#crying man

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