not-so-normal-whore

No, it's because of Carl and the look of pure unrecoverable grief that crosses Helmut's face whenever he thinks of the son he could not save. Of the wife you choose not to view as competition but instead as a part of him that should be loved and tended to. It would be terribly petty for you to think you should compete with a dead woman. 

But you know that childhoods are important, parents play roles, and siblings nurture or set fire to parts of their siblings. 

So though you don't want to introduce Zemo to that side of your life, you also know that avoiding it forever isn't going to make it any easier for anyone in the long run. 

It's not like he's the kind of man you'd be ashamed of bringing home. He's a wealthy colonel from a foreign country. Intelligent enough to take down a team of Avengers. His manners are immaculate; he's charismatic. No, Helmut isn't the problem. 

You're the problem. 

As far as your family is concerned, you're the resident circus act. You don't talk about your family much, and he knows not to ask. Zemo knows how painful a family can be. So he's surprised when you tell him you'll be going home for the holidays. 

Surprised but acquiescent with joining on the trip. He agrees without needing the push. It's you that nibbles at your fingernails and overthinks the decision the entire time. Helm simply steps in tandem with you, just like he does with all other things. 

Your family home is nothing like his own; there's no grand manor to take him to, just a normal farmhouse in the countryside. A home with siding in need of replacing, an old pickup in the front, and a broken-down one in the back. The swing from your childhood is still hanging in the front yard. It is a far cry from the European properties he is most familiar with. 

American culture has always confused him, so drastically different from his own. So as you pull your rental up the gravel drive to park out of the way of the mailbox, it might as well be that he's stepped into a different world altogether. 

You stay there in your idling car, far too luxurious for this backwater hole. Your hands grip the wheel, tightening and loosening. He understands little about your family, only that you don't get along. Only that going home is like pulling teeth.

You have not told them that they laugh in the face of your transition, that Southern tradition laughs in the face of everything you want to become. You do not have the words. You do not know how to voice the poison that chokes you when you think of home and the people who are supposed to love you the most. 

Unconditional love comes with so many conditions. Some things, you think, may simply have no words. 

You need to turn the car off, but you cannot bring yourself to let go of the wheel. If you let go, then this is real. If you let go, it means getting out of the car; it means going up the semi-rotted front steps into the home where you used to build blocks you thought were castles. 

Something that should be endearing but instead is a cloying disappointment that has wrapped around your limbs like thorned vines. 

Helmut picks up on your anxiety where he sits in the passenger seat with his black button-up and Rolex and pressed trousers. He does not belong in a place like this; he never will. There is no part of him that can match the tall grass and inhospitality colored as kindness. You had to convince him not to wear a full suit. 

His hand comes out against your jeans and squeezes. "How can I help?" He asks, and you wish there was some easy answer you could give him. 

Instead, you flex along the steering wheel again before you let your hands fall in your lap and consider turning the hell around. You swallow hard, glancing down at your plain sweater, the slope of a chest you can't seem to bind tight enough, and the fat of your thighs. 

The urge to scream rises up inside you. 

He likes spoiling you; it's something you never really know how to wrap your mind around. The idea that someone wants to shower you with gifts and praise. The clothing you wear is old, the stuff you put in the back of the closet in a box half forgotten. 

You're not sure why you packed old clothes outside of the desire to step into shoes that no longer fit. Trying to morph into some mold that has never suited. 

Helm leans forward, and you see the first true flash of concern in his dark eyes. It's sinking in. His mind is putting the pieces together as fast as he can, trying to see the picture of who you will become at the end of this. 

"Drahý?" The term of endearment slips from his tongue, and you wish it filled you with the sun like it normally does. Instead, it sounds out of place, like hearing a word you only sort of remember.

The swing in the yard moves in the wind, a barely noticeable rock that catches your attention because it is easier to look at than it is to look at him. Helmut's hand comes out to your jaw and coaxes your gaze away until there's no swing, just him. 

All him. All sun. All home. 

He looks like a soldier, pouty lips and determination scrawled across him. "We can leave." 

You know he means it; you could turn the car right around and head back the way you came, and he would never judge you for it. Not once has he ever tried to guilt you into seeing them or used his dead family as the reason to visit. 

But there's a lot to learn about someone from where they grew up. It's important to you that he sees it, that he understands, even if you don't necessarily even want him to understand. It's a mess; it hasn't even begun yet, and it's a mess. 

His understanding helps you turn off the engine. You take a slow breath through your nose and release it through your mouth. Smelling the roses, blowing out the candles. 

Zemo waits, hand tight to your leg, steady and reliable. He breathes with you, mimicking in that way he does to make you feel less alone. 

"I will be here." He whispers into the silent car, "Before we walk through that door and after it." 

That's what scares you more than anything, that the two of you will walk in there together and walk out separately. That he'll see your terrible family and decide that this isn't what he wants after all. Too much baggage. 

Maybe they'll convince him that you're foolish, caught in your own head. Silly, silly girl. Not a boy at all, no, never a boy. 

In through your nose, out through your mouth. 

You step out of the car and shut the door too hard when you push it closed and find yourself standing there in the gravel. Stopping makes it harder to move again, and yet you can't seem to do anything but stall at every opportunity. 

The other door opens and closes, and Mutt sweeps around the front of the car to stand next to you. When you peek at him, it's enough to lift your spirits, just barely. He stands there at attention, as he's prone to do. Feet level with his shoulders, hands flat behind his back, shoulders squared. 

Your war-torn baron.

"I love you." The words don't come easy, but you force them from your throat anyways. 

His chin lifts a fraction, pride and solid steel. "As I love you." 

Neither of you moves. When you finally break the moment, he is taking the step with you, matching pace despite your smaller size all the way up to the front door. Unlike some children, you don't walk inside; instead, you stop at the door and reach up to knock. 

No one answers, and you are forced to knock again. Helm's hand has somehow found its way to your lower back, resting firmly against your sweater. 

It's your brother who answers the door. He takes one look at you, and then Helmut and his eyebrows shoot up. You should have warned Mutt that you've never brought anyone home before. There's probably a lot you should have warned him about, but it's too late to do so now as you step into the house. 

He follows, allowing you to close the front door. Your voice cracks when you speak, "Brother, meet Helmut, and Helm, meet my brother." 

They stare at each other before Helmut extends a hand for him to shake. He's learned his lesson on American greetings well enough, given that if he kisses anyone else's cheek, you get spitting jealous, which amuses the holy hell out of him. 

Your brother looks at his hand before he clasps his hand into Helm's for a quick shake, letting go too soon. "Mom's irritated you're late." He mumbles, not saying anything to Helmut. 

It's no surprise to you that she's already mad about something. She lives her life in a constant state of endless anxiety that gets thrust upon anyone else in hearing range. You mentioned to them you were bringing your boyfriend, but you're pretty sure they didn't actually believe you. 

As you cross through the foyer into the dining room and see four place settings, you know you were right. They didn't even set the table for him. Helmut, of course, notices it immediately. He eyes the plates before his eyes find yours and soften. 

You want to take him away from this place before it's even begun. He doesn't belong here among the outdated blue paisley wallpaper and your childhood dining room table you laid beneath to cover in stickers that probably never got taken off. 

He looks so out of place there in his creaseless black shirt and gold cuff links, not a hair out of place and the whole world at his feet. His shined loafers do not match the old uneven floorboards. 

The dining room has a wall of picture frames on one side and a clustering of crosses on the other. It's the pictures that catch his attention; he turns, pressing his hands into his pockets as he looks at them. All from when you and your brother were little. 

Some of your brother now that he's older and none of you after you turned eighteen and vanished like smoke. He looks at your baby pictures, the princess costume for Halloween, your prom pictures in a big blue dress, and sweet smiles with blank eyes. 

He presses a finger to one of the frames, a trail of dust catching on his finger. "This one, I like." 

It's you when you're maybe nine or so, completely coated in mud. You've crafted deep trenches in the wet dirt for your brothers' monster trucks, the brightest smile as you look up at the camera. "It looks like you." He whispers and wipes the rest of the frame of dust with his fingers before he rubs his hands together to get rid of the dust. 

"Oh goodness!" Your mother's voice causes you to jump as you turn to see her there in the arched doorway between the kitchen and dining room. "You brought company." 

"I told you I was bringing my boyfriend." You reply, trying not to sound irritated that they haven't even set the table with him in mind. You don't want him to feel unwelcome with so much already stacked up against you. 

Your mom blinks. "I thought you were kidding." She turns her head and barks out your brother's name, "Get a plate for your sister's friend!" 

Not his sister. 

Not your friend. 

Mutt steps around the table to hold out a hand just like he did with your brother. "I'm his partner, Helmut Zemo. A pleasure, paní." 

You like the way he says it, sure in the fact of who you are and what he is to you. No hesitation in the words his partner. As your brother passes through the room, you see him wince when Helm says it. 

There's no way this ends in anything less than disaster, but at least your paramour won't have to eat off the fucking bare table. 

Your mother brings her hand into Helmut's, her other curling over the outside as she gives it a shake. This would be easier if she were starry-eyed, but she's a hawk looking for something to pick at already. 

Helm smiles, that sweet smile that works on most people, especially the ones who don't realize what he is capable of. You do. You know he talked his way out of prison. You know he never bothered with a kill count after it hit triple digits. 

They part as your brother awkwardly adds plateware to the spot next to yours that no one ever sits at. The chair there is a little rocky. You want to warn him, whisper in his ear, but your mother is too close, too shrewd. 

"Helmut." She says his name, his accent garbling the sound so it sounds like he's become a bicycle helmet. This at least is an American problem and not just one that's unique to your family, and so it's nothing he hasn't heard before. 

He doesn't bother to correct her pronunciation. Even you are guilty of butchering his name in the beginning. Now it comes without difficulty; now you can say it with flair, low or high, breathy or in mid-laugh. 

He has nicknames: Helm, Zee, and Mutt, and then terms of endearment on top of it. You're always a little happier when you're talking to him, no matter what you're calling him. 

"What is that?" Your mom asks, blinking at him, "Where's it from?" 

His accent is camouflaged, not nearly as heavy as you know it to actually be. Helm's accent comes out when he's passionate, when he's chattering away late at night, exasperated, angry, when he's teasing, or early in the morning, rough from sleep. 

When he's in public, you watch it get tucked away behind the facade he lets the rest of the world see—Baron Zemo. But his accent is still there enough that he couldn't pass as a native unless he's first generation. 

He could get rid of it entirely; you've heard him speak in a clear, sharp New York-style accent, in sharp German, in several other languages, and even some Wakandan. Helm chooses not to hide his accent; you love that about him. 

"Sokovia." He replies, and you both hate and adore the pride in his voice. 

Your mom pauses. You watch her process the information, blink, and frown, and then it all comes together. "Why, that's that country that blew up, isn't it?" 

All of the tact of a grenade. You flinch. Helmut stills, fingers twitching at his sides. The worst day of his life, all rolled up into two neat words, blew up. 

"Mom," You chastise, because what the hell do you say to a question like that? 

"What? I was just asking." 

Helmut shifts from foot to foot. Before he can try and fill that violent silence, your father walks into the room. 

He looks between the four of you, your brother straightening Helm's spoon. "Was wondering what the ruckus was in here." He eyes Helm from top to bottom like a call girl. "This the boyfriend?" 

"Yes, pane," Helmut holds out a hand to him too. You'll give it to him; he's thorough. "That would be me." 

Your father follows through with the handshake, a nice, firm grip. That's his way; he thinks gripping the hell out of someone's hand for no reason other than to pretend he's the bigger ape is the best way to go about things. 

"Pane." He says it like a cooking utensil, "What is that, German?" 

Helmut says, "Sokovian." 

The exact moment your mother says, "That country the Avengers fought in." 

Your flinch this time might as well count for double. Zemo pulls from your father's hand and slides it into his pocket. His wedding ring still on his right-hand finger. 

"You kept us waiting." Your mom sets you with a long, disapproving look. "Everyone sit, and us girls will bring out the food before it needs to be reheated."

Something like shame curls in your chest like a long-dormant eel come alive in your stomach acid. You swallow, give Helmut a nod, and slip around the table to help carry the food out. 

The moment you're in the kitchen, your mother is on you like a fly on shit. "He's a little odd." 

"You've known him for two minutes." You say, reaching for the casserole dish. Despite her complaints, when you grab the glass, it's bordering on uncomfortably hot. 

"It's an odd name, that's all." Your mom collects the much lighter salad bowl. "Those Europeans can be a little strange."

"That's a lot of people you're lumping together right there." You reply without missing a beat. "America is a country of immigrants, ma." 

She huffs, because what God-fearing American would ever want the reminder that they didn't sprout out of North American soil like gnomes? The two of you carry the food out, and to your amusement, Helmut, unlike your father and brother, remains politely standing. 

It's not until you arrive and he pulls your chair out for you that he sits down. You're pretty sure that if your mom hadn't said blown up he would have pulled her chair out too. 

The food gets passed around, drinks are poured, and thank yous are muttered, and then comes the dreaded small talk, and given the way they've started, they'll have the tact of a chainsaw through a tree. 

"So, Helmet." Your father starts the game of questions, "This your first time in the States?" 

You fight the urge to correct his pronunciation, but Helm's hand is on your leg beneath the table. "No." He shakes his head. "I'm a bit of a traveler, but New York and DC mostly." 

You cough into your water. They would all shit bricks if they knew what he'd been doing there. His fingers playfully squeeze your leg.

Your old man eyes Zemo's nice clothing and his combed hair. "You work in foreign relations or something?" 

"No." Your boyfriend brings his cup up to his lips and looks ten times richer than everyone in the room, even drinking out of a plastic cup. "I was a colonel; I spent most of my life serving my country."

Past tense—was serving. 

"Ah." Your mom nods, between bites of her salad, "Suppose all that went away when they got rid of it." 

His hand tightens on your leg, and it's the first sign of genuine annoyance. "Annexed, yes." He says.

"That's a fancy word for it." Your father adds, sawing at his chicken with a butter knife. Your mother was never a very good cook. 

"Well." Helm takes a small bite, finishing it before speaking, "I am retired now." 

Retired from Eko Scorpion, but not so retired from the world of superheroes and protecting the innocent. He keeps himself busy with the Thunderbolts. You're proud of him for never backing down. 

"Did they pay you for all that?" Your father asks.

You don't actually know. You doubt even Mutt knows the specifics; those days were dark for him. It wasn't until years later that he was able to put resources back into helping the Sokovian people. The blood fog took a long time to lift, leaving permanent red in the corners. 

Really, you don't think things changed for him until Bucky came back. Something you personally feel grateful for—that's why you know Mutt. That's why you have him to rely on. 

"Not me." He shakes his head, pushing the food around on the plate. He doesn't like it."But I know there were organizations that came to supply aid. I was ... preoccupied at the time."

"Is the barn still standing?" You ask, trying to steer them away from the inevitable mention of Carl and Heike that you don't want to give them. They don't need to know about that part of his life; they don't need that kind of power, because whether he loves you or not, you know when it comes to them, Helmut will always be a fuse lit from both ends. 

"Yeah." Your brother answers, "There are four cats now; she had kittens." 

A much easier topic. "You name them?" 

He shakes his head no. 

"Surprised a fella your age can retire."

You silently chew your chicken and rest your hand over Helms. Outside of directly cutting in, which you're not against doing, there's clearly no changing your father's one-track mind. Not unless you give him a bigger target like yourself to question. 

You know what would do it, just mention your transition, and the whole table will suddenly spontaneously combust into a blazing fire. 

Mutt hums and takes another bite as he stews over his answer. He could jump to the chase and state that he has an insane amount of generational wealth, or he could mention his ten years in prison. Hell, he could outwardly lie to your father's face, which is what you would do. 

"I'm a baron." Helm says, and you eye your family curiously. They've never had anyone filthy rich over for dinner. Helmut has been your first taste of real wealth; even now it's hard to wrap your head around. 

"That some kind of retirement plan?" 

You were raised by idiots. You sigh into your unseasoned mashed potato casserole. 

Your paramour takes another bite of his food; you're pretty sure he's using the dry chicken to process each answer. "Nobility." He explains. "I come from a long line of Sokovian aristocracy. When Novi Grad fell, I lost - I lost the family estate but not my wealth. I have not had financial difficulty; however, many of my people cannot say the same. The annexation of Sokovia already displaced its people; the Blip decimated the rest." 

Even now you're not entirely sure if getting blipped was a good or a bad thing. Zemo spent those five years resolutely in a cell; you spent them somewhere. Existing in the shade of a second before everything returned and was gone and back again. 

"You're rich?" Your brother asks and cuts it down to a simple yes or no. 

Helm has more grace where your brother is concerned, it would seem, because his lip tips up in the corner. "Exactly so." 

"Like you could buy me a car?" 

Your mother says your brother's name, sharp and quiet, "It's rude to ask a man for money." 

Out of the three members of your family, you bear the least ill will toward your brother, but you would not call your relationship close. No, he's too far involved with your father's thoughts and ideas for that. But you're not fond of bailing anyone out.

Perhaps that's petty, but years of being pressed into a cookie-cutter mold have made you sharp along the edges where you've cracked. 

"In theory, certainly." He gives your brother a smile that sort of reaches his eyes. "My family actually has an expansive car collection, most of which were salvageable from the wreckage." 

You love his collection, have driven several, fogged up several, and sat in many passenger seats. You have the keys to a vintage El Camino that you're particularly fond of. As far as he's concerned, it's your car. 

The spark in your brother has more to do with what he might be able to take and less about Helm or you at all. He sees an opportunity, and that's as far as he sees. 

"A baron." Your father's voice has that casual edge to it that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "And you settle down with a country girl. Can't tell if you're unlucky or she's lucky." 

Helm blinks, and for one delicious moment in which your love for him expands like heat in a hot air balloon, he looks genuinely confused about who is being talked about. And then it sinks in like a diagnosis. 

"Pardon?" Helm asks, accent hanging heavy along the word. 

"Just surprised with how you two met?" Your dad's confused now too, thrown off by the need to clarify. 

You think Helm might be the cleverest son of a bitch in the whole world, but especially in this small musty room. 

"Ah, that is a tale." He looks over at you and smiles. This time it's genuine. "He came into my life unexpectedly, the way I've found the best things often do." 

"So you've ... bought into all that?" Your mother asks, and any joy at telling what would have otherwise been a happy story dries up until it's nothing but the burning in the back of your throat. 

Helm straightens, near imperceptibly, but the hand on your leg remains. "I don't catch your meaning." 

Your parents share a look before deciding on Christian love. "That transsexual nonsense." 

His tongue trails out along the bottom of his lip, and this time when he takes a bite, you know for certain that he's using the time to gather up his thoughts. Everything Helmut does is intentional; he is a well-intentioned man by his very nature. 

You know this too; he will approach like a battle. "So it is to my understanding then," He sets his fork down, and your dad's eyes go sharp. At least you don't have to worry about Helm losing in a fistfight. "That you do not respect your son?" 

This is new. You've never had anyone defend you to your family before. Anyone who knew about your transition when they were around always rolled with it, pretended it was fine, and apologized afterward. Not your Mutt. 

"Respect him plenty." Your father says and nods his head toward your brother, who is very much attempting to make friends with his chicken breast. "If you're talkin' about my daughter, she could use a few pointers." 

You've told people to get fucked, flipped them off, and walked out on dates. You've been unabashedly yourself for years now, making steps toward who you want to be, and somehow the moment you sit at this table, you become nothing but the little girl who hid in her room.

No anger, no irritation, only a blanketed cold resignation that this is the way it will always be. 

You underestimate how much Colonel Baron Helmut Zemo loves you. 

"You know," Helm stops eating, leans back in his rickety chair, and all out pushes the food away. "In many cultures, transformation is seen as something remarkable. Something to be celebrated. Sokovia has its own legends and stories that further this. Perhaps even we could consider Christ, risen and changed, yes?" 

Your hand comes to squeeze his where it's still on your leg, not really a warning. You're not sure what you mean by it other than the desire to hold him. To cling to the one thing that is yours in this hollow place.

"You're in my home." Your father says, like he has a castle. Like he is king to all the wheat fields. Messiah of the weeds. 

Helm pushes his chair back. "Frankly, I do not give a damn." 

Your brother releases a squeak of a sound at that before he goes back to his plate. Your parents are starting to look exceptionally offended, which really you saw coming. It's not like you didn't expect all of this, but you hoped maybe, just maybe, there would be change. 

But your childhood home is a time capsule that no longer suits you. The shoes no longer fit, outgrown and torn soles. 

"I am a father." Helmut says with such vitriol as he stands that you can't help but stare at him in something that might just be wonder. "And I am incapable of understanding you. If my son needed this, needed to change to feel whole, then I would be the first person to help him do so. What is a legacy when you have failed your children, when you raise a sheep of a boy on one hand and Atlas on the other?" 

He pushes in his chair hard enough that it smacks into the table before he offers his hand to you. "Come, drahý. We are leaving. I will not subject you to such idiocy." 

Your old man stands, masculinity challenged by Helmut's dismissal. "You come into my house, insult me at my table. That shit doesn't fly around here." 

Zemo doesn't move his hand, waiting for you to take it, but he does turn to look in your father's direction, head cocking to the side. Like he's looking at a bug. 

"That is not a fight you win." Helm's voice is ripe with warning you know to be completely true. He is a soldier, a Thunderbolt; he does not bow to lesser men. 

You take his hand, lifting yourself from your chair. To keep him from acting out on the aggression curled through his body, you curl your fingers between his. It's no surprise that Helmut is protective, but you've never really had the chance to see it in action until now. 

"Let's go." You whisper. The fatigue drapes down on your shoulders, and suddenly all you want to do is run away and sleep. 

Across the table your mother stands, all tears and broken heart on her sleeve. Forever ready to let the world know how she's suffered, whereas you stand stony-faced and quiet. "I just wanted a nice meal. A family dinner with my little girl. You ruin it. You always ruin it." 

Your dead name long buried lashes across your face as she says it. And you are so very tired. 

Helm's free hand snaps out in a slash in front of him, "To hell with you and your false desperation. We are leaving." 

He pulls, and all you can do is follow, eyes on the threadbare runner as he leads you back out the front door. Your father follows, and for a moment you expect him to attack Helmut, but instead his hand comes hard to your shoulder and jerks you back.

You let out a startled noise, hand slipping from Helm's as you try to shrug away from his hard grip. Zemo pivots, and there's a wild look in his eye, some abject triggered panic that you know has less to do with you but instead has to do with forty-eight hours of digging through rubble.

He swings before you can tell him not to, clocking your old man hard in the jaw. He sprawls out onto the foyer floor, and you jump into action, hands pressing to Helmut's chest, easing him backward, "I'm here. I'm here." 

He doesn't see you, not at first. "Helm, love, Helmut. I'm here. I'm safe. We need to go." 

Your mom might call the cops, and it's imperative that the cops keep thinking of him as a hero and not a criminal. You're not going to lose him to the system, back to the Raft. 

He blinks and the haze clears; he frowns, looking over your shoulder back at your father. He's pulled himself off the floor, holding to the doorjamb as he glares out at the two of you. 

"Don't come back," His voice is harsh, cutting through you like a freezing winter wind: "If you're with him, living the life you been living. Don't come back until you're the daughter I raised." 

Even this does not feel unexpected. Helm shoves into your hands, and you know if you let him go he'll beat your father bloody in his own house. So you don't let go, leading him back into the car. You practically shove him into the passenger seat and toss yourself into the driver's side.

Your hand is shaking as you turn the key, stalling the engine. It takes longer than it should to pull out of the long gravel drive, your father's silhouette in the doorway until you hit the road and drive out of sight. 

As you drive, you white-knuckle the wheel to keep the shaking at a minimum. It starts in increments; at first the road gets blurry, and then your breath gets shorter. Instead of breathing, you wheeze, eyes burning. The world falls underwater. 

"Pull over." Helm's voice leaves no room for argument. He sounds like he wants to walk back to the house and attempt to solve this with his hands. 

You do as you're told, pulling next to a cornfield, letting go of the wheel. You forget to put it in park and roll forward through the grass until Helmut slams it into gear. 

Everything swims; don't take a full breath, or you'll drown. It gets hard to take in any air. Your body fights the natural instinct. With your eyes squeezed shut, you only hear the click of your seat belt being undone before there are hands on you, catching you under your arms, and then it's a scramble. Somehow you end up yanked over the median, your foot almost hitting the car horn before you're in his lap. 

He's speaking Sokovian; you don't know much of his native tongue, only a few words here and there. Swears, common phrases, "I love you, things like that. The words are fast, tumbling out of him, and you think he needs to say whatever he's trying to say, even if you don't understand it. 

There are some things that don't translate well, and he's running into that now. You catch a few words, mainly cursing. Fucking bastards. Sorry. Fuck. I love you. That's all you really get. 

It's not until he's stopped speaking his long train of words that you realize your breathing has evened out, so distracted with trying to understand what he was saying that he cut the panic attack off before it could fully sink into your bones and weigh you down to the bottom of the lake. 

The look in his eyes when you glance up at him says that was his intention, because when you lock eyes, he smiles, relief on the edges of it. "There you are." 

You nuzzle into his shirt, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric, catching the scent of his cologne. All of it sinks the tension from your bones until all that's left is the sinking realization of what just happened. 

"You're all I have." You whisper, even if that was mostly true to begin with, it is certainly a complete fact now. 

His arms tighten around you. "To je mi líto." 

You bury your face in his chest and let the world disappear. It's not like you want to be this way. You don't want to be displaced from what you are and aren't. You never asked to have to change to survive.

That's what your parents never understood; if you could stay a girl and be happy, you would. It would be a fucking relief to fit into the right mold without having to rip apart chunks of yourself to make it all fit. 

Helm says your name, soft and quiet, like an apology, and his grip pulls you all the closer. "Life has a habit of lacking fairness." He murmurs, "But I see you, beloved; I see you completely. And I am not ashamed." 

You let out a shaky breath into his shirt and nod. "Thank you." It barely sounds genuine with how bone tired you are, but you mean it. "For coming with me." 

His hand cards through your hair, and you know despite everything that it's going to be okay. "For you, I would go anywhere." 

Home changes and morphs and loses itself within the nerves and brackish blood.

I am lost within it's gripping teeth that envelop around me that feel almost like home

When the branches scream do I hear the yell of children running across the church

When the nerves touch my skin is that the light touches of my mother

When the warmth below me dares to drown me is that the baptising water that comes to cleanse me of my sins

I am home...

Home changes and morphs and loses itself within the nerves and brackish blood.

I am lost within it's gripping teeth that envelop around me that feel almost like home

When the branches scream do I hear the yell of children running across the church

When the nerves touch my skin is that the light touches of my mother

When the warmth below me dares to drown me is that the baptising water that comes to cleanse me of my sins

I am home...

A cruel storm was waging war over the city.

Harsh wind kept furiously blowing against the walls of the building, the rain fell so hard the roads below were barely visible. From time to time, lightning would crackle on the sky, almost as if it was splitting in half, then a deafening boom would soon follow.

You went to bed hours ago, so did he.

But he wasn't asleep.

The commotion in the sky outside made his body and soul tremble and fear. The thundering outside was all too similar to the sounds of explosions, gunshots and bombs.

Like when the helicarriers fell apart.

Like when he was left behind on a mission, because he didn't get to the extraction point in time, due to the weather's vengeful nature.

He remembered the cold. The silence. The dark. How he was soaked to the bone, shivering like a leaf left in a hurricane. He could barely see from his own wet hair and the endless drops ravaging his skin.

He fell to his knees, into the mud.

He was almost relieved to hear his handler's dissatisfied voice.

"If you can't even handle a bit of rain, what good are you then?"

This one pesky memory kept him from seeking your presence out like usual.

He knew, or at least hoped you wouldn't berate him, but still, the conditions were all too similar.

His hand kept wandering to his steel shoulder to claw at the junction, yet he made a conscious effort to keep himself from further worsening its condition. He also didn't want to see your face when you had to clean him up again.

You didn't seem like you minded, yet he didn't want to become a burden to you more than he already thought was.

He huddled close to the salt lamp you put in his room for him, saying it's good for him, and you haven't used the thing in forever anyway.

Little did you know, he was drawn to its light like a moth to a flame.

He hated the dark so much.

It reminded him of there.

In the dark, his defenses lowered, allowing the ghosts of the past to worm their way into his mind again.

Suddenly a loud boom echoed above the city, making his light flicker and die. The sound alone made him twitch, but seeing his only light source gone, he panicked further.

Ditching his belief that he was a burden, he scurried to your bedroom, clumsily pushing the door open further to see you awake as well.

The sound must've woken you too.

You switched your flashlight on after you realized the power was out, as your bedside lamp refused to come to life. You wanted to check on Winter, and jumped when he was lit by your flashlight.

"Winter! You scared me..." you said as you pressed a hand to your chest to calm your heart.

All you saw was his hunched position and his fearful eyes.

He wasted no time in walking up to you and hugging you close.

He has never initiated contact so suddenly and so closely before. You could only assume the storm had brought up some unwanted memories.

Your own arms circled his shoulders as you began soothing him.

His metal arm was very cold, but trying to suppress your shivers one hand travelled up from his spine into his hair, all the while you kept whispering to him.

"You're okay...it's just a storm and the power went out." He burrowed his face further into your shoulder as he was shaking all over.

You reluctantly let go of him, hands lingering at his shoulders. "I'm going to check some things, would you like to come with me?" You asked gently, hoping to redirect his attention and soothe his nerves.

He reluctantly nodded, and kept holding your hand while you went to the window to check the streetlights.

Despite the rain obscuring everything, the streetlights were visible, and the hallway lights worked fine too, so seemingly only your apartment was affected.

You turned to him.

"We're gonna have to unplug a few devices to avoid damaging them when I reset the breaker box. Would you like to help?" You inquired.

He was reluctant to agree. He didn't want to let go of your hand. But he didn't want to refuse either.

Sensing his trepidation, you reassured him "We don't have to split up. You can come with me," you whispered.

That seemed to calm him a bit, and he nodded as you both went to unplug the TV, your laptop, the charger and all the like.

You reset the breaker box, and soon enough, the power was back in the home, his salt lamp flickering to life.

"There. All done," you said gently as you turned to him.

His flesh hand was still tightly wrapped around yours, not showing signs of planning on letting you go.

"Are you okay?" You asked, as he seemed to withdraw into himself, while still clutching your hand. He didn't respond.

You reached up to touch his face, to hopefully gain his attention again.

He was still alone, in the rain, in the cold, soaked to the bone.

His scruffy cheek was warm against your palm, and he flinched briefly at the contact, wide, glacial eyes snapping to yours.

He seemed to hold his breath for a second, before he eased his head into your hand, metal palm coming up to hold your hand closer. He was slightly trembling, breaths shaky and shallow through his nose.

You began stroking his cheek with your thumb as his eyes slowly closed, tension bleeding out of his system slowly, but surely.

"Come on, let's go to bed." You gently interrupted the moment. As your hand fell away, his eyes flickered open, panicking for a fleeting moment.

You gently pulled him towards your bedroom, where it was dark, your blinds shut.

He stopped at the threshold, making you stop too when you were moving but he wasn't.

You looked back at him, slightly confused.

"What is it, Winter? You can tell me," you whispered to him.

He stood still for a few seconds, seemingly out of it again.

"It's...dark..." he whispered, haunted. It was so low, you nearly missed it.

Ah.

"Then we'll just flick this on..." you said, letting go of his hand and walking to your bedside lamp. You adjusted the light to be dim enough to not disturb either of you, but bright enough to see.

"Now, come on..." you coaxed him with open arms. He hesitantly set foot into your room, walking over to you. His eyes were filled with a strange mixture of trust and trepidation, and his hands still shook lightly from time to time.

As you both settled into your bed, he didn't lay on the opposite side, facing away from you, but instead laid his head on your chest, metal arm draped over your form.

This caught you off guard, but seeing his distress you didn't comment on it.

He snuggled his face further into your shirt as he held on tighter.

He was still lightly shaking.

"It's okay, you're okay..." you soothed, pulling the sheets up to his shoulders, tucking him close to you. As you rubbed slow circles into his back over the sheets, he let out a content sigh, body easing into yours.

Your hand soon moved up from his back his nape, lightly scratching at his scalp, your nails drawing swirls and circles on his skin. He nearly shuddered at the contact, and fearing you might've did something he didn't like, you lifted your hand away, but he followed it with his head, letting you know he liked the contact.

Gently smiling, you continued your gentle touches, twirling his soft strands inbetween your fingers until he finally drifted off, breathing deepening and evening out, his weight settling on you. He was heavy, but not crushing. It was soothing in a way, like a weighted blanket.

You pressed a soft kiss to his hair, the soft strands tickling your nose as you finally drifted off too.

Taglist open! Let me know if you'd like to be added/unadded any time.

Winter Soldier taglist: @missingddeanw @insomniac-astronomer @hagridshaircare @kasairnalkaelith

You knew he had nightmares. How could he not? Based on the knowledge you obtained, what HYDRA had done to him, should’ve killed him.

But it didn’t. Instead, it left extensive marks on his body and psyche.

And maybe that was a fate worse than death.

When you first managed to wash him off when he got here, you saw it.

The myriad of injuries, some still weeping, burn marks, gunshot wounds, old and new scars littering his whole body. Some so brutal you wondered how he’d survived, like the jagged scar near his throat. 

You wanted to help him, you really did. 

But, lacking a medical license and the knowledge necessary to help him heal, all you could really do was attempt to provide a safe space where he can let his guard down.

At first, you were terrified of him. Why did you offer him that coat? Strange dudes in alleyways were usually the ones that killed those who tried to help them, mocking sad eyes and maybe an injury.

But as time passed, you came to realize that while he did look scary on the outside, on the inside, he was probably more scared of you than you were of him. You came to see that he was simply a wildly mistreated man, one who forgot how to be human. It was so obvious from the way he behaved.

And that tugged at your heartstrings.

Was it basic human empathy? Or were you just crazy? 

You could have easily left him there. But it felt wrong.

He just looked so…lost and alone. You couldn’t just walk past him. 

So now, here he is, huddled away in your crumbling old closet, hiding like a ghost. 

He did venture outside from time to time, standing just at the edge of your vision, that if you turned your head to get a better view of him, he vanished. Kind of like a ghost.

Whenever you entered the room, you would be met with the usual sliver of blue visible through the slit in the closet doors.

It was really about to fall into pieces, one of the doors was literally hanging on by a thread.

Carefully setting down his dinner, you slowly moved to crouch in front of the closet to be eye level with him.

“Winter?” he didn’t answer. 

“I think you should try sleeping outside of the closet now. It can’t be comfortable in there,” you tried suggesting, and using the excuse of the obviously hunched position he probably slept in, instead of straight up telling him that the closet was falling apart. 

It might’ve set him off, told him the area wasn’t safe, prompting him to leave his only safe spot in the home.

He might’ve just crawled out, assessing the closet himself and looking for another den.

You couldn’t have known, so you decided to play it safe.

His head slightly tilted inside.

“Also, I brought you dinner. Would you like to eat?” you called again. That made him stir, the doors opening slowly with a loud creak. You both moved to stand, as he carefully stepped outside, like a creature stepping out of its chrysalis, eyes cast downwards, not looking at you despite him towering above you definitely would’ve allowed for eye contact.

As soon as he did though, the door that was barely hanging on finally snapped off. 

With a loud thud, it landed on the hardwood floor, stirring up the dust that has settled on the ground. 

He jumped, nearly knocking you off your feet, as he retreated into the corner next to the door, nearly knocking his dinner over in the process. 

He rigidly pressed his back into the wall, breathing erratic and fast.

All he heard was the crash. He knew the door would snap off, but he didn’t anticipate it, despite his hypervigilance.

It almost sounded like a gunshot.

A bomb set off.

“Winter, it’s okay. The door fell off. It was barely hanging on anyway,” you tried easing his nerves seeing his intense reaction. 

His wide, terrified eyes snapped to yours, breathing evening out just a little. He looked to the fallen wood, slightly nodding to himself as he too processed the information. 

It was just the door.

His bowl of soup was just by his feet, the liquid sloshed out. His eyes scanned the room for potential dangers, as the fight still hasn’t bled out of his system entirely. 

His gaze briefly caught on the bowl.

He made a mess.

He shrunk in on himself even further, gaze flickering up to yours, fear evident in his eyes, as it flickered away, darted across the room, then back to yours again. His breathing nearly stopped.

You watched his reaction with baited breath. His fearful demeanor greatly disturbed you, just a tinge of rage boiling in your blood upon witnessing how HYDRA has broken this poor man.

You knew trauma survivors usually flinched by loud noises, but it wasn’t what disturbed you.

It was the intensity of his reaction.

He damn near launched himself out of the closet, and then panicked upon seeing some spilled soup.

Something you would never pick up.

Sure, the loud bam of the door colliding with the ground would make you jump too, but not like he was evading a bomb.

You crouched down in front of him, gaze locked on you as you descended. His eyes were still wide with fear, breathing erratic even as he fought to suppress it. His hands came up to shield his face, peeking through his fingers.

“Winter, you’re okay. You’re safe, alright? It’s just some soup. We’ll wipe it up in no time…” you soothed, as you reached for a tissue in your pocket and began cleaning the soup up, making sure he saw what you were doing, to avoid stressing him out further.

“Here…all done,” you said, picking the bowl and spoon up and extending them towards him. 

“Now, here’s your dinner,” 

He didn’t move for a minute. He didn’t understand why you didn’t hurt him. 

You were unpredictable, because you were everything he wasn’t used to.

No screaming, no shouting, no hand in his hair, no knife in your hands, and it unsettled him.

As you held his gaze, eyes relaxed, he slowly uncurled from himself, and reached out with shaky hands.

As you passed the bowl to him, your fingers briefly brushed. The ice cold metal of his steel hand sent a shiver through your system, but his flesh hand was surprisingly warm. 

He flinched a little upon the contact, but held the bowl anyway. 

You gave him a small smile, and turned to leave him to eat.

You’d found out he won’t eat until you’ve left. Probably some gruesome conditioning or learned behavior, or perhaps he was just afraid you’d suddenly snatch it and pour it over his head for daring to accept anything other than his bland rations.

It has happened before…

He always took his time smelling and savoring the food for anything out of place, like hidden medicine or drugs, but like always, he couldn’t taste or smell anything out of place. 

Maybe you were just good at concealing them.

Then again, he always felt better after having eaten, so you couldn’t have put anything in it.

He still needed to grow to trust you with food…after all, it had been so difficult to get him to eat in the first place.

After he was done, he slowly stood up on unsteady legs, and made his way to the kitchen. He scanned the hallway before stepping out, seeing the lights were off everywhere in the house. 

He heard the shower running.

Just like always, he put the bowl in the sink, and cleaned everything up, like he was never there to begin with. 

Sometime in the night, you woke to hear him thrash and whimper in the other room. 

The volume meant he probably used the thin mattress you put down for him with the blanket. 

While you were setting up his “bed” he just stood by the closet and watched, confused.

He made no move to lay on it even after you left.

He weighed his options. 

The closet wasn’t safe anymore, but it did still provide some cover.

The mattress was entirely open, no cover. It was behind the door, so if anyone stepped in, he would have enough time to protect himself, even if he knew the likelihood of that was quite low. Nobody would enter besides you, yet the conditioning went deep in his brain.

And besides, you must’ve expected him to use it. 

He didn’t want to find out what would happen if you found out about him preferring the ruined closet over the bed you spent time preparing. 

So he went with the bed.

It was more comfortable than the closet, but the Soldier didn’t know comfort.

He felt guilty for feeling just a little bit good.

Still, afraid of the fictional consequences his brain cooked up, he stayed.

But sleep didn’t last long. It never did, not for him.

It was hard to even fall asleep to begin with, conditioning preventing him from being able to fall asleep naturally. 

And even when he did, he would wake to a cold sweat and his flesh fingers digging into his most vulnerable wound.

Tonight was no different.

A particularly horrifying nightmare had woken him, leaving him in a petrified, frozen state.

He screamed out, eyes flying open, breathing still harsh and ragged, and he couldn’t move to fight the shadows only he could see.

Figures were closing in on him, making his chest tight.

The door creaked open, with another one of them stepping in. It said something, something he couldn’t hear over the blood rushing in his ears.

His panic heightened as it made its way to him and crouched down. It reached out its hand.

He found the strength to move as he tackled the shadow to the ground, his metal hand gripping its throat. His breathing was still harsh, each exhale a growl as his wide, unfocused eyes fixed on the figure.

Its hands flew up to his steel wrist, clutching desperately as it tried to tug its hand off it.

This just made his grip tighten, brain blanking out as the machine momentarily took over.

It kept whispering, why was it talking? Why-

“W-Winter! Y-You’re-” you wheezed as your vision started to black out.

He blinked hard, several times before coming to his senses.

But by that time, you were already out.

He snatched his hand away as if your skin had burned him. He sat back, then began scrambling backwards, until his back met the wall. His flesh hand flew up to cover his mouth as all breath left his lungs.

He-did he?...

He stared at your limp form, brain unable to form a single coherent thought as his panic heightened.

He sprang forward, quivering hands hovering in the air, not knowing what to do.

Should he touch you? Should he try to wake you? 

He checked for your breathing. Shallow, but it was there. So was your pulse.

He crumbled in on himself, torso arching forward, hands coming to grip at his hair as he let out a frustrated, but panicked whine, and nearly began hyperventilating again.

He nearly killed the only person who seemed to care about him. 

“I’m sorry…” he rasped out, as his shaky arms snaked their way around your body, cradling you to his chest.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered again, head resting at your chest, as the apologies fell endlessly from his lips, clutching at your still-warm body hard, shakily rocking you back and forth.

A few seconds later, you woke with a harsh intake of breath.

He immediately dropped you, as you began coughing and sputtering. 

His back pressed into the wall, as he was still breathing heavily, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“I’m sorry!” he croaked out in Russian. You held yourself up by your elbow, as your other hand came to rub at your bruised throat. You couldn’t form a thought, and could only feel fear settle into your bones, as you scrambled to your feet and retreated to the bathroom. 

Now what? You must seek medical help immediately. But what will you tell them? That you have the very alive, volatile Winter Soldier in your home, who you willingly let inside?

You assessed the damage, and saw the deep bruises already forming.

You could breathe, it hurt, but you could, and you could also speak, though your voice was hoarse. 

You really thought about seeking medical help.

In the end, you decided to knock at one of your neighbor’s doors, who was actually an old friend of yours and a medical professional. He was always involved in rather shady things, and you never snitched on him, so he didn’t ask about what had happened when you told him you don’t want to talk about it. He told you he’d need to evaluate you at the hospital, and he could do so in secret, so that’s where the rest of the night went.

By sunrise, you were back in your apartment, having been told by your friend that you’ll be fine.

Winter wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but for now, you were a bit afraid of him, not checking up on him, despite your instincts telling you you should. You called your boss that you were sick and couldn’t attend work for a while. 

Eventually, you began preparing his breakfast. 

You knew, at least hoped that he didn’t do it on purpose. You knew HYDRA had damaged him, and you shouldn’t have approached him in such a volatile state…

But when you knocked on his door, then opened it to see the room empty, the window open, your heart dropped to your stomach.

Winter was gone.

You frantically ran to the window, scanning the streets below for any sign of him, he was nowhere to be seen.

Shit, shit, shit!

Where did he go? Where could he have gone?

You knew he was probably more than capable of managing himself, yet you couldn’t help but think of the worst. 

Maybe he was recaptured, or worse…

With your coat halfway on your body, keys nearly dropped, you scrambled onto the streets, frantically looking around. You bumped into several people rushing to their respective workplaces as you ran to the dumpsters where you originally found him.

He wasn’t there.

Then where was he? When did he leave? How far has he gone?

You knew about the helicarriers in Washington, and he showed up about two days after it had happened, which meant he could be anywhere right now.

You stumbled further into the alleyway, heart in your throat, breathing erratic, scanning the darkness, but still, nothing.

Why did you care so much about him in the first place? He nearly killed you. He’s an assassin, a killer on the loose. If anyone ever found out about him in your home, you’d be held accountable for having harbored one of the most dangerous men in the world.

And yet, you couldn’t help but worry for him. 

He really didn’t seem as vicious as he was painted by the media and the stories.

You ended up searching for him all day, now standing in front of your building, defeated. It was already getting late, and you’d promised yourself you’d try again tomorrow, even if the chances of seeing him were getting lower and lower every minute. 

You decided to check the dumpsters one more time, turning back towards the place where you first met.

Deciding to walk further than you previously have into the alley, lighting the dark area with your phone’s flashlight, you found him. 

He was here this whole time?!

He probably didn’t know where to go. Poor man…

“Winter?” you cautiously called out, disbelief and relief lacing your voice.

He was curled into a ball, sitting in a pile of mud and trash. He was dirty all over, much like the first time you brought him into your apartment. He was shivering violently, considering the only things covering him were a gray shirt and sweatpants.

Upon hearing you croak, his head snapped up, and as his glacial eyes locked onto yours, he scrambled to stand and run in the other direction.

“Wait!” you managed, your voice still hoarse. 

He reluctantly stopped and looked back at you over his shoulder.

“I was so worried you’ve disappeared…” you whispered. This made his brows furrow. “I’m glad to see you,” you whispered again.

He slightly turned towards you, as you held out your free hand.

“Please, come with me, you’re shivering…” he hesitated. 

“Even after…what I’ve done?” he croaked in Russian. You couldn’t make out what he was saying, so you just tried encouraging him again.

“I won’t lie to you, I’m scared. But I know you didn’t do it on purpose, and I’m okay.” you soothed. It didn’t work. 

“No…” he turned to leave again.

“Wait, Winter!” you called, stepping after him.

“I’m not mad at you. But I am worried. Please come with me, you’ll freeze to death…” you croaked, voice shaky.

He stopped again, and turned back to you. 

His eyes were filled with such profound sadness and defeat, you could hear your own heart shattering in real time.

He hesitantly reached out with his flesh hand, tentatively placing it in yours.

You had him sit in the bathtub, and began cleaning him thoroughly, as the poor soldier reeked of trash.

You were careful with him, especially with his wounds, as each seemed angrier than the last time you’ve seen them, especially the jagged scar at his shoulder. You made sure to inform him of every move you made, showing him the products you used to avoid potentially spooking him.

He never once looked you in the eyes, he actually avoided eye contact as much as humanly possible, hair curtaining his face. 

You took your time carefully washing him, each time you rinsed off the suds, a dark brown swirl would disappear down the drain. Cleaning the dirt out of the small spaces between the sophisticated plates of his prosthetic arm was a careful and slow process in itself, but it was worth it in the end. By the time you were done, it was as shiny as new, or at least you thought.

You noted the scratch at the star on his shoulder, the mark almost dividing it into two pieces.

His frame was still shivering violently even as the water was near scalding now.

“Can I see your face?” you carefully asked, as you were about to wash his face before moving on to his hair. His entire body tensed up.

“I just want to wash your face. That’s all,” you encouraged. 

He hesitantly raised his head from its bowed position, eyes still closed.

You took a new washcloth and applied the cleanser, then raised it to his face.

“I’m going to start now,” you murmured, as the soft cloth made contact with his skin.

There was a new cut above his eyebrow, one you don’t recall seeing before. Carefully working your way around the scars, you slowly rubbed the dirt and mud off his skin. Your hand moved circularly across his cheeks, and you took your time admiring his features. 

He was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, even with that permanent frown etched into his features, brows forever furrowed. His pink lips held a slight pout. 

He didn’t understand why you wanted him back. He didn’t want to come back. He hurt you, why did you ask him to return to you? Why were you so gentle with him?

He didn’t know why he came back. Was it a need to fulfill the hidden order in your words?

Or was it the knowledge that despite his trepidations, he knew your home was safe. 

Safer than the streets, at least.

As one hand glided across his features in soothing circles, your other hand lingered at his cheek, delicately angling his head from time to time.

He couldn’t help but feel…relaxed.

Somewhere deep down he enjoyed your gentle ministrations, even as the overwhelming guilt kept eating away at this feeling.

He wanted to make it up to you. And he didn’t know if it was a feeling of needing to satisfy his handler, or if he genuinely felt sorry, and wanted you to know that.

His eyes flickered open when you reluctantly pulled your hands away from his face, having wiped the last of the cleanser off.

He was already looking so much better, but his hair still needed your attention.

“Can you tip your head back for me?” you asked gently, and he wordlessly complied, closing his eyes once again. 

You took your time massaging the shampoo into his roots, making sure to not pull his hair while trying to detangle it to some extent.

After three washes and rinses, you applied some of your conditioner to his hair, seemingly lost in the repetitive motions. 

Your hands quivered slightly every so often, but you willed your body to calm now.

He didn’t mean it. You just knew.

But having felt his true strength, and that wasn’t even what he was really capable of, still frightened you. 

It definitely reminded you of just who and what he was, and that he definitely wasn’t as harmless as he seemed.

He was one of the most potent living weapons ever made, after all, and you tended to forget about that crucial part.

Rinsing out the conditioner, his hair was sleek and shiny now, and he smelled so much better too.

Shutting the water off, you coaxed him out of the tub and carefully dried him off. You left to fetch him some clothes, and by the time you were back, he was on his knees, hands back, head bowed.

Submitting for punishment.

The sight made you pause.

“Winter, you can stand up. I won’t hurt you for what you’ve done. You don’t have to…do that,” you tried reassuring him, but he didn’t move. Mouthing an “okay”, you placed the clothes in front of him.

“Please get dressed.” your gentle order luckily broke the spell, and he moved to dress himself. While he was doing so, you moved to start the washing machine, so he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed by you staring at him as he dressed himself. When he was done, he stood, back straight, hands folded behind his back. 

His entire demeanor screamed “I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, just please don’t hurt me,”. His eyes nervously darted across the bathroom, still avoiding your gaze.

“Come on,” you encouraged, walking past him, trying to somehow redirect his attention. You led him to the kitchen, where you sat him down at the table while you heated his breakfast from the morning, searching for a dinner yourself as you hadn’t eaten all day.

Placing the meal in front of him, you sat down opposite of the soldier, and began to eat.

He made no move to pick up his fork, as he just stared at the plate of food, mouth quivering, eyes wide and breathing shallow.

“You can eat, Winter. It's all yours,” you encouraged. He still made no movement to touch it, so you didn’t push it. You still knew that he won’t eat while you can still see him, so you hoped he will eat once you leave.

After you were done, you washed your own plate, and went to take a shower yourself.

“I’ll take a shower, then I’ll be in the living room if you need anything,”

He waited until he heard the shower start, and began eating only after. He ate like a man starved, barely taking breaths between the bites. After he was done, he cleaned up after himself, and went to hide in the storage room, like always.

He snatched the blanket off the mattress, and curled up under a rickety table in the other end of the room.

His entire body was still rigid and trembling, burrowing his face into the blanket in an attempt to soothe himself, which unfortunately did little.

Some time later, you went to check on him, just giving him a gentle smile before you got comfortable in your living room, catching up on a show to distract yourself, though you occasionally rubbed at the bruises on your throat, reliving that moment again for a fraction of a second.

He didn’t mean it. He didn’t want to hurt you.

You were a few episodes in, when he appeared again, blanket draped over him like a cape. 

He just stood at the far end of the living room, the lights from the TV occasionally illuminating his form. You were aware of his presence, but made no moves to actually acknowledge it. You didn’t want to potentially spook him. 

Eventually, he sat down on the floor at the other end of the couch, eyes fixed on the TV screen. 

“Thank you…” he whispered after some time.

You looked down at him.

His eyes were sleepy, though still guarded as he shyly glanced in your direction.

You smiled at him.

Winter Soldier taglist: @missingddeanw

You've been harboring this strange man in your home for a while now, the man you've come to know as the Winter Soldier.

The world's most deadly assassin.

You met him in an alleyway, offering him a coat which he refused, then showed up in your storage room a while later.

He probably stealthed his way inside through the window.

At first, he was wary, of everything, including you. Refeeding, sleeping, bathing were all a hassle, but he's grown more comfortable around you as time passed.

For the past few weeks now, he began seeking your presence at night.

You would either wake to him clumsily climbing into your bed next to you, his violent shivering apparent through the slight vibrations in the mattress, or just to his panicked gasps and that haunting scream.

Tonight though, you were still awake when his night terror began.

You knew better by now than to wake him in that state, as he nearly strangled you the one time you tried. He would usually show up a few minutes after he woke.

You were sitting at your desk, just staring at the wood, lost in your world when he stumbled into the hallway. The door was open, your table lamp casting an orange glow into the darkness, a beacon of light.

Even in your dazed state you saw the movement from the corner of your eye, which made you flinch before you realized who it was.

"Winter?" you called out to him.

Even if he referred to himself as Soldat, you chose to call him Winter instead.

It felt more like a name and less like a clinical, dehumanizing designation.

He didn't protest, and responded to the name regardless.

He just continued to stand awkwardly at the end of the hallway, just out of the light's range. All you could make out was his form, standing hunched over.

He seemed to slightly cradle one of his arms, and judging by his posture, he was contemplating leaving instead of disturbing you in your staring contest with the wood.

Whenever you slept, he could just sneak into your bed, not having to deal with your attention, which he actually started seeking out more often.

Still, he preferred to go unnoticed, following you from a distance like a shadow, a constant companion.

"What is it?" you called again, as he didn't respond the first time you did.

He slightly flinched at your words despite their gentle cadence through the darkness, making his gaze waver for a second.

Eventually, he took a tentative step closer, giving you a better view of him.

The white tank top he was wearing was stained red at his shoulder where metal connected to flesh. His other hand was awkwardly pressed into the junction, a bit of blood still spilling through his fingers.

The sight made you involuntarily freeze for a second, before he spoke.

"I'm...sorry," he rasped.

He rarely spoke, and when he did his words only consisted of short, clipped Russian phrases, so him apologizing in English was new to you.

"It's okay," you reassured him, despite not knowing what exactly he was apologizing for.

You made a move to stand, making sure your movements were slow and predictable. Despite your efforts though, his body still convulsed involuntarily.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" your soft voice rang gently.

He slightly shook his head, and angled his body towards you instead of taking a step closer.

You cautiously made your way to him, watching as the usually towering man shrunk in on himself further. He fixed his gaze on the floor, avoiding eye contact.

Though you were closer now, from the lack of light, you still couldn't make out his injury, or why he was bleeding.

He abruptly turned on his heel and began walking back to the storage room with hurried steps.

When you didn't follow, he stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder, still hunched over.

Getting the message, you turned to follow him.

When you reached the storage room, a small ray of light spilled out from under the door.

So he was using the salt lamp you put in there.

As he disappeared behind the door, you took this and his silent message to follow, as permission to step into the room.

He was standing rigidly by the closet he spent so long hiding in, staring at the corner just behind the door he slept in.

He refused to use the couch, or the spare mattress you laid down for him, and instead slept on a thin blanket.

Now you could see that his flesh fingers subconsciously dug into the seam where steel met flesh, as his eyes nervously darted between you and the bloodstain on the blanket.

"I'm sorry...for...mess..." he whispered so lowly, you almost missed it, his fingers digging further into the weeping wound.

Your eyes caught on his actions.

"Hey, you're hurting yourself..." you cautiously called out, the sight tugging at your heartstrings.

He felt the need to tell you about the mess he made. Maybe then, when you would've eventually found out about it anyway, the punishment wouldn't be so severe. Even if you never so much as raised your voice at him above a gentle song.

His gaze darted down to his hand, eyes freezing and glazing over.

He sucked in a harsh breath and ripped his hand away. His entire body went rigid.

You noticed his obvious reaction, you knew him that much by now.

You knew he was bracing for impact.

"It's okay, we'll clean you up in no time..." you gently called out, hoping to ease his nerves. You turned to fetch a first aid kit, a bowl and a rag along with a new blanket and shirt for him.

He waited for you, every nerve on high alert. What if you went for a weapon? A knife? Would you hurt him for having caused damage to himself? For the ruined blanket? What if-

His train of thoughts was interrupted as you stumbled back into the room, hands full of supplies. He immediately went to help you, before recoiling, realizing his hands were filthy, and they would just soil the fresh blanket you've brought.

You just gave him a gentle smile, hoping to ease some of his nerves.

Setting the blanket down and folding the stained one, depositing it to the side, you turned to him.

"Can I see your shoulder?" you asked cautiously, making sure your voice and body language were loose and nonthreatening.

Despite the "bond" you two have been building, you knew injuries and his shoulder were still extremely sensitive spots for him.

After slight hesitation, he allowed you to see. Refusal was out of the question, even if all he wanted to do was tuck tail and run.

"I'm gonna have to take your shirt off. Is that okay with you?" You asked again, making him tense up again. Eventually, as he sensed no malicious intent in your demeanor, he allowed you to step closer and carefully remove his tank top.

Despite having a build and posture that would make a grown man weak in his knees, he surely carried himself like he wanted to disappear entirely. His entire body language screamed submission, fear and defeat as you carefully pulled the fabric away from his injured skin.

You tried to ignore the myriad of other horrible scars that were now on display on his torso. His shoulder needed all your attention, and you didn't want to make him feel self conscious.

This was already an extremely vulnerable situation for him.

Once his shirt was gone, you silently motioned for him to sit down, crouching next to him.

You silently examined the wound, and luckily it wasn't as bad as you feared.

A cleaning and some well-applied bandages along with the serum in his veins will surely do the trick.

You reached for the bowl and rag, and you felt him tense before you.

"I'm going to clean your wound, wipe the blood off, then I'm going to bandage it. Is that alright with you?" you asked carefully.

He watched the bowl and rag like they were coals and heated iron, eyes wide, breathing irregular.

"It's just warm water and a rag. See?" you explained, as you reached into the water, and held up the rag, showing him you were unharmed by them.

His shoulders loosened just a fraction, and you took that as permission to begin cleaning his wound.

You carefully wiped his pale skin clean of the crimson, making sure your actions were slow and predictable. Your hand moved with a gentleness the soldier wasn't used to across his toned pec. He watched, intrigued as the blood slowly disappeared from his skin.

You took another few minutes carefully cleaning the small spaces between the plates of his steel shoulder.

He didn't understand why you were so calm about it. You should be angry at him, furiously scrubbing his skin raw.

Yet all he saw was a sleepy calmness.

The strokes calmed you both, your eyes drooping closed, a few yawns escaping here and there.

Then you began patching his shoulder up. He anxiously searched for sharp objects in you kit, but all he found was gauze and cotton.

You were treating him like he was precious. Like you were afraid, that being just a little too rough with him would make him shatter.

After you were done, his shoulder was nice and secure, no blood dripping down his chest.

You yawned again before reaching for his flesh hand with a silent question in your sleepy eyes. His own wide ones were fixated on your hazy ones, not really understanding just how you could be so...calm around him. Sleepy, even.

Most handlers and doctors in his vicinity were ever vigilant, always prepared with a syringe in their pockets with his name on it.

He slowly raised his flesh hand, presenting his open palm to you.

You took his warm hand in yours, and began cleaning his fingers of blood too.

His hand was covered in scars and callouses, too, just like the rest of him. The skin was rough and dry, the blood he spilled forever tainting it. Yet, once again, you were so careful with him.

Like he was worth losing sleep over.

He felt guilty for making you tend to him, even as you were so tired.

Even if you couldn't sleep just half an hour ago, tending to the soldier calmed your nerves enough that your body now demanded you get some sleep.

But, you can't sleep until Winter is patched up.

After having cleaned the last bit of blood from under his fingernails, you carefully rested his large hand in his lap. His eyes flickered up to yours upon the loss of warmth.

You reached behind you and held the fresh tank top in front of him, silently asking permission to dress him.

He complied wordlessly, allowing you to delicately pull the fabric over his skin.

You sighed, satisfied, and laid out the new blanket for him.

"Good night, Winter," you said, turning to leave and discard the now useless supplies, before his flesh hand slightly brushed against your arm.

You turned back to him.

He avoided your eyes, but an unspoken request was apparent in the way he stood before you, eyes downcast and hidden by his unruly hair.

"Come on," you coaxed him gently with a small smile on your face.

After having discarded everything, the two of you stepped into your bedroom.

As you settled in, you didn't feel the mattress dip.

He just kept standing over you for a few seconds. Then he moved onto the bed.

At first he laid on the far side of the mattress, laying on his uninjured shoulder.

Then, as the minutes passed, he gradually inched closer to you, until his body was pressed against yours.

He made no move to drape his arm over you, or to lay on your chest, but instead he curled up like a cat would, head pressed into your side.

Smiling, you raised your arm, and rested it above him, not sure if he would want your hand on his shoulder, or in his hair.

Soon, you felt his breathing even out, and that allowed you to drift off too.

Tags: @iamthatonefangirl (I remember telling u about wanting to write some WS fanfic, and u told me u'd like to be tagged .<3)