy excuse, but it gave him a reason, and gave her permission to look without admitting what she was doing. If she really cared about cleanliness, she'd make him sleep in some corner as the others did.
But she needed to see. Needed to know how bad it was.
He reached for the hem of his shirt with his left hand, the metal fingers curling into the fabric. When he tried to lift it, his right arm had to rise too, and she saw it immediately: the way his jaw clenched, the micro-hesitation before the movement was completed.
The shirt caught on his shoulders. He pulled harder with his left, compensating, but his right arm wasn't cooperating the way it should.
"Wait," she said quietly, stepping closer. "Let me."
She grasped the fabric bunched at his shoulders and carefully worked it up and over his head, guiding it past his right arm with minimal movement required from him. Her knuckles brushed the junction where skin met metal, and she felt the heat there immediately. Inflamed, probably swollen beneath.
When the shirt came free, she set it aside and let herself look.
Bruises mapped across his torso in varying shades of purple and yellow. Some fresh, some older. From the mission maybe. A split along his ribs where the skin had broken, crusted over but still angry. Marks pressed into his shoulders, his bicep. The kind that came from being held down.
He swayed slightly, exhaustion bleeding through the rigid control. She stood, reaching out instinctively to steady him, to help him lie back.
He shook his head. A small movement, gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder.
"Don't be proud now," she said quietly.
He let her guide him down then, sinking back against the pillow and his eyes slipped closed for a half-second before forcing themselves back open.
She moved to the kitchenette, filling a small basin with warm water from the tap, testing the temperature with her wrist. Hen, she grabbed a clean washcloth from the drawer and brought everything back to the bed.
Settling beside him on the mattress, she dipped the cloth in the water, wringing it out until it was just damp enough.
"I'm going to clean you up first," she said quietly. Not asking, but telling him what to expect. "Before the antiseptic."
She started with his face. The warm cloth moved across his forehead, wiping away the grime and dried sweat in slow, careful strokes. His eyes tracked her movements as she rinsed the cloth in the basin -the water already turning gray-and returned to work on his temples, his cheekbones, avoiding the worst of the bruising.
When she reached his jaw, she had to rinse twice more. Dirt, sweat, whatever got under the mask during the mission.
His breathing had started to even out, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. The warmth of the cloth, the repetitive motions… maybe it was soothing. Maybe his body was just too exhausted to maintain the tension.
She moved lower, cleaning his neck, the hollow of his throat. Then across his shoulders, pausing at the junction of metal and flesh. The skin there was angry red, swollen. She touched the cloth to it with barely any pressure, just enough to clean.
His breath hitched. Not quite a flinch, but close.
"I know," she murmured, gentling her touch even more. "Almost done with this part."
She worked her way down his chest, around the bruises, across his ribs. The cloth caught on rough edges of forming scabs, and she slowed, using almost no pressure at all. Just the warmth and moisture loosening the dried blood and grime until it came away on the fabric.
By the time she'd finished, the water in the basin was murky brown. She set it aside and reached for the antiseptic.
"This is going to sting," she warned, meeting his eyes. It was unnecessary, he already knew.
She dampened a square of gauze with antiseptic. The sharp chemical smell filled the small space between them, covering the lingering scent of sweat and blood.
She started with the cut on his cheekbone, dabbing carefully. He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink. Just let her work, his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder.
"You did good," she said softly, moving to the split on his lip. She had to lean closer for this one, steadying his chin gently with her free hand.
His eyes tracked to hers. Empty, but listening.
"I don't care what they say." She paused, holding his gaze. "It was a success. You did what was asked of you. Considering the chaos at the extraction point, I'm surprised more vials weren't damaged."
She moved to the split along his ribs, cleaning it with careful dabs, then squeezing a thin line of ointment along the edges before covering it with gauze and tape. Her fingers smoothed the edges down, making sure it would hold.
Then his wrist. The bruising was deep, mottled purple toward his knuckles.
She wrapped it carefully with gauze, even though she knew it would fade. But the motion gave her something to do with her hands. Let her take care of him in some small, permissible way.
When she tied off the end, her fingers lingered for just a moment on his palm.
She looked back at his face. Those exhausted, unreadable eyes.
"You did good, soldat." she repeated, slower this time. Making sure he heard it.
Her gaze drifted lower, to the dried blood still smeared along his inner thighs.
She hesitated, gauze still in her hand.
The serum would handle internal damage. It always did. But the evidence remained, and she didn't know if she should -if she could- do anything about it.
Touching him there, even to help, even with the most clinical of intentions... it would just be another violation. Another hand on him when he'd had no choice, no say.
But leaving him like that, marked, stained with what they'd done to him…
She took a slow breath through her nose and made her decision.
She stood, taking the basin of dirty water to the kitchenette and dumping it in the small sink. The brown water swirled down the drain. She refilled it with fresh warm water and returned with a clean cloth.
"I'm going to clean the blood in your thighs," she said quietly, sitting back down beside him. Her voice was even, but she had to swallow before continuing. "Just the blood. I'm not going to... I won't touch anything else. Okay?"
His fingers twitched against the mattress. Once. His throat worked as if he might speak, but nothing came out. His eyes found hers, held for a second, then slid away to the ceiling.
Not permission, exactly. But not refusal either.
She dipped the cloth in the clean water, wringing it out carefully. "I'm starting now," she said, keeping her voice low.
The moment her hand approached, his entire body went rigid from his shoulders to his calves, even as he remained perfectly still. His metal hand fisted in the sheets with a soft whir of plates shifting.
"It's okay," she murmured, keeping her movements slow and visible. "Just the cloth. Just cleaning."
She started at his knee, wiping away a smear of dried blood with gentle strokes, working her way up slowly. Giving him time to track each movement, to see where her hands were going.
When she reached his inner thigh, she felt him stop breathing.
"You're okay," she whispered. "Almost done."
She worked quickly but carefully, wiping away the dried blood with strokes that stayed well away from anything else. Just the evidence. Just the visible proof of what they'd done.
His thigh trembled under her hand. A barely-there quiver that travelled up through his hip, into his ribs. His breath came back in a sharp inhale through his nose.
She rinsed the cloth, the water turning pink, and finished the other leg with the same careful attention.
"Fuckers," she whispered, more to herself than to him. Her free hand curled into a fist against her own thigh, knuckles white.
When she finished, she pulled back, dropping the cloth into the basin. She didn't look at his face. She wasn't sure she could handle whatever expression might be there, or worse, the lack of one.
Instead, she stood and took the basin back to the kitchenette, dumping the pink-tinged water and rinsing it clean.
That's when she noticed it, the way his eyes kept sliding shut, then jerking open again. The minute sway in his shoulders even lying down. The way his jaw kept clenching, fighting against his body's desperate demand to stop.
He was trying not to pass out, but was waiting for something. Permission to stop, to let go.
"The mission report," she said quietly, watching his face. "It can wait. They already know the important parts anyway."
His brow creased, just slightly. Confusion, maybe. Or concern that he was failing another protocol, missing another requirement.
She reached up, her fingers gentle as she brushed the dark, sweat-damp hair back from his face. It was tangled, dirty, falling across his eyes. She tucked it behind his ear, her fingertips grazing his temple.
His eyes tracked the movement, following her hand.
"Sleep," she said. An order, firm and clear. The only language he was allowed to accept. "That's an order, Soldat. Sleep."
The tension bled out of him so suddenly that it was almost startling. His eyes slipped closed, and this time they stayed that way. His breathing evened out within seconds, the kind of immediate shutdown that came from a body too exhausted to fight anymore once permission had been granted.
She stayed there for a moment, sitting beside him on the mattress, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The way his face didn't quite smooth out even in sleep, some tension always remaining, even now.
After a moment, she felt it. The barest shift of his body toward hers. Unconscious, instinctive. His shoulder pressed slightly closer, his head turning a fraction in her direction.
Seeking comfort even in sleep. Seeking her.
Her gaze flicked to the door, a stupid, automatic reaction. No one could enter without the code.
After a moment, she stood, crossing the small space to the control panel. Her fingers moved over the keypad, entering a secondary lock code. Just in case.
Then she returned to the bed, lowering herself onto the mattress and settling on her side facing him. She reached down and pulled the blanket up over both of them.
She'd done this before. Too many times to count now.
She knew what would happen next. The same thing that always happened when she let him stay, when she didn't send him back to his cell or leave him standing in the corner like he was supposed to.
His body would seek hers out. Unconsciously, instinctively. He'd shift closer in increments, drawn to her warmth, her presence. Eventually, his forehead would press against her chest, his hand would find hers, fingers closing around her palm with a grip that was somehow both desperate and gentle.
And she would let him.
She would give him something he shouldn't have, something Hydra would punish them both for if they knew. Comfort. Contact. The basic human need of not being alone.
Like she always did.
Like she would keep doing, for as many nights as they had left before someone noticed, before her usefulness ran out.
dividers by @/strangergraphics