More fics in the world to stave off evil

You gave the room another once-over. He wasn't here. Which seemed... counterproductive.

The STRIKE guard escorting you from your room this morning simply pressed the blunt end of his electric baton between your shoulder blades, guiding you forward. The bustling room was far too loud for him to bark directions—at least, you assumed that was why. Some STRIKE members didn't seem to feel the need to speak to you either way.

You reached the least crowded corner of the room, giving yourself a clear view of everyone inside. You caught Pierce noting your presence with a brief glance before he turned his attention back to the group. The conversations died down.

"Alright, I trust everyone is here."

Again with the practiced pleasantries.

You looked around once more. Still no Winter Soldier. Odd.

Pierce continued addressing the tech teams before handing things over to a well-dressed man with an ID clipped neatly to his collar, though you were too far away to read his name.

Everyone here seemed well acquainted enough. You were the outlier. There was no need for introductions and so there were none. They moved straight into mission expectations.

The STRIKE team listened intently. You spotted Rumlow near the center of the room, arms folded as he watched the presentation, occasionally glancing toward the large screens while the tech teams briefed everyone on the intelligence they'd gathered.

You forced yourself to pay attention as well. The last thing you needed was to be completely clueless on your first away mission.

Despite the pressure sitting heavily on your shoulders, you couldn't stop the small excitement steadily growing inside you.

If Moldova was where you thought it was...

Then it was far.

The farthest you'd ever traveled.

There was something wonderful about that thought.

You clung to it.

***************************************************

The briefing continued.

Forty-five minutes of various team leaders taking turns explaining the role each department would play. Now it was aviation. You assumed the woman speaking was a pilot, judging by the embroidered wing insignia stitched onto her sleeves. She walked everyone through flight coordination, landing zones, and emergency extraction points.

You were only half listening. Instead, you scanned the room again. The same concentrated faces. The same focused silence.

Your eyes met Pierce's.

You wanted to look away but resisted the urge, worried any sudden movement might draw more attention to yourself. From where he stood, he probably just thought you happened to be looking in his direction.

He had no way of knowing you weren't actually looking at him at all—

He motioned you over.

Damn it.

You stood. The guard beside you immediately reached for the weapon on his hip, mistaking your movement for something unauthorized. He followed your gaze and saw Pierce raise a hand in silent confirmation.

With everyone now seated, the briefing room was much easier to navigate. You made your way toward the raised dais where Pierce and the other executives stood. You didn't have to look around to know eyes were following you. People were never shy with their stares. A few STRIKE members near the entrance shifted their footing into defensive positions as you passed.

You finally reached Pierce just as another team lead took over, now discussing potential targets. You found yourself far more interested in whatever Pierce wanted with you that couldn’t wait for the briefing currently happening around him.

None of the other executives acknowledged your arrival as you stopped a respectful distance away. You recognized one of them. An old fart whose broken femur you'd healed after a skiing accident months ago. He'd spent the entire session talking on his phone about his exciting holiday without sparing you so much as a glance. Just another asset in HYDRA's arsenal.

Pierce motioned you closer.

Ironically, and to your horror, he was the only person in the facility who never seemed bothered by standing close to you. Pierce knew exactly how your abilities worked.

Inside and out.

You'd spent two years locked inside padded observation rooms while scientists poked, prodded, dissected, operated, and stitched you back together, desperately searching for the source of your abilities.

Nightmarish nights spent surrounded by living things you were expected to demonstrate on. Plants. Animals.

People.

Pierce knew he was perfectly safe with you beneath the layers of clothes he’d strictly enforced. He also knew you'd have a bullet in your head long before you ever managed to remove your gloves.

"This isn't your mission," he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath another team's presentation on new weapons and equipment.

"Your mission is to make sure the Asset remains stable and operational for the duration of this assignment."

You let out a slow breath. Now consciously reminding yourself to breathe.

"You'll be granted access to the Asset's complete neurological history so you're better informed about his..." He paused. "...episodes."

You nodded. You didn't trust your voice. Besides, you doubted he wanted you to speak anyway.

"You." Pierce addressed the nearest STRIKE member stationed along the wall behind him.

"Escort her to Lab B4-31." The laboratory designation made you raise an eyebrow. You didn't have clearance for Lab B4-31.

As though he'd heard your thoughts, Pierce slipped a small authorization card into your gloved hand. "Retrieve the Asset's neurological scans and reports." You accepted the card. For the briefest moment, your glove brushed against his hand. Oddly enough, you were the one nervous to touch him.

Pierce gave a single nod.

The STRIKE escort immediately turned and began leading you from the room. The guards stationed by the entrance spared you only a passing glance before returning their attention to Rumlow, who had already begun briefing his team on operational protocol.

The route was unfamiliar.

You took in the new corridors.

The new faces.

The facility suddenly felt much larger than it ever had before.

An elevator carried you downward. The ride felt long. Your escort glanced back at you once, his permanent frown firmly in place. You looked straight ahead as the elevator doors opened onto a floor you'd never seen before.

Security personnel stationed behind a desk immediately looked up. This part, however, was familiar. Full-body scanner. Gloves off for biometric verification. The guards here had clearly been briefed about you as well. Hands remained firmly on drawn weapons until your gloves were safely back in place.

Once cleared, you continued forward. You noticed your escort hadn't moved from his position beside the elevator. That wasn't surprising. HYDRA operated on compartmentalization. Only certain personnel were authorized to enter certain rooms. Many STRIKE members weren't granted access to laboratories, so you continued alone.

The layout was familiar enough. Lab B4-01. Lab B4-02. Opposite one another.

Further down the corridor...

B4-18.

B4-19.

The same pattern repeated itself as you rounded another corner.

B4-29.

B4-30.

Finally...

B4-31.

The laboratory sat at the very end of the corridor. Large grey metal double doors. Security cameras angled downward. Dual biometric scanners mounted on either side. You removed your glove once again and pressed your hand against the scanner.

A red light flashed.

"Access denied."

The robotic voice echoed through the hallway.

You withdrew your hand, returning it to its glove and instead swiped the authorization card Pierce had given you.

"Alpha-level access override. Alexander Pierce."

The robotic voice announced the authorization.

The screen turned blue. With a hiss, the heavy laboratory doors slid open. A gust of cold, recycled air blew the fabric of your veil as you stepped inside.

And it's nightmare fuel.

You stay close to the automatic doors that shut behind you, the sound of heavy bolts snapping into place echoing through the room.

Your eyes slowly adjust to the low lighting. Only a handful of fluorescent ceiling lights are on, bathing the laboratory in long shadows. You look around for what you assume would be the light switches in a lab like this, but don't see any. Instead, you're pulled deeper into the room, searching for something that might better illuminate the space.

Still, you can't help but strain your eyes to take it all in. Ghastly, but familiar enough. A neurological console sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by loose wires, dark monitors, and softly hissing ventilation ducts. You spot what is likely the console containing the information you need to retrieve, but the monstrous contraption near the center of the room steals your attention instead.

You recognize the metal chair.

The titanium restraints designed to hold its occupant. But alongside the heart monitors sits a large metal headpiece connected to an array of electrical equipment.

You aren't entirely sure what it is.

Whatever it is...

You know it has to hurt.

Your foot bumps against what you assume is a metal drum. You step around it to get a better look.

Oh.

It's a cryogenic chamber. You'd only ever seen diagrams of it and basic instructions explaining how it worked. It is every bit as daunting as you'd imagined. Thick frost clings to the glass. Even powered down and empty, it radiates an unbearable cold. Seeing it up close unsettles you.

Everything about this place feels wrong.

Your eyes drift back to the chair at the center of the room, the thick restraints hanging loosely from its armrests.

Doing this to another human being is wrong.

You move to rest your gloved hand against the chamber's glass. Even through the thick material, the cold bites at your skin. So cold it hurts. You leave your hand there though, taking a slow, steady breath. You allow yourself to feel. Is this what they put him in? You can't imagine the pain. Your fingers begin to ache beneath the gloves. Even for him... This has to hurt. How could it not?

You stand there for another moment, your fingers burning beneath the fabric. You close your eyes. Another deep breath. Then you remember you're on a time constraint. Pierce sent you here for a reason. He hadn't given you a specific amount of time to complete it, but you knew he expected it done quickly.

You open your eyes. Your gloved hand still rests against the glass. You look past it into the empty, dark room beyond—

A startled squeal escapes you as you jump backward.

The Winter Soldier is standing much closer than you realized. Than you'd noticed.

He doesn't move. He doesn't react to the sound you've just made. You continue backing away from the chamber until you have a better view of him. He's standing beside it, hidden in the darkness. Was he there this whole time?

Watching you?

You hadn't heard so much as a breath. Not even the shuffle of a boot. You're impossibly unnerved.

Only now do you truly realize how large he is.

Until now, he'd always been restrained, seated, or lying unconscious while you worked. Even when he'd stood across the maintenance lab, there had always been distance between the two of you.

Not now.

Standing only a few steps away...

He's massive. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Heavy tactical gear somehow making him appear even larger. And impossibly, utterly quiet.

He doesn't move. His black face mask hides everything below his eyes, and from where you stand, you can't even make those out clearly.

You suddenly feel ridiculous. The silence stretches awkwardly between you. "...Good morning." Nothing. Pierce's warning about unnecessary conversation echoes through your mind, but you don't know what else to do. "I'm... just here for your files," you mumble. "I'll only be a moment." Still nothing.

You clear your throat, sidestepping toward the console, careful to keep him in your peripheral vision, half convinced you were seeing things. You reach the center console. With another swipe of Pierce's authorization card. The system hums to life, bringing with it the glow of three overhead monitors. You glance back toward the Winter Soldier. You can make out his silhouette much more clearly now.

Standing perfectly still. Arms at his sides, his head level.

Now you can finally make out a little of his eyes above the mask, framed by dark hair. They’re fixed on you. You look away and return your attention to the console, now fully booted.

This part is familiar. You know your way around these systems. Pierce's authorization grants you access to previously encrypted files, now open before you. You work quickly; there's a lot of information. Some of it, you already know and have access to.

Mission reports.

Medical History.

You search deeper. Further back.

You throw another glance toward him. He's still there. If not for the unwavering stare fixed on you, you'd almost think he was asleep.

Did he even sleep?

Did he sleep here?

If he did...

This was exactly how you'd imagine he'd do it. Standing on his own two feet, hands stiff at his sides.

You return your attention to the console. It takes several more minutes of digging before you finally reach unfamiliar territory.

Trigger words.

Conditioning protocols.

Neurological assessments.

Files you've never seen before. You group them together and begin transferring them to your own reporting device. Another swipe of Pierce's authorization card to begin the transfer.

3%.

You let out a slow breath.

Waiting.

You can still feel his eyes on you.

You drum your fingers lightly against the console, pretending to concentrate. Another glance. He's still there. Waiting for you to leave? You're not sure. You shift uncomfortably.

27%. Okay.

That's moving fast enough. You busy yourself by reading through the newly unlocked files. Some you skim. Some are older than you. One folder catches your attention.

Casualties. It’s recently updated.

You click it.

*************************************

The soft whirring of his metal arm makes you look up. He's still standing there and still watching. His metal hand slowly flexes and unclenches. It’s the first movement he's made since you noticed him.

It reminds you—almost painfully—that you're alone in a room with him. For the first time.

You quickly turn back to the console, trying to distract yourself from the growing anxiety. The folder opens and a list of documents unfolds before you. You scroll down, skipping over some, one entry immediately catches your attention.

Neurological Maintenance Staff — Deceased.

You open it, watching as photographs fill the screen. They’re Staff ID photos. You recognize several faces, seven maybe, faces you hadn't seen in weeks.

Darren Smith.

You remember him. Quiet and insightful with a penchant of mumbling to himself. Your thoughts race. Was he dead? HYDRA constantly rotated staff as needed. It never seemed worth it, getting attached to coworkers. People were always reassigned to different departments and different projects. You yourself had worked with an entirely different maintenance team only a few months earlier, before Pierce deemed you worthy of joining the Winter Soldier's maintenance division.

Your naïveté strikes again. It had never occurred to you that laboratory staff could die here. STRIKE operatives? Of course. There were always new faces. Always casualties. They worked on the front lines but these people...

These were scientists. People who spent their days buried in reports and laboratories.

You scroll farther. Looking for answers. Autopsy photographs suddenly fill your screen. It’s brutal and mangled. You instinctively want to look away, but horror keeps your eyes locked in place. One body lies twisted beyond recognition; it’s head nowhere attached.

You quickly skip to the end of the document, desperate to escape the gore. Relief washes over you when you're greeted by written reports instead. You try but can't focus enough to read every word. You catch enough though.

Winter Soldier.

Manic.

Broken restraints.

The story unfolding before you is damning. You snap your head toward him. He's still watching you. Any anxiety you'd managed to suppress comes rushing back all at once. You swallow. The transfer has to be nearly complete now. You'll have plenty of time to review these files later.

For a brief moment, you wonder...

Was this what Pierce wanted you to see? Did he want you to understand exactly what could happen to you if the Winter Soldier's episodes weren't brought under control?

You want to look back at the transfer progress. Verify it's finished and leave but some primitive part of your brain refuses to look away from where the Winter Soldier stands.

Then...

He moves.

You don't know what's faster—

your heart dropping into your ass…

or him crossing half the room.

Another involuntary squeal escapes you. You stumble backward, crashing into the workstation behind you. Several things clatter onto the floor. You don't even look. You can't take your wide eyes off the Soldier as he advances.

He's fast. So unbelievably fast. For the briefest moment, a single thought flashes through your mind.

Drain him.

You've never once used your abilities defensively. Never touched someone with the intention of harming them. Only storing enough life to heal someone else.

Still...

The thought crosses your mind. Your hand instinctively reaches for the opposite glove, ready to pull it off. Too late and too damned slow. He's already close enough that you can make out the faint lines across his forehead.

He'd drop you long before you ever managed to remove your gloves, let alone touch him.

Then...

He stops. So abruptly it almost looks mechanical. The unnatural movement sends goosebumps racing up your spine. It’s the first time you’d ever describe him as uncanny, as if what stood before you wasn’t human anymore. Your jaw aches from how tightly you're clenching it. Your eyes strain desperately against the veil and the dimly lit room.

You finally understand what people mean by fight or flight. Only you do neither. You freeze.

Your fingers lace together, searching for comfort and he starts moving again. Slowly this time. One booted foot in front of the other. It’s Impossibly quiet. If you weren't watching him, you'd never know he'd moved at all.

Another step.

Your breathing turns shaky. The report remains open on the monitor, describing exactly what happened to the neuroscientists who once worked in this very room. How the Winter Soldier slaughtered them during one of his manic highs.

Another slow step.

You squeeze your hands together.

Another.

Now he's beside you. Shoulder to shoulder. His metal arm dwarfs your own and you squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the impact. You keep them closed.

Nothing.

The fabric of your clothes shifts as he brushes past you. His metal arm lightly grazes the layers. You wait for another heartbeat before turning. You look over your shoulder. He's already walking away. His pace now perfectly ordinary as he crosses to the opposite side of the laboratory before disappearing through another door.

You pause. Watching it close behind him. It takes several steady breaths before your breathing finally settles. You raise your hands and press them against your chest, your heart finally back where it belongs.

You look at the monitor.

100%.

Done.

One final glance toward the door and you wonder…

Was he ever walking towards you at all?

Or was he simply walking past you?

The loud bang of the laboratory door jerks you out of your thoughts.

You jump.

"Of course you're wasting my damn time, Casper. Let's go."

Rumlow.

Oh, thank God.

You grab the authorization card from the console and hurry toward him, despite the Magnum .44—partially meant for you—resting comfortably in his hand.

You'd gladly take your chances with him instead.

You cast one final glance toward the door the Winter Soldier disappeared through.

He never reappears.

Rumlow studies you for a second. Even without seeing your face, he reads you correctly. A dry chuckle escapes him. "Oh, not so nice, is it, sweetheart?" He nudges the small of your back with the butt of his pistol. "Welcome to my life. Monitoring you fucking freaks." The shove is unnecessary. You were already eager to get out of the room.

Finally moving away from the lab, Rumlow weaves through the corridors, leading you back through the security checkpoint. Biometric scans. Full-body scanner. Rejoining the guard from before, Rumlow walks ahead while the other guard falls in behind you. Back through the elevator and into another maze of corridors, you follow the usual security protocols, this time with Rumlow scanning his fingertips and punching in access codes as you move through the halls, seemingly in a hurry.

The corridors become more and more familiar until you're a couple of levels down and back in the basement.

You still hadn't used all your energy reserves. You never did.

Pierce never allowed you to be completely empty. He always said it was... inconvenient.

To who? You'd wondered that a couple of months ago.

Now you knew. To him.

Rumlow steps in front of you again, leading the way deeper into the basement. STRIKE members move shipment containers through the halls, no doubt preparing for the upcoming mission. You turn left after him. Your "meals" are already here, lined up.

Three this time. Three men you recognized but hadn't seen in a couple of months.

It was reassuring, in a strange way, to know your abilities weren't irreversible. You remembered the last time they'd passed through your hands: skeletal fingers, missing patches of hair, slumped into heaving, panting heaps on the floor beneath you.

Pierce's orders.

He'd stood beside you, wanting to find the exact limit of what you could drain without killing someone. One volunteer hadn't survived. Now you were greeted by the remaining three once again. The moment they laid eyes on your layered, veiled figure, fear spread across their faces. It was palpable. Even though they expected you. Even though they knew the process. They were still terrified. Terrified because they knew the process.

You suddenly felt incredibly foolish for your own reaction to the Winter Soldier only moments earlier. Balking away from him just as these men now recoiled from you. You deliberately slowed your movements and carefully lowered yourself to their level, hoping the gesture might ease some of their growing apprehension.

Instead, it set off an alarm bell in your own mind. Was this what the Winter Soldier had been doing? No. You doubted it. That would require a level of consideration, wouldn't it? He was most definitely beyond that.

...Were you? You’d hoped you weren’t.

You were certain the men before you would have a very different answer. An answer you'd know if you looked into their eyes, so you didn't. You kept your head lowered as you removed your gloves, vaguely aware that one of the STRIKE guards had already raised his weapon toward you. That was fear too.

Yeah. You definitely felt silly now.

You worked through the three volunteers, counting only to four this time for each of them.

By the time you stepped away from the last slumped figure, you were once again uncomfortably full.

"Time for some actual food," Rumlow said, jerking his head toward the elevator.

*************************************** The cafeteria is full at this time of day.

It's the brightest part of the building—at least, the brightest place you'd ever been allowed to go. High floor-to-ceiling windows let streams of sunlight pour inside.

You can't remember the last time you'd actually felt the sun. Or seen trees. Or even a bird. From here, overlooking a green space, you could at least see them.

Most of the rooms you were permitted to enter were underground—high-security, blacked-out spaces where sunlight never reached. The cafeteria, by comparison, bustled with different teams and personnel moving between tables, talking over lunch, and laughing amongst themselves.

You didn't come here often.

Your meals were usually delivered directly to your room by some unlucky intern with shaking hands, who always seemed determined to place the tray into your grasp as quickly as possible without accidentally brushing against your gloved fingers.

Sometimes they missed. Sometimes the food ended up on the floor.

Rumlow shook you from your thoughts, shoving a tray and a set of utensils in your direction as you made your way toward the buffet.

"What? Not hungry after that?"

That was enough of this asshole for one day.

You grabbed the tray and moved down the buffet line. At least it was self-service. You weren't sure how many more people recoiling from you, you could tolerate in a single day.

The thought brought you back to the Winter Soldier in that laboratory. The way you'd instinctively shuffled backward as he'd walked toward you. A quiet sense of hypocrisy settled over you.

You loaded your plate. The food here was good. Really good. There was always a wide variety, too. Whoever delivered your meals to your room always seemed to skip your favorites. You decided to take full advantage of the buffet. By the time you finished, your tray was considerably heavier.

You turned, looking for somewhere to sit. You'd rather not be anywhere near the STRIKE team. You'd had enough of those men and their crass stories for one day. A row of enclosed booths at the far end of the cafeteria caught your eye. Most of them were already occupied, but two remained empty in the corner. You silently prayed no one else reached them first as you started toward them.

"Hey." Rumlow called after you. "You make sure you stay where I can see you."

You were officially over this day.

If both hands hadn't been occupied balancing your overloaded tray, you probably would've shown him a finger. Instead, you jerked your head toward the corner booth you'd picked, silently asking for permission. Rumlow glanced over while he and the rest of the STRIKE team were still piling food onto their own trays. He gave a dismissive nod.

Good enough.

You headed over before anyone else could claim it, thanking God it was still empty. You slid into the booth, your human stomach rumbling in protest. It was always a strange feeling...Being simultaneously full and hungry.

You settled in with your back to the cafeteria, the wooden dividers enclosing you on either side. Carefully, you folded your veil just high enough to uncover your mouth before finally digging into your food.

You wondered if the Winter Soldier ate. He had to.

Muscles like that didn't grow out of nothing.

You immediately shook your head, silently reprimanding yourself for the thought.

If he did eat, you doubted it was here. Probably in that room he'd disappeared into.

Probably alone.

Compared to the new usual of the past few weeks, last night had actually been a relatively easy fix. He had returned with only bullet wounds and minor lacerations. In fact, you had spent far more energy healing the shattered bones of the STRIKE team members who had tried to wrangle him back into his cell than you had on the Winter Soldier himself.

You'd waited until he was sedated, sprawled across the floor of his containment room, just to make sure he hadn't injured himself any further. Your bare hand had found the flesh of his right wrist, his pulse now steady compared to the frantic racing from just moments before. You remembered pushing the soothing warmth of your healing energy into him. There hadn't been much left to mend, but it was... nice. It offered a few fleeting moments of being able to feel and touch another human being.

It was completely different from the prickly, spindling sensation of draining the life out of someone—that awful feeling of taking what didn't belong to you. Healing felt slow, steady, and intentional. You had swiped your thumb over his pulse repeatedly, a bad habit that had been steadily growing. It was more of a comfort to you than to him; you didn't think he could even process comfort anymore. His eyes were always either sharp and ready for a mission or completely vacant and distant.

Suddenly conscious of wasting energy where it wasn't needed, you pulled your hands away. You slipped them back into your gloves, keeping the healing energy flowing tightly through your body until both hands were completely secure. As you looked over your work, you met the heavy-lidded stare of the Winter Soldier. Whatever they had knocked him up with was good, but obviously not enough to fully put him under.

You simply stared back.

It was the only way you were allowed to interact.

HYDRA demanded limited conversation with their Assets. When you had first mastered your powers well enough to join the Winter Soldier's repair team a couple months ago, you had minded your manners. You used to offer him a small smile, even if he couldn't see it beneath your veil, and speak in soft words—always explaining what you were doing and where you were touching. You did all of that until Alexander Pierce had firmly advised against it.

They wanted their Asset sharp, to bury the man beneath layers of conditioning until nothing remained but brainwashed obedience, always ready to comply. There was no room for niceties.

"You wouldn't talk to him any more than you would a rifle or any other weapon," Pierce had explained to you.

You guessed they saw you the same way.

A tool to mend the weapon for them.

Maybe that's why you did it. So lonely and isolated in your own monotonous misery, you wondered if some distant part of him felt the same. Maybe that's why you spent extra time moving slow, deliberate hands over the Winter Soldier, always careful to pour warmth and strength into him. You were always reluctant to pull away from his skin. Always reluctant to put the gloves back on. To become untouchable again......

The pager dinged, a sharp noise loud enough to startle you out of your sleep. You hadn't realized you'd actually drifted off.

10 minutes out, it read across the tiny screen.

You moved into the bathroom, refreshing yourself and smoothing the strands of hair that had fallen out of place—hair that no one ever saw. Walking back into the main room, you navigated around the pile of discarded clothes, moving past packages, stashes of unopened snacks, the new DVD player you'd ordered, and so much more junk. You were paid well, and considering you weren't allowed to leave the base, you had developed quite the spending problem. The room was full of half-opened boxes that served as your sole motivation to keep going.

The clothes were easier to slip into than they had been that morning. Your daily routine was proper shit, and you didn't exactly lead a wholesome life, so out of everything on your schedule, this was actually your favorite part of the day. It was selfish—you were heading into a room full of bloodied, beaten men—but you felt a deep sense of contentment at the prospect of finally releasing the pent-up energy inside you.

You slid your veil into place before pulling the gloves snug over your hands. The sound of a four-digit code—one you didn't know—being punched into the electronic lock outside let you know you'd timed your escort well. You grabbed your pager as the door swung open.

It wasn't Rumlow.

It was another STRIKE team member.

"Out. Hands where I can see them. Walk in front."

This one was definitely new. The new ones were always so jittery around you.

You complied nevertheless.

You led the way to the labs, pressing your faceless ID card against the scanners to sign into the system and bypass security. After passing through one final X-ray scanner to ensure you carried no weapons or unauthorized items, you stepped into the largest maintenance lab in the facility.

The first thing you noticed was the maintenance crew, almost all engineers and neurologists clad in white lab coats, either focused on the Winter Soldier's whirring metal arm or analyzing his brain imaging.

The second thing you noticed was him.

He was standing across the room, seemingly stable, still dressed in heavy tactical gear and harnesses, though his holsters were no doubt empty of ammunition and explosives. The harsh overhead lights caught against the polished metal of his left arm as he reached up to remove the black face covering. The mask gave way to a stubbled jaw and shoulder-length dark hair clinging damply to the sides of his neck.

You tried not to stare for too long.

He certainly didn't afford you the same courtesy.

His intense gaze followed you as you crossed the room toward your station, dragging a clipboard closer to read through the incoming mission reports detailing injuries and casualties. There was already an influx of wounded STRIKE members being wheeled into the lab. It wasn't nearly as bad as the previous night. Whoever they'd fought today had been far kinder to them than the Winter Soldier had.

Rumlow was among them.

Your veil once again saving your ass, hiding the massive grin that spread across your face. He was bleeding a fair amount, his uninjured hand clamped tightly around his opposite shoulder. It was clearly dislocated. You deeply envied whoever had been granted the pleasure of doing it-.

Alexander Pierce entered the room.

You heard him before you saw him—or rather, you heard the heavy, synchronized footsteps of at least five STRIKE guards moving defensively around him, including the two from that morning. It was enough to wipe the snark right out of you. You busied yourself around your station because, as Pierce entered the lab, the already cavernous room suddenly felt much, much smaller.

"Why isn't he strapped in? In your seat, Soldat."

The Winter Soldier moved instantly—silent and impossibly fast, faster than any normal human had any right to be. He dropped heavily into the maintenance chair as hesitant engineers scrambled around him, hurriedly securing thick metal restraints across his chest and limbs. Pierce preferred his Asset restrained whenever he wasn't explicitly in the field, and it had become increasingly inefficient to cryofreeze him after every deployment, considering the growing frequency of his missions.

The chair would have to do.

Engineers crowded around the Asset, hooking up biometric sensors while another technician synchronized the heart monitor, which immediately settled into a steady, rhythmic beep. A second engineer inspected the metal arm, using a small pneumatic tool to buff away the dents and scratches left from the mission.

"Mission report," Pierce ordered, stepping directly in front of the Winter Soldier.

You made yourself busy, hoping it would keep you out of Pierce's orbit, and headed over to Rumlow, who was currently sprawled across a metal gurney. You flooded your body with healing energy before pulling off your gloves.

You caught the brief flicker of mistrust in Rumlow's eyes.

It never left, no matter how many times you'd healed him before.

They all knew what your default state was.

You moved your hand to the back of his neck—the only bare skin available, since his hands were still encased in tactical gloves. You watched the suspicion fade from his eyes as his breathing gradually evened out, his attention drifting away from where he thought yours was. Instead, he focused on Pierce, listening to the mission report.

Targets neutralized.

Artifacts retrieved.

You finished healing Rumlow quicker than you expected. For the briefest moment, a small urge to linger surfaced—to simply enjoy the rare feeling of touching warm, living skin.

The thought embarrassed you.

A pettier part of you decided he didn't deserve the extra energy anyway.

You pulled away.

His shoulder sat properly back in its socket, and the stab wounds scattered across his torso had already knitted shut.

You moved to the next injured STRIKE member, this one nursing a broken leg. Fractures always demanded significantly more energy than flesh wounds. You held on until the broken bone reversed itself, knitting together beneath your hand before finally settling whole once again.

You turned toward a third soldier when a familiar voice cut cleanly through the room.

"We have doctors in the building, you know. Those are a lesser priority."

You didn't have to look up to know Pierce was addressing you. He reserved a particular brand of condescension exclusively for you.

You turned, careful to keep your bare hands raised well away from everyone else.

"Sir?"

"Focus on the Asset," Pierce replied, his tone dripping with mock concern. "I'd hate for your reserves to run dry before you've seen to him. Especially when you insist on eating half-meals."

You moved immediately.

It didn't take a genius to understand what he wasn't saying.

The last thing you needed tonight was another body lying lifeless on the floor at Alexander Pierce's command.

You hated doing it.

And he knew you did.

Completely draining a person—taking every last drop of life until nothing remained—was his favorite method of reminding you who owned your gift.

Pierce would choose someone. Never a criminal.

Usually just someone unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone who had pissed him off. Someone who had simply existed on the wrong day.

Then you would be summoned.

You would drain the life from them, storing it inside yourself like fuel in a tank, only for it to be spent repairing his favorite weapons—or curing the aches, pains, and minor illnesses of the powerful men who kept HYDRA running.

Like the soldier you were now carefully making your way toward, avoiding the personnel who instinctively threw themselves out of your path...

You had your own bloody body count.

The steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor quickened the moment you stepped into the Winter Soldier's space.

It always did.

"Elevated heart rate," one of the engineers muttered, leaning closer to his monitor as his brow furrowed.

A neurologist seated at the central console tapped a few keys, expanding a live map of the Asset's brain activity.

"Neurological activity is spiking across the board," he reported. "Significant increase in dopamine levels."

"He's anticipating the transfer," another technician explained dryly without even looking up from calibrating the hydraulic fluid lines running through the metal shoulder. "The Asset's conditioning associates the Healer with a cellular recharge. It's a localized reward response. He's expecting the healing."

They spoke about him as though he were a machine warming up when plugged into a power source.

You tried not to make eye contact as you bent slightly over him.

Tried and failed.

With your back to Pierce and most of the tactical team, you finally met his eyes.

Blue. Framed by smudges of black coal.

His stare never wavered.

Your fingers brushed lightly over the inside of his wrist before curling around it, skin meeting skin.

The energy inside you surged eagerly toward him, escaping in a warm rush that spread beneath his flesh. It felt strangely at odds with the cold, sterile room around you.

His heart rate didn't slow.

If anything, it climbed even higher.

The technician monitoring his vitals paused, his eyes flicking between the screen and the steadily rising numbers. In your peripheral vision, you caught him glancing toward Pierce. He parted his lips as though he intended to say something, but after a brief hesitation, thought better of it.

"The dopamine response is still increasing. We've observed this trend across multiple maintenance cycles" the neurologist announced from the control station. "Highest levels we've recorded."

That unwavering stare, coupled with the growing murmur among the technicians behind you, made you push the healing faster.

Normally, you liked taking your time with the Winter Soldier.

Slow hands.

Gentle movements.

Melting pain away before carefully weaving together bone, muscle, and skin.

But with Pierce standing only a few feet behind you—already frustrated with his broken weapon, as you'd gathered from your meeting that morning—you refused to give anyone the slightest hint of your own vulnerability where the Asset was concerned.

The moment your healing energy searched his body and found nothing left to repair...

You pulled away.

You watched as his fingers flexed, curled into a fist, then slowly relaxed again. For a fleeting second, you wondered what it felt like to hold someone's hand. You shoved the thought aside.

Stepping back, you returned to your station and began filling out your report. Against your better judgment, you glanced toward Pierce.

His expression remained unreadable as his gaze shifted between you and his Asset. Behind him, the heart monitor settled into its familiar rhythm. The projected scan above the chair reflected the same pattern, dopamine levels steadily declining back toward baseline.

Then Pierce looked at you. Nothing escaped those eyes. He smiled.

Your stomach tightened.

A few moments passed in tense silence, broken only by the scratch of your stylus against the tablet.

"Leave us."

Gladly! Relief flooded you before you had the chance to question it. You'd barely taken two steps toward the door alongside the engineers and STRIKE personnel before Pierce spoke again.

"Not you."

Pierce ignored you for the moment, his attention drifting back toward the projected brain scan still hovering above the maintenance chair. His hands settled behind his back as he tilted his head upward, studying the jagged spike in neurological activity.

The room fell silent as you waited for the verdict.

Eventually, he turned back to you. The smile returned. "You've provided us with quite the problem solve."

You frowned beneath your veil.

"...Sir?"

"We've fallen behind schedule," Pierce began, his gaze drifting briefly toward the Winter Soldier. "Thanks to our Asset's..." He paused, searching for the least charitable word. "...behaviour." He spoke it like a curse.

If some buried fragment of the Winter Soldier found offense in the remark, it didn't show. He remained perfectly still in the maintenance chair, his expression blank, his stare fixed somewhere far beyond the room.

"Tonight, however..." Pierce gestured toward the monitor. "His vitals stabilized almost immediately upon your arrival." You flushed beneath your veil. An ugly feeling settled in your stomach. You had done this. Somewhere along the line, you'd become too comfortable. Too slow with your hands. Too willing to linger. The realization turned your stomach. He couldn't consent to your selfishness wrapped up as kindness. He couldn't ask you to stop. He couldn't ask you to stay. You had always told yourself the extra few seconds were harmless. Now you weren't so sure.

Pierce pursed his lips, still studying the data. Finally, he nodded once. "Conditioning is no longer sufficient." A beat. "We'll supplement it." He raised a hand.

One of the guards immediately stepped forward carrying a sealed folder. Rather than handing it to you directly, the guard placed it carefully on the edge of your workstation before retreating a respectful distance. Even now, no one willingly touched you.

You reached for the folder, but before you could inspect its contents, Pierce continued.

"There's business requiring our attention off the border of Maldova." He folded his hands neatly behind his back. "We had intended to resolve the matter weeks ago. Unfortunately..." His eyes drifted toward the Winter Soldier. "...our Asset's recent decline in operational consistency has made deployment inadvisable."

Then his gaze settled on you.

"You'll accompany him."

For a second, you simply stared. Even beneath your layers of cloth, you knew you must have looked utterly bewildered. Pierce interpreted your silence exactly as expected.

"If carrying additional equipment increases operational success by even two percent..." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...we carry it." Being referred to as equipment should have irked you, instead your attention had already drifted to the folder clutched in your hands.

An away mission.

Three years. Three years inside this facility. Three years of laboratories, elevators, biometric scanners, and concrete walls. You'd almost forgotten there was still an outside world. "We expect these results to prove promising." The excitement settled almost as quickly as it had arrived.

Its place was filled by something much heavier. You knew that look. Alexander Pierce wasn't optimistic. He wasn't hopeful. He was calculating. This wasn't his first choice. It wasn't even his preferred one. It was simply the most efficient solution currently available. And that meant the responsibility for keeping HYDRA's most valuable weapon functional...

He'd most definitely had an exciting night. You both did. It had taken two tactical teams of a dozen men to restrain and sedate the Winter Soldier last night—an occurrence which seemed more frequent with each passing week. It was a new problem in a long track record of excellent results from Hydra's most successful project. The asset's behavioral issues had stumped the maintenance team tasked with resetting the Winter Soldier to consistent, optimal performance. Being their head of division meant you were the scapegoat who had to tell Alexander Pierce that you had no idea what had gotten into his most prized weapon, and therefore, no idea how to fix it.

You shifted in your seat and fumbled with your folder. There was no need for it to be here—you had all its contents memorized—but there was a deep, primal need to hold onto something as Director Pierce focused his expecting gaze onto you.

"The Asset is currently medically induced. I was able to heal all wounds sustained during his previous mission—"

You barely got the words out before you were cut off with a clipped, "I'm more concerned about why the Asset has been increasingly erratic these past few weeks."

There was a pause after his question. You shifted in your seat, the cold of the room already forgotten as you prepared to rip the band-aid off. "And to that, my team and I are unsure, Mr. Pierce."

You finished and let the silence hang. In this moment, you were grateful for your veil—a black shroud that fell in waves to your midsection, sheer enough around your eyes for you to have a view of your surroundings, but covered enough that the Director couldn't see the discomfort in your face as you bit the inside of your cheek and furrowed your eyebrows.

You focused on your breathing when Pierce leaned back into his seat, eyebrows raised, a quizzical look leveled toward you. The leather of his chair squeaked with the movement, and even though he couldn't see your eyes clearly, you cast them downward. Choosing to focus on his watch instead, you could hear it ticking. It felt like a countdown.

"You must not be eating well enough," he said after a moment. Your tensed body and clenched, gloved hands must have given away a fraction of the horror you felt at the words. "You should eat more. And healthier volunteers, at that." That lazy smile returned; he'd found his person to tinker with.

"The energy levels I have are more than enough, sir." This explanation felt so meager, so you continued, "The Asset has taken on an increasing amount of missions lately. Those that have a lot to do with his past." You weren't always privy to mission details and Alpha clearance files, but working as Hydra's very own living recharge station, you heard a lot more than you should. You heard things that would get you killed if you uttered them back out loud—a lesson you'd seen other maintenance personnel learn the hard way. "I reckon the Winter Soldier could just be experiencing high levels of stress, which I will do my very best to combat."

His smile stretched, followed by a small chuckle, then a hearty laugh. You were almost grateful for the sound; it masked your pounding heart. You adjusted your gloves as Pierce turned his chair toward the bulletin board attached to the wall on his left. You'd never really looked at it before; you preferred to keep your face forward, mindful of your self-preservation around him.

He turned his head to look at you, the laughter ceased and practiced pleasantries long gone. This look belonged to the man at the head of Hydra: blistering. You intertwined your thickly gloved fingers together, as if you could find comfort in holding your own hands. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you, covered in cloth from head to toe. Gloved hands covering long-sleeved shirts tucked into a white lab coat, your ID peeking through the top pocket.

You wondered if he could see that your eyes were now closed, a part of you praying to a God that doesn't ever answer.

Another squeak of leather as he shifted meant he was about to say something damning—you'd done this more than enough times to know.

Then, the phone rang, cutting through the silence. You jumped. For a split second, you almost thought it was yours, even though all your belongings had been stripped from you courtesy of Pierce's personal security team. He was smart, calculating, and paranoid nevertheless. No gadgets, no weapons, not even pens were allowed on this floor.

The phone rang a third time. You watched his eyes now, seeing that sadistic creature under his skin settle back down beneath the surface. That smooth, elegant mask snapped back into place as he answered.

Whatever it was, it must have been important. All it took was the wave of two fingers for the doors of his office to open. You stood from your seat, as did Pierce, though he stalked toward a cabinet of expensive liquor, listening intently to whoever was on the phone. You weren't spared a second glance as the guard waited by the door to escort you away.

Maybe God did hear your prayer this time. You were troubled as to why He didn't hear the rest, but your thoughts were interrupted by the fingerprint scan in front of you—a mandatory part of coming in and going out of this floor.

You reached to remove your glove. The guard and other personnel immediately backed several feet away, hands resting on the electric batons hoisted at their waists. It was standard protocol, and you could hardly blame them. You took the glove off, skin touching anything outside your room for the first time since morning. You waited for the light on the sensor to flash green and for the sound of a beep to signal the now-open elevator.

You fumbled your gloves back on, only half aware of the guards around you. Their hands were still firmly placed on those batons—on any other floor, those would be loaded guns.

With your gloves now back in place, you were escorted to the elevator, flanked on both sides. You knew these guards well by now, having memorized their faces, though they had never seen yours.

Your rules were strict. No skin exposed. Only hands, and strictly only in authorized places under careful watch. Your bedroom was the only place you could be fully unrobed. That left approximately four other rooms on this base that consisted of your daily schedule. By the changes in direction of the guards now bending through familiar corridors, you knew which of the four rooms you were headed to.

You weren't pleased. You’d much rather return to your own quarters, but you weren't exactly pouting. Anywhere was better than sitting alone across from Pierce.

Another elevator ride down let you off into what you’d heard STRIKE team members cheekily call the Cafeteria. White plastered walls and concrete columns lined the furthest side of the room. To your right stood stacks of shipping containers, no doubt filled with new gear and weapons. To your far left were the holding cells. You took a sharp left, eager to get this part of the day over with before Pierce got off his phone call and made a personal trip down here to choose. You hated when he chose.

"Oh, Casper. I bet you're hungry."

You weren't. You had more than enough energy reserves to heal whatever damaged Asset or STRIKE soldier management threw your way, but protocol dictated that Pierce wanted you at a constant one hundred percent. You didn't turn to acknowledge him or the nickname the tactical teams had given you, marking you as a ghost. You suppose you did look like one. You ignored him and kept walking, mostly because you knew that ignoring him grated on his nerves.

Brock Rumlow was here. You hadn't seen him in a few weeks, assigned to missions that kept him away from base. You were grateful for the absence; you didn't necessarily have favorites in the rotating cast of HYDRA tactical teams, but you damn sure knew you hated Rumlow.

"Ohhh, don't worry," he quipped, never shying away from your obvious distaste for him. "We've got something fresh for you today."

You turned to face him at that. He was clad in full riot gear, a rifle held against his chest, his finger hovering over the trigger. That's for me.

You heard the heavy door of a cell slide open. You navigated past several unopened equipment cases to get a better view. It was a girl. She was new. A Widow, you presumed—they didn't pass through this facility often, and if they did, they didn't stay long.

"Down on your knees," Rumlow barked at her from behind you. She didn't comply. The rifle on his chest was now raised between you and her as another tactical guard kicked the back of her knees, forcing her to the concrete. She looked up, making eye contact—or rather, as much eye contact as she could manage with the thick veil over your head. You weren't sure what they had told her, but the rising apprehension in her face made you choke out a quiet, "Good morning."

She didn't respond. You didn't expect her to.

Instead, you removed the glove from your right hand. She stared at the exposed skin, confusion pooling in her eyes. Providing an explanation would take too long, so instead, you whispered, "I'll be quick," and gripped the bare skin of her wrist.

Your powers didn't have a buildup. There was no steady, linear climb, no off-switch, no easy retraction. It was instantaneous, greedy, and ever-present. You felt it as a violent rush—the life force of the girl flowing out of her and into whatever storage reserve your body held.

You couldn't linger. Even though the rush was intoxicatingly euphoric, if you held on too long, you would take everything. So you counted. You always did. To six.

One. You saw the shock in her eyes, the sheer confusion as your power invaded her system.

Two. You saw the panic setting in when she realized you were taking something, even if she couldn't comprehend what.

Three. You saw the fear. It was always the fear that stayed with you, because you knew that helplessness; you'd seen it on your own damn face.

Four. You saw the physical signs. Her pupils blew wide, her eyelids drooped, her mouth sagged open.

Five. The first signs of dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her cheeks hollowed out, her clothes suddenly hanging loosely off a lighter, withered frame.

Six. Her eyes shut, and you forcefully dragged your hand away. No more. Pierce would be disappointed.

You stood up, leaving her crumpled form on the floor. You paused to watch and listen; she was still breathing. That was the best-case scenario you could offer her right now.

"We've got a tight schedule," Rumlow’s voice boomed off the walls. "Bring in the next one."

You stood there, silent and waiting. The process was the same the next four times. Three were faces you recognized—no screaming or qualms from them. You’d done this to them enough for them to understand the routine, and it showed. Young skin had long since turned to sag; gray hair crept up their roots. They had missing teeth and visible, prominent collarbones. Their eyes once filled of burning hatred and utter disgust for you, now foggy and distant. You disgusted yourself, too.

The last one today was newer. From the snippets of conversation among the tactical team—who had momentarily paused their work to enjoy the spectacle—he was a captured mole. He’d been caught spilling insider intelligence, and instead of a typical execution, Rumlow had opted for a slow torture. You.

He was held down by two tactical guards, fighting them off as best he could but failing as one of them pinned the man’s arm out toward you. He clenched his fist tightly, as if it could ward you away. It felt wrong. You hated when the volunteers were wrangled down like cattle for you to feed; it reminded you that they were anything but monsters. They were HYDRA rejects, Black Widows who hadn't made the cut, failed experiments, and anyone who wasn't an ecstatic worshipper of the cause.

You reached out to grab his hand, half-surprised when the tactical guard holding him flinched away, despite being covered head-to-toe in armored gear. The guard's teammates laughed at him, but by the way their hands heavily rested on their own weapons, you knew none of them saw you as any less of a threat.

You moved quickly, stopping your count at four instead of six at the fading groans of the stranger in front of you.

But it was done now. At least you were set for a day or two at your ever-rotating personal buffet.

The man, now unconscious, was escorted away, as were you. Gloved back up, with Rumlow himself trailing at your heels. You led the way back to the elevator, up the stairs, and through the winding hallways until you were both standing outside your quarters. You didn't turn to face him when he spoke.

"You'll be here until I come to fetch you later. Watch your pager and rest up. Tonight might be a pretty busy night for you."

You knew that was the truth. With the increased frequency of their operations, the number of bloodied, broken HYDRA soldiers had more than doubled. Not only did you have to maintain the Winter Soldier, but his entire task crew had become your clientele as well.

You slipped your hand out of your glove, pressing your fingers against the biometric scanner built into the wall outside your door. Beside you, Rumlow never let his finger drift from his trigger, especially standing this close. A buzz sounded, the small light above the scanner flashed green, and you offered a curt nod of farewell before slipping into your room.

Rumlow closed the door behind you with a heavy click.

With the glove still clutched in your bare hand, you didn't put it back on. Quite the contrary—you removed the other, followed by the veil, then the white lab coat. You kept stripping away the layers until you were completely bare, your discarded clothes left in a pile by the door. They would stay there until you were paged to go down to the labs later.

For now, you flopped onto your bed, welcoming the cool, stark sheets. The clock on your nightstand read only 1:00 PM. It felt like an eternity had passed since morning. Since Pierce's cold office and even colder eyes. Since you had drained the life from miserable, tormented faces.

You felt entirely hollow, miles away from the horrors of the day.

And even further away from last night.

From him.

___________________________________________a/n: Chapter 2