Author's Note: When I first started writing about the voice in the back of Winter's head, I just meant it in the usual sense of that phrase—a way to describe the way we talk to ourselves. It wasn't until later that I realized I had literally created a demon. Perhaps Winter's experience is a little more visceral and even allegorical than other people who struggle with similar addictions and emotional problems, but I've always characterized Winter/Bucky as someone who thinks in terms of metaphor. I couldn't explain to you exactly why, but that's always the way I've seen him. So to me, it just makes sense that he would think of his struggle as a war with a literal demon. But if you can accept that Winter has a demon living in his head, the good news is that he also has an angel :)
This chapter takes place in Make Me Whole chapter 8, "Turning a New Leaf."
I'm standing on the front lines
I'm fighting for my soul
I've walked a self-destructive, lonely road
I read the warning signs, but
I was too blind to see
I had to feel the pain till I believed
I have a purpose
...
I'm calling out your name
I'm locked in my own prison
Tell me help is on the way
- "War over Me" by Papa Roach
"At last we've found you," the man said—though he wasn't a man at all, but a hideous beast with slimy tentacles erupting from its sleeves and a forked tongue flicking between its grinning teeth. It towered over Winter, wreathed in shadows that blotted out all light. Yet still, he could see the hunger in the monster's eyes.
"You thought you could hide, didn't you?" the monster snickered as Winter backed slowly away. "Thought we couldn't find you if you pretended to be normal? Well, let me tell you a little secret, Soldier. You'll never be normal again. You'll never be anything but a monster."
Winter's back collided with a solid brick wall. "You're wrong," he protested weakly, trembling as the hideous beast towered over him. "I...I'm not like you..."
The monster burst into peals of unrestrained laughter. "Like you?" Its eyes glowed red with merciless flames. "I am you!"
Winter stared up in horror, and saw that it was true. That hideous face with the forked tongue and the glowing eyes was his.
"Go on," the monster purred, "take off the mask. Why don't you see for yourself what's behind it?"
"You don't have to listen to him," said a steady, calm voice somewhere off to the right. Winter glanced over and saw Steve standing there. He was wearing his Captain America uniform and holding the shield loosely by his side.
"Just try and stop me, pathetic weakling." The monster stepped forward, reaching out with many tentacles that wrapped around Winter's neck and pinned his arms to his sides. He couldn't protest, couldn't struggle. He could only let the monster have its way with him.
When Winter tried to turn his face towards Steve again, the monster wrenched his head back to face it. "You think he can protect you?" the monster sneered. "You think he can save you? He doesn't even know you. Try taking off the mask, and see how much he cares when he knows you've been lying to him!"
"No!" Winter gasped as the tentacles wrapped around his mask and ripped it away. But then he caught a glimpse of his face in a mirror he hadn't noticed before, over the monster's shoulder. The mask was still in place.
Cackling gleefully, the monster kept tearing off the mask, but each time there was another one underneath. He couldn't escape the mask. He couldn't be anything other than the murderer he was trained to be.
He was on his knees now, fingers scrabbling at the mask. But his fingers were slick and kept slipping over its smooth surface. Was it because they were covered with blood? Or had they turned into writhing black tentacles like the monster's?
"I'm so disappointed in you," the monster said scornfully, towering over him. "You can't even do something this simple? Get over yourself! Do you really think I'm going to waste any more time on such a lazy worm?"
Winter realized the monster's voice had changed, and slowly looked up. He didn't want to confirm the fears gripping his heart, but he had to know. As he looked up, the monster pulled on the face that looked like Winter's. It was a mask, sliding off to reveal the true face beneath it. Steve's face.
"You're not getting better," Steve growled, his forked tongue tasting the air. "You'll never get any better!" The tentacles that took the place of his arms lashed across Winter's face.
"I-I'm sorry," Winter stammered, too stunned to even try to shield himself. "I'm trying..."
"Oh, you're 'trying,' are you? Do you really think that's enough?" Steve yelled, hitting him across the back this time. "Do you expect me to do all the work?"
Cowering under Steve's blows, Winter feebly protested, "But...you said...all I had t-to do...was try. You...You said...it was all...anyone could ask for..."
"You greedy little leech," Steve spat. His tentacles curled around Winter's chin, forcing it up to face him. "You really thought I would give you whatever you wanted, and I'd never ask for anything in return? The only reason I don't ask for anything is that you have nothing to give. You are nothing."
Steve shoved Winter away...and he fell out of bed. He lay panting on the floor for a few moments as he slowly realized it had all been a dream. Then he scrambled to his feet and rushed into the bathroom, where he ripped off his mask as fast as he could. His face stared back at him in the mirror, white as a sheet, free of the mask.
A few dry heaves over the sink later, Winter realized he was crying. The foul things Steve had said in his dream kept echoing in his head. You'll never be anything but a monster. You'll never get any better. You are nothing. I'm so disappointed in you. So...now he knew whose voice he'd been listening to all this time.
The voice laughed at him, haunting his waking brain as easily as when he'd been asleep. Always so surprised when people treat you as you deserve, it sneered. You know that deep down, this is what Steve really thinks of you. He knows you're a hopeless case; he's just pretending so he can ease his conscience.
"No," Winter gasped, hiccuping past a sob as he bent over the sink. "He's not giving up on me..."
Just face it already. There's nothing to give up on. You're too broken. There's nothing left to save anyway.
Winter fell to his knees, still clutching the edge of the sink. Every word hurt like a stab to the chest. "Please stop," he sobbed. "Please..."
Stop? the voice said with a superior chuckle. Why don't you go ahead and stop me?
Unwillingly, Winter's eyes shifted over to the knife sitting on the toilet tank. He'd left it there after wiping the blood off it last time. He hadn't dared to touch it again...
Don't do it, the quiet, gentle voice said. You need to get help. You don't have to do this alone.
But he didn't want to wake up Sam—he didn't feel like talking, whether about the nightmare or anything else. And...he couldn't stand the thought of rousing Steve, not when he'd seen those blue eyes turn red with hatred. Not when he'd felt slimy tentacles around his neck.
You know that wasn't real, the gentle voice said. There's no reason to believe he would do anything other than what he's always done.
And what's that? the voice of the monster sneered. Sit around and hope you'll get better? He can't help you. Accept the inevitable. There's nothing he or anyone else can do, so you might as well...
Winter grabbed the knife, interrupting the monster mid-speech. He sat back on his heels, transferring the knife to his left hand and eyeing the gleaming edge of the blade. Peace and quiet were only a few inches away...
Are you sure you want to do that? the quiet voice gently pressed.
He hesitated, the blade quivering over his scarred, mutilated arm. No...No, he really didn't want to do this again. It had been almost two weeks since he'd cut himself last. Slowly but surely, his arm was healing. He was changing for the better. Did he really want to take a step backwards now?
There's nowhere else to go! the monster howled in his mind. You have no other choice. You've never had a choice. Your only recourse is to dig yourself deeper into the mud, you pathetic little worm.
As his tears fell shimmering on the knife and then dripped down onto his arm, he suddenly remembered a voice saying, You don't have to listen to him. Where had he heard that before? Had he just imagined it?
"I...don't have to listen to you?" he echoed hesitantly. Then he straightened up a little and said more firmly, "I don't have to listen to you."
Do you really think that's enough to get rid of me? the monster demanded. You know there's only one way to make me shut up...
Winter's hand tightened around the knife, and he pointed it in front of him rather than at his arm. "I...don't want to do that..."
It doesn't matter what you want. You've said so yourself. There is no other way for you to escape. Go crying to the others as many times as you like, but you know you'll never get rid of me.
Winter shuddered, but the gentle voice was quick to speak up. Don't believe him. Everything he's ever told you is a lie. Listen to those who will build you up, not tear you down.
Sure, the monster said scornfully, stick your head in the sand and ignore me if you want. But that won't stop what I say from being true. You can't reject the truth just because you don't like it.
"I...don't know what's true anymore," Winter said in a tiny, quavering voice. "So I guess what it comes down to...is who I trust to tell me the truth. And you..." He took a deep breath, and when he closed his eyes, he thought he could see the ugly monster leering down at him. "You have never done anything to help me. You make everything worse. But Steve...he always helps me." He could see Steve too, standing over the monster's shoulder and smiling encouragingly at him. "I think...he actually cares about me. You don't care about me. You don't think I'm worth anything. Why would I trust someone if they don't think I even matter at all?"
He drew himself up, and looked the monster in the face without flinching. "But I...I do matter. I matter to him."
The monster's face, which was an ugly mockery of Steve's to begin with, twisted into a grotesque expression of pure rage. A stream of curses and profane insults spewed out of the monster's mouth, hitting his mind like physical blows.
But then there was a shield in front of him. Steve stood before him, arms spread wide to either side like he could easily endure every awful thing the monster could think up. Winter looked over Steve's shoulder, and saw that the monster...well, it was still enormous, and the most hideous thing he'd ever seen. But he realized now that it was also desperate. Not the powerful tyrant he'd always thought it was. There was fear behind the hatred in its eyes.
"I don't want you," Winter told the monster with quiet conviction. "And I don't need you. Go away."
Everything fell silent.
Slowly, Winter opened his eyes and stared blankly at the opposite wall. Just like that, the voice was gone, like he'd found the right switch to flip in his mind. Had it really been that easy all this time?
Steve's gentle voice spoke in his mind one last time, filling his mind with things he remembered the real Steve saying to him over the months he'd known him. You're my friend. You come first. You deserve so much better. I will die before I let them take you. Winter...I'm so proud of you.
Then that voice also faded away, and Winter's mind was completely silent for the first time in a long, long while. He was still crying, but something else was happening to him too. It took him a moment to realize what was going on, but then he understood: He was smiling again.
Winter pushed himself off the floor and leaned over the sink to look at his reflection. Tears still streaked down his face, and his chin was quivering, but that wasn't what made him look so different. All the lines stress had etched into his face were smoothed out, and the tired bags under his eyes weren't so prominent somehow. His mouth had scrunched his cheeks up into a slightly lopsided grin that fit so well with the bursting, swelling feeling in his chest—like a balloon trying to float away.
The cage was open. The fog had lifted. He had climbed over the prison wall, and he was never, ever going back.
Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he contemplated the knife he still held in one hand. He was no longer plagued by the insidious whispers that kept telling him to use it. The sharp edge had lost its perilously beautiful gleam, and now it was just a knife. Not the heady temptation he'd been trying to resist for so long.
But that didn't mean he needed to keep temptation around. He didn't know if the voice would return, and if it did, it would probably mean another desperate struggle for survival. Oddly enough, the prospect didn't frighten him. He had bested his own demons, and he could do it again. Or rather...he had someone who could protect him, no matter what that monster threw at him.
His smile, which had begun fading away, broadened again as he remembered Steve standing in front of him, shielding him from all the pain and accusation. It didn't matter that all of that had happened in his head. It was as real as the air he breathed.
But even if victory was assured, there was no sense in giving the enemy a weapon. He should give the knife back to Steve now, while his will was strong, and it would be that much easier to fight next time. Ironic that a weapon made it harder to win a battle.
Winter took a few minutes to compose himself, then washed his face and put the mask back on. Then he tiptoed over to Steve's room, eased the door open, and slipped soundlessly inside. Steve's deep breathing immediately calmed Winter's heart, which was still pounding giddily in the wake of his victory. He crept up to the side of Steve's bed and reached out, intending to leave the knife on the bedside table.
"Winter!"
He nearly leapt out of his skin, and was on the verge of beating a hasty retreat when he realized Steve was still asleep. In the dim moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains, Winter could see that Steve's eyes were closed. His arms were stretched over his head in a position that looked rather uncomfortable, which might have explained the pained expression that scrunched up his sleeping face.
Steve shifted restlessly, his head tossing from side to side. He mumbled something incoherent, but Winter managed to decipher the last few words: "Please stop... Please..."
Winter stared, transfixed. Normally, Steve's sleep was quiet and untroubled; Winter had never heard him talking in his sleep, not any of the times he'd come in to wake Steve up or watch his slumber. Somehow, it had never occurred to him that Steve could have nightmares too. What did someone with a clean conscience and no addictions dream about?
"Winter..." Steve said, panting with effort as if he were struggling against some invisible restraint. His fists opened and closed helplessly. It was strange, how the Steve in Winter's mind had been so calm and capable, yet the real Steve was struggling with demons of his own. "No...don't touch him..."
Winter could hardly breathe. Steve was dreaming about him being hurt. As if on some level he knew that Winter was under attack. And even in his sleep, Steve was fighting for him.
Steve fell still and silent, and at first Winter thought the nightmare had passed. But then his eyes slid open, and latched onto Winter with a sharp intake of breath.
Before Winter could do more than register that Steve was awake, Steve flung his arm up and knocked Winter's arm to one side. His foot lashed out from under the covers and kicked Winter to the floor. As Steve rolled on top of him, pinning him down, Winter's body reacted before his mind could catch up. Decades of training took over, till he didn't see Steve anymore, only an enemy.
With a few deft movements, he managed to flip his attacker over, so now Winter was on top, holding him down with a metal arm to the neck. The enemy jabbed his thumb roughly into the pressure point on Winter's forearm, forcing him to drop his knife with a grunt of pain. But he wasted no time in pulling his hand free and using it to punch the other man as hard as he could.
In the split second as the attacker pulled his fist back to strike again, Winter realized what was happening. This was Steve. He was fighting Steve, and Steve was fighting back.
He must not have fastened the mask properly, because as soon as Steve's fist collided with it, it clattered onto the floor. Winter whirled off of Steve and scurried into the farthest corner of the room, shielding his exposed face with both arms. His heart pounded, his stomach a roiling tempest of horror, guilt, and dread.
"Oh no—I'm sorry! Don't worry, I didn't see..."
His dream had come true. Steve had attacked him. He'd taken off the mask. If Winter turned around, he would see the tentacles oozing out of Steve's sleeves, the forked tongue flicking between lips curled up in a cruel grin...
Something nudged up against the side of his leg. The mask. "Sorry," Steve said, closer this time. Terrifyingly close. "I didn't see anything, I swear."
Those tentacles would reach under his chin and force his head up, and Steve would see him and judge him and there was no way to escape...
He was dimly aware that Sam was in the doorway, saying something and then leaving again, but he couldn't hear over the roaring tempest in his ears. All of his confidence and joy was snuffed out in the gale of terror howling through him.
"I'm so sorry, Winter... I was dreaming, and I was just...so startled to see you, I didn't stop to think..."
No...No. It didn't add up. Steve wouldn't be apologizing if this had been his plan all along. He wouldn't have given the mask back if he was eager to see Winter's face. And he wouldn't keep reassuring Winter if he was a cruel monster.
Winter cautiously peeked over his shoulder at Steve, who stood over by the window. He leaned against the frame, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. What was this experience like for him? Had he reacted to a perceived attack the same way Winter had? If he hadn't meant to hurt Winter or take his mask off...what was he thinking now?
No...don't touch him...
What if Steve wanted to protect him like the man in his mind had, but instead he had actually hurt him?
Winter picked the mask off the floor where Steve had left it, and put it back on. As he double-checked the buckles to make sure it wouldn't fall off again, an insane urge came over him to just leave the mask off this time. The lingering terror of his dream where he hadn't been able to get rid of the mask was almost enough to convince him. Would it really be so bad for Steve to see his face now?
...Yes. It would make everything so much worse if Steve knew that his old friend had so many problems. He would become convinced that somehow this was all Steve's fault. He would take all the blame, and he would feel even worse than he already did...
Much better to leave things as they were. Standing up and letting out a shuddering breath, Winter reached over to the floor lamp he crouched next to, and switched it on. Steve turned around, looking as apologetic and dejected from the front as he had from behind.
Winter spotted his knife on the floor between them, glittering in the muted light of the lamp. Looking at it reminded him of the reason he'd come here in the first place, and an echo of the unshakable joy he'd felt sang in his chest. Slowly, he crossed to it and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. He wished he knew how to tell Steve what had happened. How could he explain that he'd been living with nightmares in his head ever since he'd left Hydra?
Though that reminded him... "You were talking in your sleep," he said, looking up at last. "You...said my name."
A trace of horror crossed Steve's face before he rubbed it away with both hands and sat down heavily on the bed. "I dreamed that Hydra found you again," he said in a small voice. "They were...hurting you. Torturing you. I wanted to stop them, but...I realized that I was small and weak again. The way I was before the serum. I couldn't fight them, I couldn't protect you... There was nothing I could do but watch." He laughed bitterly. "It's like a metaphor for my waking life."
Winter stared at him. That was his nightmare? He was practically saying his worst fear was that he couldn't be the Steve in Winter's dream.
How come Steve was always so amazing?
"You never hurt me," Winter blurted, the words tumbling out before he could order them into some kind of sense.
Steve looked up with a confused frown. "What? I just punched you in the face!"
Winter wished he had a way with words like the others did, so Steve would instantly understand him and feel reassured. Instead, Winter had to muddle through as best as he could. "Everything you've ever done was to help me. From the beginning, you did everything you could to make life better for me." He thought of the monster wearing Steve's face, insulting him and trying to make him believe a lie. "You've had plenty of chances to be cruel, but...you make me feel safe. Even when I didn't—couldn't—understand or accept that's what you were trying to do."
Winter's heart ached as he thought of all the times he had believed the worst of Steve. "You could have abandoned me anytime. Maybe you should have." All those times he hadn't believed what Steve told him, the times he'd tried to find his own way out when the answer was right in front of him. "But you didn't. You're still here. You're still trying to help. Even if sometimes it seems hopeless."
"Haven't been a whole lot of help lately," Steve said quietly.
Winter frowned. He'd been trying so hard, but he still couldn't seem to express what he was trying to say. Why couldn't he get Steve to understand what he'd done? Frustrated, Winter took a step forward and pressed the handle of his knife into Steve's hand. "I came to give this back. I don't need it anymore."
He hadn't realized what an immense relief it would be to finally hand the knife over. Steve could protect him much better than he could protect himself, and the monster was that much farther away from him. It might hurt him again, but it would never dig its claws into his heart the way it once had.
An awkward silence stretched out between them. He'd expected Steve to say something, but he just sat there with a strange expression on his face. After a long pause, Winter turned to leave. He wasn't sure how Steve had taken anything he'd said, but he'd tried his best. And as Steve himself had said, that was all anyone could ask of him.
When he reached for the doorknob, he hesitated, remembering the profuse apologies Steve had made after hitting him. He remembered the awful, dejected tone in his voice when he'd said, Haven't been much help lately.
"You couldn't have prevented it," Winter said quietly, looking at the vivid scars lining his arm. "But you stopped it. Thank you."
"Wait!" Steve suddenly cried as Winter opened the door. "Don't just walk away from me after saying something like that!"
Winter turned back, anxiety clutching at his throat. What had he said wrong? Had his attempt to thank Steve backfired so horribly that he'd offended him instead? Oh no. There were tears shimmering in Steve's eyes. Winter scrambled to think of how to apologize when he wasn't sure what he'd done wrong.
But then Steve smiled and raised his arms slightly. "Come here and give me a hug."
Winter was so relieved Steve wasn't angry that he immediately approached, but when he stood right in front of Steve he realized he wasn't sure what to do. Steve had hugged him before, but he hadn't exactly paid attention to how it was done. And the days when such things came naturally were long gone. Hesitantly, he raised his arms and tried to pull Steve close. "Like this?"
Steve's arms wrapped around him, warm and much more comfortable than Winter's awkward grip. "Close enough," he said.
Long minutes passed as Winter stood in the safe circle of Steve's arms. He lost track of time, but he didn't want to leave, and Steve didn't pull back either. Occasionally he would rub his hand up and down Winter's back, but otherwise he just stood there without any indication that he was growing impatient.
Steve's arms fit him so well it was like they were made for nothing other than holding him.
After several minutes of this, Winter asked hesitantly, "How long do we keep doing this?"
"As long as you need," Steve said, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Winter's right shoulder.
"How long is that?"
Steve laughed slightly, a deep chuckle Winter could feel through his chest. "I guess that's up to you."
Winter thought about that for a minute. "How will I know?"
"Well...I guess when you get tired of this."
He rested his head on Steve's shoulder, leaning into his warm embrace and turning his head so he could feel Steve's steady pulse against his forehead. "Uh-oh," he whispered.
"What's wrong?"
"We're going to be here all night."
...for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me
when I was in a besieged city.
I had said in my alarm,
"I am cut off from your sight."
But you heard the voice of my pleas for mercy
when I cried to you for help.
- Psalm 31:21-22