May I hold you
As you fall to sleep
When the world is closing in
And you can't breathe?
May I love you?
May I be your shield
When no one can be found?
May I lay you down?

- "May I" by Trading Yesterday


The bedroom Steve had chosen shared a wall with the master bathroom. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Winter since they left him to take his bath, so he assumed Winter had picked the master bedroom as his, at least for the night. It was probably the best choice for him anyway; it offered more privacy than the other rooms, and he wouldn't have to venture outside to use the bathroom.

Winter moved so quietly that the only sound Steve heard from that room before going to bed was the rushing sound of the bathwater being let out. Steve was exhausted from the stress of the past few days (had it really only been that long since Fury's attempted assassination?), so he quickly fell into a dreamless sleep.

He woke at 1:26 a.m. to the unmistakable sounds of someone throwing up. At first he was too sleepy and disoriented to realize what was going on, but then he sat up and looked at the wall through which the muffled sounds were coming. His protective instincts were yelling at him to rush to Winter's side, break down the door if necessary, and help him. But he had a feeling that would only make things worse, or even undo what little progress they'd made.

The sounds stopped. A pitiful little cough echoed through the wall, and all was silent. Steve got out of bed and padded out into the hallway. He listened at Winter's closed door, but couldn't hear anything, so he knocked and called quietly, "Winter? Are you all right?"

For a moment, he heard nothing. Then he heard the toilet flushing and water running in the sink. Once silence fell again, Steve knocked a second time. "Winter? I just want to help."

After a long silence, which Steve spent wondering whether he should knock again or not, the lock suddenly clicked. Steve waited, but the door didn't open. He reached out for the doorknob, but stopped himself. Even though Winter had unlocked the door, Steve had to prove that he could be trusted to not just barge in. Winter had to learn that some people would actually wait for permission. He knocked again. "Can I come in?"

Another long pause. When the reply finally came, it was muffled behind door and mask, and so quiet Steve could barely hear it. "Yes."

When Steve opened the door, he expected to see Winter standing right there, but instead he was over by the bed. The room was dark, but the light from the bathroom fell across the bedspread, which looked smooth and untouched as though Winter hadn't slept at all. He slumped against the foot of the bed, gripping the post with his metal hand while his real arm clutched his stomach. The clothes Steve had given him hung loosely on his body, making him seem thinner than he actually was and adding to his weak appearance. He still wore the mask, of course, but his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and what little skin was visible was even paler than usual.

After a moment's consideration, Steve left the door open and stepped away from it, making sure that Winter wouldn't feel trapped. "You don't look so great," he said. "Are you okay?"

"Hurts," Winter mumbled, pressing his arm harder against his stomach. "Ate the sandwich...and then it hurt."

Steve could see him trembling as he stood there, warily following every movement Steve made. He looked confused and frightened, like a lost child.

"I hope you weren't allergic to something in it." He raised his hand slightly. "Can I feel your forehead? We need to see if you have a fever."

Winter violently shook his head, and Steve stifled an impatient sigh. If he was going to make such a big deal about letting Winter have a choice, he had to accept the choices Winter made, even when they made life harder for Steve. "Okay, wait right here."

He rummaged around in the other bathroom until he found the thermometer, then brought it back to Winter. "It's a thermometer," he explained when Winter just stared at it. "Just stick it under your tongue until it beeps, then tell me what the number is."

As he stepped back out into the hall to wait, he found Sam sleepily poking his head out the door of his own room. "What's up?" he yawned.

Steve briefly explained the problem. By the time he finished, Sam looked fully awake and joined him outside Winter's closed door.

"You realize how hard it's going to be to take care of him while he's sick?" Sam muttered. "If he still doesn't let us take off his mask..."

Before Steve could reply, the door opened again. This time, Winter opened it himself and wordlessly held out the thermometer. 103.

In the time it took for Steve and Sam to share a glance, Winter retreated back to the bed, still hunched over and clutching his stomach. "You've got a fever," Sam said to him. "You should lie down; the best thing to do is get some rest."

But Winter made no move towards the bed. He hunched down even farther, now staring at their feet. "I know what this is," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "It happened...before. Last time."

After a moment, Steve understood. "When you ran away?"

Winter nodded jerkily. "They said...it would be worse next time. That I should know better. That I can't make it without their...m-medicine. That they'd take care of me..." A shudder ran through him, and he couldn't seem to stop shaking. But he still managed to say, "They...give me things. To stay sharp. Keep focused. Top of my game. And w-without them..."

Sam swore under his breath. Steve frowned and glanced between them, not sure he was following. Sam explained, "He's addicted to whatever they gave him. I bet they did that on purpose, so if he ever tried to run away, he'd start going through withdrawal and then he'd want to go back."

The barely-suppressed rage in Sam's voice surprised Steve a little. He was just as disgusted with Hydra as Steve was, but he'd never reacted as strongly as Steve when he'd learned what Winter had been through. He was primarily here because Steve needed him; he didn't feel the same obligation to help Winter that Steve did. But something in his voice suggested this had just become personal.

Before he had a chance to ask him about it, Winter suddenly lurched forward. He crashed to his knees, his metal arm's grip on the bedpost the only thing saving him from falling flat on his face. Steve stepped forward, arms rising to catch him, but he forced himself to stop. He knew Winter would only try to pull back, and probably hurt himself in the process. Frustration and helplessness battled with his concern for Winter. It had been a long time since he had felt so impotent, watching a bad situation and knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it.

"You really need to get in bed, man," Sam said, walking around to the far side of the bed and pulling down the covers. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

It seemed not even Winter could argue with that. Breathing raggedly and gripping the edge of the mattress, he managed to haul himself upright and collapse into bed. Steve longed to help him—how easy it would be to lift him into the bed!—but he could only stand there and watch.

Even when he was in the bed, Winter didn't relax. Instead of lying down, he hunched in a half-sitting position against the headboard. He was still shaking like a leaf, and he struggled to watch the others even though he looked like he would pass out any second.

"We've got something that will help bring your fever down," Sam said. "I'll go get it."

While he was gone, Steve watched Winter slide lower and lower on the headboard, though he tried valiantly to stay upright. His teeth were chattering loudly in the silence. Reluctantly, Steve brought up what he knew they were both thinking. "I'm sorry," he said as gently as he could. "But you really are going to have to take off the mask. We won't be able to help you otherwise."

Predictably, Winter's hand flew up to his mask, but this meant only his right arm was supporting him. It trembled and gave out, so he was finally lying more or less flat on his back. But he started gasping like he had the last time they'd suggested it, clutching his mask and staring around for an escape though Steve doubted he had the strength to even get out of bed right now.

"No..." Winter gasped in between wheezing breaths. "Don't...please don't..."

It was extremely frustrating to Steve that the most comforting thing he could do was probably stand as far away from him as possible. "It's okay," he said in a low, even voice. "I'm not going to hurt you. But you need to take this pill for your fever, and if we're going to help you..."

"I think I have a solution," Sam said behind him. He stepped into the room, holding the bottle of ibuprofen in one hand and a large blue bandanna in the other. "You can put this on," he said to Winter, also speaking slowly and quietly when he saw Winter gasping like a drowning man. "That way you can still keep your face covered, but we can help you get a drink of water or something."

"Does that sound all right?" Steve asked as Sam put the medicine and the bandanna on the bedside table.

Winter's desperate gasps were slowing down a little, and after a moment he nodded slowly.

"Just take one of these pills and let us know when you're done," Steve said, stepping through the door. "We'll be right here in the hallway."

After closing the door behind them, Steve watched Sam pace up and down the hallway. It was dark in here, with only the moonlight shining through the window. Even so, he could see Sam's fists opening and closing as he passed. "What's up?"

Sam came to a stop next to the window, swearing under his breath again. "Hydra," he spat, crossing his arms as if to keep himself from hitting something. "Just when I thought they couldn't get any worse."

He glanced over at Steve's inquisitive expression and sighed. "My brother," he said heavily. "He fell in with a bad crowd in high school. Got into drugs." He shook his head. "I tried to help him...but by the time he decided to go clean, his life was already in ruins. And when you haven't got much to come home to...it's hard to stay clean, you know? He's been in and out of rehab ever since. And to think they would force someone to go through that..." He shook his head again, jaw working silently.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Steve said, crossing over to him and putting a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't know..."

Before Sam could reply, a tiny voice said from behind the door, "Okay..."

Giving Sam's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, Steve returned his attention to the task at hand. When they stepped back into the bedroom, they saw Winter without his mask for the first time. Of course, they couldn't see more than the contours of his face since it was covered completely by the bandanna, but the blue cloth lent a softness to his features that hadn't been there before.

"You should be feeling better soon," Steve said, giving Winter an encouraging smile. "Try to get some sleep, all right?" He turned to Sam. "You go on back to bed; I'll take first watch."

"You sure?" At Steve's nod, Sam yawned and waved to Winter as he turned to leave. "Holler if you need anything."

Steve closed the door again, then stepped into the bathroom to run cold water over the washcloth hanging there. When he returned to Winter's side, he wasn't particularly surprised to see that he was still slumped against the headboard, trying to watch Steve's every move even though his eyelids were drooping.

"I'm going to put this on your forehead," Steve said, raising the washcloth, "so lie down, okay?"

Winter's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"It'll cool you down, make you a little more comfortable. You can take it off again if you don't like it," he added, folding it into a rectangle.

Slowly, reluctantly, Winter slid down the rest of the way and finally laid his head on the pillow. Steve placed the wet washcloth on his forehead, careful not to actually touch his skin. Then he pulled over the chair from the corner of the room and sat down by the bed to watch over his charge. Winter seemed to fight it at first, but soon his eyelids dragged downwards and his breathing evened out.


The first day wasn't too bad. Winter slept through most of the night, and when Sam came in to relieve Steve in the morning, Winter was propping himself up on his metal elbow to take another pill. He moved slowly and carefully, using painstaking care to ensure that the glass wasn't pushing his bandanna up too far. But he needn't have worried; the cloth even covered most of his neck.

"Go on, take a nap," Sam said to Steve. "I'll take over for a while."

"I'll go to the store first," Steve said, standing and stretching. "You need anything else for now, Winter?"

Winter tensed, then slowly shook his head. As Steve left the room, Sam called after him, "Try not to exude too much liberty and justice, or you'll blow our cover!"

"Shut up," Steve called back good-naturedly as he descended the stairs.

Winter watched Sam warily, his bandanna fluttering with each tense breath. Sam pretended not to notice. "Door open or closed?"

Winter's eyes darted between Sam and the door, which Steve had left open. Slowly, he lowered himself back down to the pillow. "Open."

With a nod, Sam sat down in the chair Steve had vacated and settled down for a long vigil. He noticed that Winter's hand was clenched around something under the sheets—probably a knife or something, just in case. Well, if it helped him feel more protected and in control, Sam supposed that was okay. And it would probably only cause more trouble to try to take it away. He just hoped Winter didn't accidentally stab himself in his sleep. He'd have to keep an eye on that.

Sam fiddled around on his phone until he heard Winter's breathing grow slower and deeper in sleep. Then Sam just watched his chest rise and fall, his hand occasionally twitching under the covers—his right hand, not the one holding the knife, thankfully.

If someone had told Sam a week ago where he would be... Life was crazy. One minute you were an average guy living an average life, the next Captain America was on your doorstep asking you to hide him from the government. And before you could say Let me think about this for a second, you were nursing back to health an assassin who'd tried to kill you several times...and you felt like this was the most important thing you'd ever done. Including that time you'd saved Colonel Frankweiler's life.

Winter really was kind of amazing, Sam reflected as he watched the man shift restlessly in his sleep. To come from the kind of background Hydra had given him—brainwashing, amnesia, torture, addiction—and still be able to take advantage of a good thing when he saw it? As messed up as he was, as fragile as his trust was, there was an indomitable core of strength somewhere deep down in his cold and shriveled heart. Sam wondered what the main motivation had been for him to leave Hydra and join Steve—self-preservation? Or did he actually want to turn his life around and find a new identity?

That could make all the difference in the end. It would spell the distinction between Winter actually being rehabilitated, or just becoming as dependent on them as he had been on Hydra. It would be so easy for someone as needy as Winter to latch unhealthily onto someone so ready to give.

A sudden whimper broke Sam out of his reverie. Winter shifted in his sleep, head rolling from side to side as he tried to evade whatever horrors plagued his sleeping brain.

"Please..." he muttered, tugging weakly at the blanket like he was clawing for something to grab onto as he slipped over the edge of a cliff. "Stop... I won't do it again..."

Sam plucked the washcloth from where it had fallen onto the pillow. It was warm from Winter's feverish skin, so Sam ran cold water over it again and gently dabbed at Winter's sweaty brow. Winter gasped at the touch, but he didn't wake up, and he fell still after that. Sam carefully placed the cloth on his brow and resumed his seat.

But of course, that was just the beginning. As time wore on, Winter's sleep grew more and more restless, and his sheets were soon soaked through even though he couldn't stop shaking. Sam did what he could to keep Winter comfortable, but he knew all they could really do was wait.

The worst part, Sam decided, was when Winter would talk in his sleep. Most of it was unintelligible mutters (some of which he was sure were different languages), but what words he did catch made him want to punch something. Mostly they were pleas, begging his invisible tormentors not to hurt him. And, interspersed through all of these pitiful pleas, every now and then would come a gravelly mutter, "Ready to comply."

He wasn't sure why, but those three words sent a chill down his spine every time he heard them. And he was almost positive he heard the same thing in all those different languages too.

Steve and Sam soon found a routine, switching off for stretches of six hours so the other could get some rest. At first, it wasn't too hard to care for Winter—they just had to make sure to keep him hydrated and try to keep his fever down. After that first night, he didn't seem to have a problem with nausea again—though that might have been because his stomach was completely empty.

The real challenge started on Day Two. Sam had just been dozing off himself when Winter suddenly sat bolt upright in his bed and started screaming his head off. Jumping to his feet, Sam had to take a moment to still his own racing heart before moving to the bed. "It's okay, man, it's okay," he said soothingly.

"No!" Winter yelled, flinging out his metal hand and catching Sam on the jaw.

Sam stumbled back with a grunt of pain, then looked up to see Steve standing in the doorway. Eyes wide, hair tousled, Steve looked as though he'd just rolled out of bed. But he seemed awake enough to grasp the situation, and hurried forward to help Sam. They each grabbed one of Winter's arms and held him down so he wouldn't hurt himself as he thrashed around. Winter was weak enough that Sam could hold down his right arm, but he highly doubted he could manage Winter's full strength.

"You're safe, Winter," Steve murmured into his ear. Somehow he made it look like he was grasping Winter's hand in friendship even though his arms were straining a little to keep Winter's metal shoulder pressed against the pillow. "Remember where you are. Nothing's going to hurt you now. Nothing at all."

Winter stopped struggling, but it seemed he was still hallucinating. "Not that...please, not that... I'll be good... I promise I'll be good..."

They released him, but he kept mumbling to the demons only he could see. He rattled off what sounded like pleas in five different languages, his voice finally dying down into an unintelligible mumble.

Sam let out a long breath and shared a relieved look with Steve. Then he gingerly felt the bruise forming on his jaw. "That guy sure packs a wallop."

"You should put some ice on that," Steve said. " I can take over from here."

"Thanks," Sam said, turning to go.

A weak murmur held him back. "Water..."

Winter's eyes were open now, and he blinked groggily at them as he croaked again, "Water..."

Steve quickly grabbed the glass of water on the bedside table and leaned over the bed. "Here..."

But suddenly Winter's eyes flew open all the way and he raised his hand, grabbing Steve's wrist. "Not you," he gasped, then collapsed onto the pillow again. "Him..."

They both looked at Winter in surprise. His shaky finger was pointing at Sam.

Sam blinked and shared a bemused look with Steve. If Winter were to pick the one he was more comfortable with to help him with something as potentially problematic as a drink, the obvious choice was Steve. He'd been gentler with Winter from the start, and he just gave off this...aura, for lack of a better word. He made you feel safe, and calm, and stronger than you were before. That was one of the things that had drawn Sam to him in the first place. Besides, with Winter he had a sort of supersoldier camaraderie, an immediate connection based on things Sam could never hope to fully understand.

Still, Winter had asked for him. It was probably the first time he'd expressed a preference without being prompted. So Sam shrugged and took Steve's place. He slid an arm under Winter's pillow and propped him up enough to let him sip from the glass Steve handed him. Steve retreated to his chair while Sam slipped the glass under Winter's bandanna and helped him slowly drink. Then he gently lowered Winter back onto the bed.

Winter already seemed to have fallen into a fitful sleep again. Gingerly prodding at his bruise, Sam left Steve to his vigil. He would probably spend the rest of his life wondering about Winter, and never really get a solid answer.


While he didn't begrudge Winter a single minute of the time spent watching over him while he recovered, Steve had to admit it was tiring to take care of someone going through withdrawal, especially when he was so hard to restrain during his hallucinations. Steve was grateful for the chances he got to relax and leave the cabin entirely. Usually that meant just walking down to the stream or chopping firewood that they really didn't need yet. But he also liked going down to the little town in the valley to go shopping.

Silver Pines was a tiny town, far from pretty much everything noteworthy, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone. Thankfully, there seemed to be a steady enough trickle of campers and tourists that stuck around throughout the year that Steve's presence wasn't too conspicuous. He just told people who asked that he was staying in a cabin to draw the local flora and fauna, and waved his hand vaguely in the exact opposite direction from Natasha's cabin. People seemed to buy it. He'd told Sam to give people a completely different story, so hopefully no one would even connect them, let alone recognize them.

As small as Silver Pines was, they still had a small selection of shops that Steve browsed through when he went into town to get groceries. One he kept gravitating towards was the used bookshop, a cramped, musty-smelling haven piled high with books. There were never many shoppers in there at a time, and the owner seemed content to sit at the counter and read the newest acquisitions, so the store had the same hushed quality as a library.

Steve browsed through the shelves, finding some titles he knew among hundreds that he didn't. He'd gotten a lot of recommendations from people about things he'd missed under the ice, but most of them were either historical events or movies, it seemed. Not a whole lot of book recommendations. So he wasn't really looking for anything in particular (though he couldn't help snickering over a few vintage copies of Captain America comic books the store lovingly kept in plastic sleeves).

But then he found it, tucked away in a back corner next to the teen section for some reason. He almost didn't realize what it was, since the cover bore the picture of a grungy-looking movie star, but then he glanced at the book next to it and realized they were by the same author. So, because it was on his list and he remembered how much he and Bucky had enjoyed the first book in the series, he bought the whole trilogy.

It was probably because Bucky was on his mind, but he decided to read his new purchases aloud to Winter when he returned to the cabin. He could remember countless times that he'd been sick, and Bucky would come to visit with a book under his arm. He'd sit by Steve's bed, his warm, confident voice losing them both in the adventures of heroes who weren't short, skinny, and coughing their lungs out. A book always helped the hours pass quickly.

So, even though Winter was fast asleep, Steve cracked open the first book and began to read. "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton."

Steve soon realized that this book was quite different from the whimsical adventure tale he and Bucky had enjoyed reading together, but he soon became engrossed in this larger tale. He would read until his voice grew hoarse, whether Winter was awake or not. When he was lucid enough to realize what Steve was doing, Winter would sometimes look at him strangely, but he listened without saying a word. Sometimes Sam would join them too, after giving Steve a hard time for not having seen the movies yet.

Steve especially enjoyed reading about Sam Gamgee, and considering the similarities between the character and his Sam. Perhaps there weren't a lot—Sam Wilson wasn't a fat, furry-footed gardener, for one thing—but they shared the same loyalty, the same dedication to the man he'd chosen to follow. Samwise Gamgee didn't have to stick with Frodo to the bitter end. Frodo had actually tried to slip away without him. But Sam had followed him anyway, determined to help him see his quest through. Steve could definitely see his Sam in that.

The first time Gollum came onto the scene, Steve had to stop reading for a while. Bucky had made up a funny little voice for Gollum while reading The Hobbit, just to make Steve laugh. When he picked up the book again the next day, he didn't try to make a special voice for Gollum's lines of dialogue. He just sadly continued the story that Bucky would never hear the end of.

By the time he reached the end of the third book, Winter was awake for longer periods of time, watching him and listening to the story. It was hard to tell if he liked it or even understood it, what with the large chunks of narrative he must have missed while he was asleep. But Steve noticed that he seemed to have fewer panic attacks while Steve read. Maybe the constant sound of his voice helped ground him. Or maybe he found it just as comforting as Steve always had to devote his thoughts to someone who was strong, brave, and not confined to a bed.

Tears filled his eyes and the words swam across the page as he read the final struggle up the side of Mt. Doom. "'I said I'd carry him, if it broke my back,' he muttered, 'and I will! Come, Mr. Frodo!' he cried. 'I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you and it as well. So up you get! Come on, Mr. Frodo dear! Sam will give you a ride. Just tell him where to go, and he'll go.'"

Brushing his tears away, Steve lowered the book for a moment and glanced over at Winter. Their eyes met, then Winter hastily looked away. And what about you, Winter? Steve thought. Will you let me carry you to the top of your mountain? Will you throw your ring in and let it be destroyed? I want to bring you out of Mordor, Winter. I want to take you there and back again.

Will you let me?


...who forgives all your sins
And heals all your diseases,
Who redeems your life from the pit
And crowns you with love and compassion,
Who satisfies your desires with good things
So that your youth is renewed like the eagle's.

- Psalm 103:3-5


Author's Note: Okay, I have to admit the last scene of this chapter is a little self-indulgent ^^' One of the best things about the MCU taking place in the modern day is that you can easily imagine the characters experiencing some of the stories we know and love. And I am strongly in favor of the headcanon that Steve is a huge bookworm—it just makes sense that he would be, considering how sickly he was as a child. And The Hobbit was published in the U.S. in 1938, when Steve would have been 20, well before WWII, so it's entirely possible that he and Bucky would have read it! XD (LotR wasn't published until the '50s, though, so he wouldn't have had a chance to read it until after coming out from the ice. How bizarre must it be to wake up and discover that this little children's book has become this huge cultural phenomenon that spawned all these movies and jump-started an entire genre of fiction!)

This development of the story is based on several astute observations and interesting headcanons I've seen floating around about just how Hydra must have gone about getting the Winter Soldier to do what they wanted. (Most helpful was the bit of meta I found here: post/162475949562/secretlytodream-wintercyan-etharei) It was too intriguing to not play around with Winter going through withdrawal. And I didn't plan it, but that led to the sudden inspiration to flesh out Sam's backstory a little, because we really don't know much about his life before Cap. I'm sure there are other versions of his family and his past in different versions of the story, but since the MCU tells us absolutely nothing about his family, I'm exercising my artistic license here.