When they first brought him in he was quiet. Not in the subdued way captured agents who had given up were silent and compliant. He wasn't even quiet like a predator that knew it was surrounded by the enemy and was waiting and watching, still and patient, for it's chance to break free. His eyes were sharp, not vacant, taking in every detail around him and yet there was something disconnected about them. Like the person the body belonged to had checked out of realty, leaving a living shell behind.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, Steve had finally decided after three hours of watching and guarding the man who did nothing more than breathe. Steve wasn't even sure his charge was blinking. He had sketched the man in detail already; thick shoulder length brown hair that fell partially in front of his surprisingly handsome face, the distance silvery blue eyes surrounded by raccoon-like black makeup, no hint of expression in his mouth.

Earlier, during the fighting, he'd worn heavily armed black combat attire. Now he wore the soft and simple gray clothing all SHIELD prisoners were given and it looked decidedly wrong on his combat-built form. The short sleeves also revealed the strange metal stripes the man had in his left arm, but the staff doctor hadn't had the time yet to go over him thoroughly enough to find out why they were there.

And so Steve's watch crept into its fourth hour. And slowly he became aware that his charge had begun to mutter. He set aside his sketch pad quickly and turned up the sensitivity on the microphone in the cell. It was still difficult to get any clear words, not that it would help because the man was speaking Russian.

Fairly quickly it became apparent that he was not speaking to someone somehow and by the time the fifth hour came around the man was screeching nonsensical Russian at the walls. He had tried to stand up several times, only to fall every time. He looked like a cornered animal; angry, frightened, and desperate. Occasionally that persona gave way to something else and he would curl up into a tight ball, making his not insignificant body look tiny, and rock back and forth as he grabbed his hair so tightly Steve feared he was going to pull it out.

Steve managed to wait a mere five minutes after his charges sudden descent into madness, just in case it was a temporary episode, before he called for a doctor. He wasn't allowed into the room to help. He had to remain at his observation post and watch through the cameras as the doctor and two agents entered the cell.

The doctor moved forward cautiously while the agents lingered by the door. Steve's charge was in a curled-up-and-pulling-his-hair moment and was whimpering in a way that was heartbreaking. The doctor tried to talk to him, reassure him or even just get a response, but he didn't get one. Not until he reached out for Steve's charge, anyway.

The brunet exploded. He launched himself at the doctor and pinned him to the floor, screaming Russian. The agents were quick to subdue him and after wrestling him down they ended up strapping him to the bed, where he writhed and screamed in a desperate panic. But Steve had noticed something they hadn't; the brunet hadn't made any attempt to kill the doctor, and he was more than skilled enough he could have. Steve had seen him break a man's neck with his bare hands just a few hours ago without even the slightest pause. So why didn't he kill the doctor?

The doctor did his best to exam the poor thrashing man but finally just pulled away from the brunet, shaking his head at the camera. He couldn't exam a patient like that. Steve couldn't blame him. His charge was hysterical and once the doctor left his angry screaming quickly devolved into sobs and pleas. It was hard to watch, and harder still because his charge's distant look had faded as the event went on. It made the brunet look years younger; his fear was palpable and his desperation was heart wrenching. And there was nothing Steve could do besides watch.

By the time the sixth hour rolled around the brunet had stopped crying. Now, he was looking around the room, visibly flinching at things that weren't there, occasionally trying to pull free and get to something or he would call out to someone. Steve could only imagine whatever he was seeing responded because his charge had several conversations with invisible people, his tone usually pleading and desperate and more than once he had just started sobbing again.

Steve jumped a little when someone abruptly entered the cell. He was about to use the intercom to tell them they weren't allowed (which, they really shouldn't have been able to get into the cell if they weren't but still; protecting his charge was part of his duty) when he realized it was Natasha. Even she faltered, briefly, when she saw the brunet and Steve had never seen her get so pale before.

Then she was rushing forward to his side, murmuring soothingly and running his fingers through his hair. Steve didn't understand most of what she said, as she was speaking Russian, but he caught one pretty frequent word he could understand. "James."

"James." He repeated to himself and decided the name suited the brunet. James had settled down immensely and was looking at Natasha was wide almost frightened eyes. He looked so very young.

They started speaking when James asked a soft almost fearful question, but whatever Natasha was saying back James didn't like as he started shaking his head and repeated another of the few German words Steve knew. "Nien." Over and over, with growing dismay and volume, until he was practically sobbing.

Natasha didn't seem upset and instead just worked calmly to soothe James again. It took a while, nearly an hour, and Steve was fairly certain James had passed out rather than fallen asleep, but at least his charge was resting. Natasha let her mask fall once James was breathing deeply and didn't appear like he was about to wake up again soon. She was pale, anxious and concerned in a way Steve had never seen her. But there was a certain amount of relief to her expression too. After a moment of running her fingers gently through James' hair, she put her mask back on and looked towards the camera.

Rather than speaking aloud, she signed 'Come to Clint's office' and Steve was grateful he'd learned American Sign Language from and for Clint. He flicked the camera light twice and she nodded before she got up. James stirred, reached towards her as best his could with his limbs secured, and Steve watched Natasha kiss his forehead. It was so loving and pure and Steve had never seen that kind of gentleness from Natasha ever before.

But then she was out of the cell and his replacement had arrived and it was time for some answers.