Title: this peculiar place where hope is not for fools
Disclaimer: the narrator isn't mine; title from Matilyn Singer
Warnings: post-Cap 2 by a few months; references, of course, to torture/trauma/brainwashing/violence; past child abuse; references to past rape
Pairings: OFC/OFC, Steve/Bucky
Rating: PG
Wordcount: WIP
Point of view: third
Prompt: any, any, Neverwinter
Note: on A03, there are links to certain things sprinkled throughout the texts. alas, that cannot be done here. I'll tell you, this, though - the OCs are cast as Octavia Spencer and Melissa Ponzio.
He breathes.
He breathes. He breathes.
"Hey, sweetie, you okay?" he hears. The speaker does not come closer. "Only, you look kinda fucked. You in that mess downtown?"
'That mess downtown' being another Hydra safehouse torn apart by Hydra's greatest weapon.
He does not say, "I am functional." He does not say, "I am unharmed."
He says, "'m'fine," and huddles deeper into the stolen coat, against the dirty wall.
"Yeah, I'm doubtin' that," the speaker says. He peers out of the coat to see a dark-skinned woman pantomiming something to a Hispanic woman before the dark-skinned woman crouches down.
It is snowing lightly. He has learned over the past months that he hates the cold. He cannot return to where he had stored all of his supplies because two people escaped the Hydra safehouse. He examines both women carefully but they are not Hydra. He would know.
"Look, honey," the crouching woman says while the one still standing rolls her eyes, "you could use some help, right? It's gonna be cold tonight."
He flinches. He cannot control it.
"Yeah, it's awful," she says. She sounds… gentle. Like the way that civilian from two states ago talked to the dog whining in the road. He had watched the man convince the dog to hobble to his car and then followed as the man brought the dog to a clinic and carried the whimpering animal in. He stayed until the man left, carrying the dog (with a cast on its left hind leg) and promising it a good, lazy life. Gentle.
No one in his memory has spoken to him gently.
"There's a shelter I know of," the woman says. "Will you let me take you there?"
He has been in three shelters. They are too loud. Too many smells. Too many people he could hurt, who could –
He closes his eyes to avoid the woman's eyes and says, "No." His voice trembles. His body.
"Alright, honey, that's fine," she says soothingly. "But I can't just leave you here. I can't have you freezing to death on my conscience, you know?"
"Tai," the other woman says, "we're gonna be late, babe."
He keeps his eyes closed so he doesn't have to watch them walk away.
But the women do not walk away. "I'm Tai Jones," the one still crouching tells him. "She's Angelique Reyes. I figure you don't have anywhere to go or you'd be there. Can you tell me why you don't want to go to the shelter?"
He opens his eyes. He looks at her. "Too loud," he says. "People."
She nods. Her lips turn upward in a small smile. People don't smile at him.
"Well, how about this, then," she says. "For tonight, we bring you home with us."
"Tai!" Angelique Reyes says sharply. He knows that tone. He heard a man using it on a little girl three cities ago. His handlers and the techs used it on him.
He shifts, preparing to get between them if Angelique Reyes tries to hurt Tai Jones but Tai Jones says, "Oh, no, baby, Angel won't hurt me, I promise."
Angelique Reyes says, "What?" while his eyes widen and he shrinks back against the wall. How did she know?
"My daddy was in Vietnam," she says, rearranging herself so that she's sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. "And then my brother was in the first Iraq war. I figure you were a soldier, right?"
He flinches again. "Don't call me that," he begs, though begging has never worked, not in his memory.
"Shit," Angelique Reyes says. "Fine, fuck."
"Thank you, dear," Tai Jones says, eyes still on him. "Look, we've got a guestroom. Clean sheets. A warm shower. Lots of food."
"You don't know me," he says. "I hurt people."
Her smile is – there was a man, once. He smiled like that. He smiled at him like that. "You're right," Tai Jones agrees. "I don't know you. But I'm a social worker, you see, and I can't walk away from this. There are so many times I haven't been able to help, and it burns me, deep down in my soul. But you, honey?" There are tears in her eyes. "You, even if it goes badly, I can at least get out of the cold for one night."
"I don't want to hurt people," he confesses. He's never said it before. No one was listening before.
"Come home with us," Tai Jones says. "We can plan tomorrow. Find you somewhere you wanna go."
There was a man, once. He only ever wanted to be near the man.
Angelique Reyes sighs heavily. "I'll call Nancy, let her know we won't make it. And if we wake up dead, I'm blaming you, Tai."
"We won't wake up dead," Tai Jones says, still smiling. "Will we, honey?"
He shakes his head. He does not want to hurt these women.
He won't hurt these women.
"I'm gonna stand up now," Tai Jones informs him. "Can you stand?"
He breathes. He stands. He follows.
.
Tai Jones leads him to the relieving and bathing facilities, saying, "Angel's gonna get us some food, sweetie. How about you get clean while we wait?" She flicks on the light and he stares – the walls are a soft blue with bright fish swimming and he feels… at ease. Never has he felt like this. Calm.
"There you go," Tai Jones murmurs. "You know how to work a faucet?"
He nods, reaching out to touch one of the fish.
"Okay, that's good. How about you take a shower while I straighten up the guestroom for you?" Tai Jones says. He knows it's an order, but – no handler has ever sounded so warm. So kind.
He nods again and begins removing his clothing, which is torn and filthy.
"Hey, whoa, wait a minute," Tai Jones exclaims. He ceases all motion, head ducked, eyes down. He has already decided to cause no harm.
"Hey, it's alright," she says gently, the way that civilian spoke to the dog. "I just – honey, is that blood?"
There is blood on the shirt. His torso has already healed, and most of the blood had not been his. He does not look up.
Tai Jones says, "That's a neat prosthetic." He flicks the metal fingers, clenches them. His arm whirs as it resets. He hears the high-pitched whine that means something is malfunctioning but there is no one he will allow to repair it.
"Okay, honey, can you look at me?" Tai Jones asks. He lifts his gaze to her chin. "Oh, kiddo, c'mon." He meets her eyes. "There you are," she says. "I don't know who you are, or where you've been, or what happened to you. I know there's been a lot of pain and I am so sorry. But you're safe here, I promise." He drops his gaze. She sighs. "Take your shower, baby," she says. "We'll talk over dinner."
Tai Jones pulls towels from a cabinet to set them on the toilet lid and tells him, "Use the robe on the hook. I have some of my brother's clothes for you – he left 'em after his last visit. If you like, I'll wash yours."
He is still holding his shirt. He stole it five states ago, the jeans three before that. His supplies, which included five more shirts and jeans, is lost, now. His boots are the ones his handlers dressed him in for the failed mission. He has no weapons here beyond the arm and himself.
He knows an order when he hears it. He holds out the shirt; she takes it carefully and he bends to remove his boots. "Oh, sweetie," she sighs as he removes his jeans and holds them out as well. He is completely bare, as he has not been since his handlers prepped him for the failed mission.
Tai Jones says, "Take your shower, honey." Her smile – he remembers one like it, from – long long ago? A man, fragile, important. Smiled. Called him the name the target said was his, that the museum said was his.
Tai Jones, as she closes the door, says, "Wash everywhere, honey. You'll feel better."
He steps into the bathtub, pulls the curtain, examines the knobs and faucet, and turns on the water so hot it burns. He stands beneath the spray, letting the heat spread. There is soap; he utilizes it for his skin and his hair, which has grown so long as to be unwieldy. Once he has washed every part of him three times, he feels – satisfied. That is the word. Like when he once completed a mission and his handler had said, "Good job." Long long ago. He is clean but he stays under the water, tucked in, letting it flow down his back, soak in his hair. It is so warm.
When it begins to cool, he turns it off, pulls back the curtain, and steps from the tub. He dries his skin with the towels but his hair still drips, so after he pulls on the robe, he drapes a towel across his shoulders.
The door is closed. He listens carefully: Tai Jones and Angelique Reyes are talking in Spanish and things are clinking – plates? Silverware? And something smells… good. He has been eating food retrieved from dumpsters and cans stolen from gas stations, drinking from water fountains and public access sinks. None of it has smelled pleasant. What his handlers fed him did not smell at all, and often he was hooked to bags of liquid instead of eating actual food.
He is hungry. He opens the door.
.
The food is something Tai Jones calls 'barbeque.' He sits at the place Tai Jones indicates is for him and stares at the containers – it is brown meat and thick potatoes and a sweet smell. Tai Jones holds out an empty plate and says, "Take whatever you want, honey."
He chooses the closest piece and sets it on the plate. His fingers are covered in the sauce; he wipes them with a napkin but some of the sauce drips onto Tai Jones' brother's gray pants – the softest material he can remember on his skin, except for the towels Tai Jones ordered him to use. He stares at the sauce and then as covertly as he can tries to remove it with another napkin.
"It's fine," Tai Jones says. "Don't worry about the mess, sweetie. Eat."
He eats. It tastes… pleasing.
Tai Jones and Angelique Reyes talk in English throughout the meal: he files all the data away for later review and does not respond except when Tai Jones asks, "You enjoyin' it, honey?"
"Yes," he says without looking up from his plate. When he finishes the first piece, he slowly reaches for another and when neither of them forbids it, takes the meat.
"When's the last time you ate?" Tai Jones asks.
Three days ago. But his mouth is full so he moves his shoulders in a fashion he does not understand but Tai Jones seems to because she sighs. "Alright," she says.
There is a glass of water to the right of the plate Tai Jones gave him. He is thirsty. He looks at the glass for thirty-eight seconds and then glances up at Tai Jones, who is eating beans with a fork, and Angelique Reyes who is cutting into a piece of – chicken? Chicken with a fork and a knife. They both have glasses, too, though the liquid in them is dark and bubbly. He looks back at the water.
He is thirsty. He should ask – he is to always ask the handlers before doing anything unless on a mission, when he is to correctly anticipate everything that might happen and prepare in advance a multitude of plans to follow.
There is no mission now beyond 'destroy Hydra to the utmost extent' and 'do not get captured.'
"How you doin', kiddo?" Tai Jones asks. "You full?"
He is thirsty. He carefully grabs the glass of water and drains it down.
"You want some more?" Angelique Reyes asks. It is the first time she has addressed him at all.
He says, "Yes." He wants more water. He wants more food. He wants – the man who once called him that name and was so important.
He cannot have that man. But he can have more water: Angelique Reyes stands, reaches for the empty glass, carries it into the kitchen. He cannot see but follows the actions by sound as she opens something, pours water into the glass, closes something, and comes back into the dining area, where she sets the glass in front of him.
He looks up at her as she sits back down. Her eyes are dark and she smiles at him. Not like Tai Jones, like the man. But a smile. He knows the words to say but has not ever said them.
He says them now. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she replies.
.
When he no longer feels hungry, he sets his hands on his thighs and looks down at the plate. "You done?" Tai Jones asks after a moment, interrupting her conversation with Angelique Reyes about Nancy's party that they have missed.
"Yes," he says.
His body does not hurt but aches everywhere. He knows pain; currently, he does not feel it. But he is tired. He does not remember ever being awake long enough to feel tired. He thinks that is the accurate descriptor.
"You wanna rest?" Tai Jones asks.
His handlers, Hydra – they had agents who could read minds. He remembers – two times ago? Three? His handler was younger, then, but he ordered that The Telepath be brought to read the asset, to assure that everything worked properly. He remembers, in what he knows now is his mind, what should be his and no one else's, he remembers hearing another's voice, "Oh, you sorry bastard, what they've done to you. It's amazing."
And The Telepath told the handler, "Completely empty, sir. Almost like I'd done it myself."
"Are you telepathic?" he asks Tai Jones now, bringing his gaze up to her chin. He doesn't want anyone in his head but him, not ever again. But. There is no way to say that, yet. He can barely think it.
"No, not really," Tai Jones says after a moment. "I can feel things, sometimes. Get a sense about what's gonna happen." She chuckles softly. "Like, tonight? We'd planned on going a different way, but I knew I had to walk down that street, even though the temperature was droppin' fast and we shoulda caught a cab."
He doesn't know how to ask if she's in his mind. He looks back down at his plate.
Tai Jones asks, "You remember where the guestroom is?" and he nods. "Okay, then. If you wanna go lay down, go ahead. It's fine. We'll talk in the morning, honey."
He shouldn't leave a mess. The plate, the glass. Witnesses to his existence. But he has chosen to cause no harm here, and she has ordered that he rest. Recharge. So he stands and leaves the room. Down the bright green hall, with pictures that he files away for later review, a dark brown carpet. The guestroom is the same shade of blue as the bathing facilities, though this time without the fish. He wishes it had fish. He… likes looking at the fish.
The pants are loose enough to sleep in, as is the shirt. He does not know who the Wisconsin Badgers are, but their shirt is comfortable and soft and warm. The creature on it seems unrealistic but that does not affect the shirt's functioning.
He lies down on the bed. Shivers. There are blankets beneath him and – he glances towards the door, which he closed but dared not lock. He rolls to the side and pulls the blanket down so that he can slide under it. He shivers again, so he undoes the next layer, as well. He does not shiver again.