Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You’re eight years old. Your mother’s sobs snake through your open bedroom door - Mummy would always leave it cracked for you. Papa though... you can hear his hand strike Mummy’s face even in your upstairs room. 

“Please. Eric,” she begs through her sobs. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Papa growls. She always makes him so angry…

Her scream feels like glass shattering in your chest. You don’t know why you run from your room, why your small feet pound down the stairs. You do know he’ll be furious with you, somehow that doesn’t matter. 

“No Papa!” You scream as loud as your tiny lungs can manage, placing yourself squarely between him and your mother. 

His eyes sear into your matching pair. Rage and hatred so hot you think you may combust, a word you’d recently learned - Mummy had been proud when you told her about it. You’re afraid… But you won’t move. Instead, you lift your chin higher, will your back straighter.

“No baby,” Mummy’s trembling hand on your shoulder feels like a burden rather than a comfort. “Go back-”

“Catherine,” Papa lowers his hand, his expression shifting. 

“Eric, she’s just-”

“Was I speaking to you?” His tone isn’t red hot any longer, it’s cool as ice. A shiver crawls up your spine. 

“No I… I just…” 

“Come here, Catherine,” he opens his big palm and smiles at you, that warm Papa smile that makes you think of holidays and tickle fights. You step toward him, your mother’s hand limply slipping from your shoulder. He envelopes your small hand in his own and turns you to face Mummy. 

She seems to shrink, hands rising to hide her face. “Don’t.” Papa orders in a smooth tone. Immediately she obeys, eyes glued to the marble floor. 

“I want you to look at her Catherine.” You do… but… it’s just Mummy. Hurt and crying and scared, you don’t like it. After a moment you look away. 

“No. Look at her.” You know it’s not a suggestion. Slowly you force your eyes back to her cowering form. The moment drags on long enough for you to name all the colors in the bruises in your head. 

“What do you see?”

Confused you turn to Papa, “Mummy?”

“That’s who you see. What do you see?” Looking back at her you squint your eyes a little trying to see something else, like those funny books where you see different things when you shift your focus. No matter how hard you try though the image is the same. 

“What do we have no use for, Catherine?”

Oh… 

“Weakness.” That’s why Papa would never crack your door to let the light in. Why there was no checking for monsters under the bed or being afraid of spiders. Hydra had no use for weakness. 

“Exactly. This is weakness. Are you weak, Catherine?” At this your mother’s eyes shoot up, burning hot enough to rival Papa’s earlier look. 

“No.” You know the right word even if you don’t know if it’s the truth.

“And what will you do to prove that child?” You look up to your father’s face for understanding.

“I… anything, Papa.” When his eyes meet yours, a smile lifting his lips you feel afraid of him, truly afraid, for the first time in your short life. 

“Good,” he nods toward your mother, “hit her.” The words are said as if they’re nothing as if he told you to eat your broccoli or drink your milk…

“Wha-”

“You said anything,” there’s a sinister rumble in his voice. Yeah, you did but… you look to Mummy hoping she’ll help you understand but her eyes are on the floor once more. 

“Catherine,” Papa grabs your chin turning your face to him, “someone who cannot uphold their word is worse than weak, they’re a coward. You have a chance to prove yourself here and now. Are you weak? Are you a coward? Or are you worthy of being a daughter of Hydra?” 

Your hands curl into small fists, “I am not a coward,” even you knew that was a very bad thing to be. 

“Prove it. Show me how we treat weakness.”

Maybe it’s your father’s steady gaze, your mother’s unwillingness to look at you, or perhaps this darkness always lived in your bones, just waiting to come out. Regardless of the root of it, you take a step toward your Mummy, the woman who left your door cracked and cut your crusts off when Papa wasn’t looking, the woman who kissed your scabby knees and dried your tears… 

You raise your fists… And you hit her. Over and over again with your ineffective child’s fists, you reinforce bruises from your father. 

Your mother… does nothing. 

-

You’re eleven and your mother flips the light on in your room, waking you. Groaning you try to hide your face in your pillow.

“Baby,” her soft voice whispers. “Wake up,” she shakes you gently. 

“What, Mother?!” You snap. She hadn’t been Mummy since that night…

She’s used to the tone you take with her by now and isn’t the least bit phased. “Something’s come up. We need to go.”

You sit up and glare at her, “Go where?”

“The airstrip.” She’s grabbing your clothes, stuffing them into a bag. 

“Why?”

Her eyes settle steadily on you, “Your Papa’s orders. Would you like to call him and ask-”

“No,” you’re immediately up and changing. She should have just led  with it being Papa’s orders. Stupid as always. 

You make it to the driveway before you pause.

“Where’s Mason?” Your driver was nowhere to be seen. If Papa wasn’t here he always wanted Mason to be escorting you both for protection, he’d been very clear about that. 

Mother slams the trunk shut. “He said just us.” She doesn’t look at you. “Get in.”

You do, but doubt rises. She was up to something, you could feel it. As you head in the opposite direction of your usual airstrip your doubt turns to certainty. 

Looking at your Mother you note her rapid breathing, her white knuckles, the pulse thrumming in her neck. Fear. Weakness. 

“What exactly are we doing, Mother?”

Silence hangs for a few minutes before she speaks. “You deserve better than this Catherine. I should have done this years ago… should-”

“Papa doesn’t know where we’re going does he?” Your fingers fiddle the pager in your pocket. Mother says nothing. “Does he?” Your tone is the same cold one Papa uses when he asks something he knows the answer to. Pride tingles in you just a touch at the realization. 

“No. Listen to me, baby,” her eyes flit to you, holding more determination than you’ve ever seen in them. “I know this is hard for you to understand but… your Papa… he’s a bad man.”

Papa wasn’t bad. He was strong and brave and honest. All the things you wouldn’t expect her to understand. The weak always misunderstand strength, that’s what he told you. You don’t argue though. Your index finger presses the buttons. Papa would find you and sort this all out. 

“We-Hydra… this isn’t right.” She says nothing else. 

A half-hour passes before you pull into an old overgrown airstrip. There’s a small single-engine plane waiting, though there’s no one else in sight. Mother pulls up beside it and kills the engine. 

She gets out but you don’t move. When your door opens you don’t even react as her hands grab yours, your eyes glued on the dash. 

“Look at me, Kitty.”

“My name is Catherine.” You say through clenched teeth. Who did she think she was, trying to take you from Papa…

“Look at me.” Her tone is steely, it surprises you enough to cause you to jump a bit. 

You turn to her. She’s kneeling on the ground by your door, looking up at you. It makes you think of that night Papa made you hit her. 

“I’m sorry, Catherine.” Your brows knit in confusion. “I’m sorry I let him make you think that being kind is being weak, that love is weakness. It isn’t.” Her trembling hands cup your small face. 

“I love you more than anything in this world, that’s the only way I’ve made it through this. I don’t expect you to understand this now but when you’re away from all this evil you’ll learn. We’re going to be happy, baby. Please, please just come with me.” 

Something flutters in your chest. It’s not the disdain you’ve grown used to feeling for her nor is it anger. It’s the feeling you still get sometimes when she makes your favorite dinner or lets you stay up reading or… when he hits her… maybe… she was right. 

“Mum…” 

A bright smile bursts across her face. “It’s ok to be scared, baby. We can be scared together. We have to go now though.”

You glance at the plane, “Can you fly that?”

You’ve never seen this side to your Mother. “There’s so much you don’t know about me, Kitty,” with a wink she stands and steps aside to let you get out. 

No sooner do you than the sound of screeching tires hit your ears. Her eyes meet yours, terror filling them. 

“Run!” She grabs your hand and drags you to the plane. 

Regret squeezes your heart tight, “I’m sorry, Mummy…”

She offers you a weak smile as she flips switches to start the plane’s engine. “It’s ok. I love you, ok?”

“I… I love you.” 

The plane starts to jerk forward. “Get in the back and buckle up, Catherine. Now.” Her eyes are glued forward. 

You do as she says, stiffly sitting in a seat, holding your breath, unable to sort through the storm in your mind. 

It was true you realize, with unsettling certainty, you loved her. She was your Mum. Always gentle with you even when you weren’t the same back. But Papa… did you love him or fear him? Did you want to run from him? Was she right? Nothing made sense. 

“Buckle,” she barks glancing back at you. Automatically your hands move to lock in the seatbelt. 

The engines roar to life causing the old plane to shudder. Suddenly it jerks forward and you feel a bit of your fear slip away. If you were moving you could get away, maybe not forever but at least until Papa had time to cool off. 

Gunshots ring out and you scream, hating yourself for it. 

“Get on the floor, Kitty!” Mum yells back at you. 

You fumble with the belt but free yourself after a moment, falling to the floor. More shots ping against the metal but you can still feel the planes forward motion. As long as you could keep- A small explosion at the front of the plane draws out another scream. 

Smoke fills the cabin and you cough, feeling the plane stop. You should have known better than to ever hope. 

“Mum!” You cry out, smoke stinging your eyes. She says nothing, but you suddenly feel her arms wrap around you. Despite the smoke, you force your eyes open to look at her. Her face is covered in soot, red snakes down the side of her face, and tears carve a path under her eyes - from the smoke or sadness, you can’t know. 

“Always remember that I love you. Always remember that you are more than this. Always remember that evil won’t always win.” She pauses, coughing. “Promise me, you won’t ever forget, my girl.”

“Mummy,” you say, your small voice cracking. 

“Promise me,” there is power in her words now. 

“I promise.” 

“You’ll be better than all of them as long as you remember. I swear it.” She wastes no time after that. Her hands, sure and strong pull you toward the door, forcing it open just as you see flames begin to lick into the cabin. 

Some part of you knew what would play out as soon as you both made it outside. You knew you must have known. Even so… It all shocks you. 

Coughing and gasping for fresh air Mum drops you onto the ground as gently as she can. Hands immediately pull you away from the plane, you know these hands. Papa. 

There’s a small grunt from behind you as you know someone else pulls Mum from the plane too. Desperately you try to turn to her, needing to see, but Papa holds you steady, inspecting you. 

“Are you hurt?” He asks you. You don’t know if you hear more concern or anger in his tone. You shake your head no, eyes finally opening fully. 

His eyes are a dark green storm. There is no love in them, no compassion. 

It hits you then that he doesn’t care if you’re hurt because he loves you because you’re his daughter. He cares because you are his. His concern was nothing more than an owner wanting to protect his property. Something in you goes dark at this realization. 

He nods, gripping your upper arm so hard you know bruises will be there come morning and drags you across the tarmac. From the corner of your eye, you can see Mason with Mum in a chokehold, bringing her in the same direction. 

“Here,” Papa… no, Eric - he was no Father and certainly no Papa - says in an emotionless tone. 

Mason throws Mum to the ground in front of him. She falls on all fours into the dirt, coughing and gasping for air. Before you can think of going to her Eric throws you into the dirt beside her. You try to catch yourself, the heels of your palms skidding on the rough earth, stinging with pain. Mum throws herself around you immediately, your back to her chest. 

“Lie,” she whispers so low in your ear that you almost miss it. You nod, wanting her to know you heard, even if you don’t understand. 

Any breath she’d managed to catch all gushes from her as the sound of a boot crashing into her ribs sends you both tumbling over. She doesn’t even make a sound of pain you notice. 

Guilt floods you. All this time you thought she was weak. No one who was weak could take the beatings she did and continue to rise up, day after day. No one who was weak would have taken this chance or even still had the willpower to do so. Your mother was the strongest person you knew. 

Her arms release you, “Get behind me, Kitty.” You do as she says, crawling behind her legs as she rises up. 

“Catherine,” Eric barks, “stand up.” Tentatively you glance up at your mother’s defiant form and rise, standing just behind her.

“Come here,” he snarls. Mum grabs your arm as your feet move to obey. 

“Do not think of touching her,” Mum’s tone drips with rage. 

With a few long strides, Eric closes the space between you. He grips Mum’s chin, forcing her to look up at him. 

“And what will you do to stop me?”

You don’t understand the slow smile that crawls across your mother’s face but there’s something sinister in it. 

“Did you forget, husband?” She asks, her tone honeyed. In a flash she has him on the ground, a garrote appearing from nowhere, almost managing to slit his throat but he stops the cut with his hands, blood pouring from the wounds. 

“You wanted to marry a Spider,” she growls these confusing words. 

“Kitty,” you meet your mother’s ferocious gaze, “run.” 

You do, without hesitation. Past the burning plane you make for the fence, knowing you can scale it, just wanting to do right by your Mum - even if it was only this once. Just as your small deft fingers grip the wire, rough hands grip you, pulling you down. 

With all your might you try and hold on. When you’re forced to release you turn feral, kicking, screaming, biting, clawing, anything you can muster but Mason doesn’t loosen his grip. Bit by bit he drags you back to where Eric and Mum wait. 

For an instant you still, seeing Mum crumpled on the ground. She’d had the upper hand how… It didn’t matter, she said run. You begin to fight once more, desperate and wild. 

“Catherine,” Eric sighs, almost bored. “Please, you’re embarrassing yourself.” 

You’d almost never disobeyed this man. Even at only eleven, you realize it was because you were so scared of him, of what he could do to you. Right now though, you feel possessed. You don’t care. 

When he grips your chin to look at him, fingers sticky with his blood, you spit in his face with all the force your mouth can muster. You don’t know why. But it felt so good, powerful. 

Any surge of pride you felt flees when the back of his hand cracks across your cheek so hard you see spots. Mason drops you to the ground dazed. He’d never struck you, not like that. 

“Do you think that was brave, Catherine?” That cold tone making you shiver as he tilts your face up. You say nothing, just meet his eyes refusing to waver. A moment of rage flares across his features, warping them, he hits you again sending you tumbling to the side. 

“No!” Mum croaks from behind. 

Eric gently kicks you, rolling you onto your back so you’re staring up at him. If feels like you’re looking at a stranger, a monster that had been hiding in plain sight for so long. 

His scuffed wingtip rests lightly on your throat. Pointlessly you grip his shoe, trying to keep him from crushing your windpipe. 

“Stop this!” Mum screams. You try to look at her but the pressure increases. 

“It wasn’t brave. It was stupid. There’s a fine line between the two.” He stares at you as though you’re a bug and not his daughter. “Your mother thinks she was being brave. This is where dangerous miscalculations such as that land you - beneath the boot of those worthy of bravery.” He hovers for a beat more before lifting his foot. 

You roll over on all fours, coughing and gasping to fill your lungs with air. 

“Do you understand, Catherine?” You don’t answer, don’t look at him, just try to breathe. He sighs, “You will.” 

He grips you by your hair pulling you to your feet. Still, you scrabble against his hold, trying to break free. His free arm wraps around your torso, holding you flush against him. The fingers in your hair holding your head in a tight forward-facing position. 

“Look at her, Catherine.” You do. She’s bloody, battered, but in her eyes, there is still defiance. 

“It’s gonna be ok, baby,” she says in a hoarse voice. 

He releases you and nods to Mason. He steps over handing something you can’t quite see to your would-be father. You stay frozen in place staring at Mum, unsure of what to do. 

Grabbing your hand, Eric forces something metal and heavy into it. Even though you know what it is - have been taught how to use one, how to disassemble it, what the parts are called - you don’t want to acknowledge it. Maybe this is a bad dream and you’ll wake up if you just don’t look. 

Mum’s lips are moving, if there are words coming you don’t hear them. But you think you know what she’s mouthing, I love you. It’s ok. I love you. 

“Please,” the sob burbles from your lips. “Please, no.” 

“What do we have no use for, Catherine?” 

“Please, pa-papa. Please.” Hard metal presses against the back of your skull. Your heart which had been rabbiting in your chest stills. 

Fear flashes across Mum’s features before melting into a warm smile. She nods, mouthing, It’s ok, once more. 

“No.” 

The hammer behind you clicks back.

“If you do not value your life over that of this scum I have no use for you. Chose Catherine. Weakness, or strength.” You pull the hammer back on the small gun. 

Knowing he may kill you if you say the words out loud you move your lips to make two words clear, So sorry. 

“I love you, always.” 

They’re the last thing you hear before you pull the trigger.  

-

You’re 15. The person beneath your fists is starting to resemble a pile of minced lamb rather than the girl she is. Absently, you wonder if your mother had to do this.

Lifting her head in your hands you slam it against the ground until the crunch hits your ears. Standing you step away, turning your back on the lifeless body.

Madam B meets your eyes, giving an approving nod before turning and striding out of the room, effectively dismissing you and the only other girl left. 

“I think you fractured that one,” Natalia gestures to your left hand. “You’re not going to be able to get that tight enough on your own.” 

Ignoring her you try to get the wrap to stay in just the right spot but your left fingers aren’t quite following your commands. 

“Cat, just give it to me,” Natalia rips the bandages from your shaking hand. 

As she winds the stretchy fabric around your hand she glances up at your cheek, keen green eyes studying you. Feeling exposed you turn away. 

“Didn’t see Irina get you in the face. Been too long for it to be from the last time-”

“Let it go, Nat,” you push past her as soon as she’s done, pulling your ballet flats from your locker. Your two-month stints here were something of a refuge, you didn’t want to be reminded of your life was outside of this. 

“Stubborn ass,” she grumbles in Russian. 

“You’re one to talk,” you toss back. 

The two months pass too quickly, as they always do. You count down the days until you can return. The Red Room was better than the hell of home - of him. There you were strong, you were feared, you were formidable. Under your father’s roof, you were nothing. 

Two more months and you return. Per the schedule, you report directly to ballet. 

When the fourth girl crumples around hour five, Natalia looks to you, a smug expression on her face. Neither of you ever faltered. Since the age of 11, the two of you had always been the last ones standing, the victors, the marble ones.

Not today though. 

Her smug expression shifts to concern when she sees the grimace on your features. Each movement causes your body to scream, each breath a struggle. You know you’re going to drop sooner rather than later.

Sure enough, within the hour you hit the floor. 

“Get up,” Madame B barks. “Up!” The cane stings across your spine. You try but your legs falter. 

“I-I can’t.” Another lash. 

“Then you crawl out of here, and I do not see you stand for the rest of the day.” Two more lashes. “Go!”

You’re too tired to feel shame as you crawl on hands and knees from the room and down the hall to the lockers. Nor is Madam B’s order to not stand a hard one to follow, even as you shed your clothes and make your way to the showers. 

The water is so hot it almost stings but you relish the way it feels on your body, forcing warmth into the places that thrum with pain. You sit with the water at your back, your head to your knees until you hear someone else enter. 

It doesn’t really matter who it is, you intend to sit here until they make you leave but you look up anyway, shocked at who you see. 

“Natalia, what the hell?!” There was no way she broke, no reason for her to be here. 

“What?” She shrugs, wiping a bit of blood from the corner of her mouth. “It was boring without you.” 

For some reason, this makes emotion bubble up in you. Immediately you press your face into your knees again to keep from crying. Such childish nonsense. 

Natalia lays her hand on your wet hair. Slowly you swallow the lump in your throat and look up into her face. Sometimes, it was hard to study her - it would be easy to take the two of you for sisters, though you wondered if it was looks or demeanor that cast that illusion - right now was such a time because her face showed concern you couldn’t bother to feel for yourself. It was as though a different you, from another life, was looking at this version with pitty. You hated it. 

“Get off me,” you push her back and uncurl your body to scoot into the cold tile wall. Natalia just sits on the wet tile in her ballet gear, eyes glued to your torso, a slow rage building in her. When she speaks, her green eyes are almost black. 

“Who did this?” She doesn’t bother to hide her accent, the English words coming with a distinctly Russian lilt. 

Protectively you cover yourself as best you can, hiding the dark purple bruises blossoming across your right ribcage that had made it so hard to breathe earlier and angling your legs to shield the fingerprint bruises peppering your thighs. You feel so small. 

“Catherine…” You ignore her, willing her to go away. The Red Room was the place you didn’t have to think about him.

“It was him, wasn’t it? Your father?” Natalia’s voice is a low rumble. 

“Eric,” you correct her. You still called him Papa to his face - the one time you didn’t you hadn’t been able to move for a couple of days after - but you couldn’t bear to allow her to think of him as your father. 

She turns her head and spits before asking, “Why do you let him do this to you?” You turn a wicked glare on her but she doesn’t flinch. “I’ve seen you kill a grown man with your bare hands, Cat. You’re like me! You’re marble. If a man is foolish enough to strike us he should come away bloody.” 

“The Devil doesn’t bleed,” you say your tone flat. 

“The Devil is just a man,” she says, sliding down the wall beside you, “and all men bleed.” 

You let her wrap an arm around your shoulders and pull you in. Slowly you sink down until your head rests in her lap. She runs her fingers through your hair, a soothing gesture, a gentle gesture. It’s too much. Silently you begin to cry. 

A few more girls come and go. None say anything and none linger. You two were not the first to breakdown in the showers and you wouldn’t be the last. When the last of them are gone Natalia speaks again. 

“I’ll graduate soon.” You knew this, though the thought fills you with dread. Would you still come even after Nat and the others graduated? Would you graduate the same? You doubted it. 

She takes a deep breath before continuing, “When I do, I’ll come for you.”

“And do what?” You scoff. 

“We’ll figure it out. He can’t-”

“He can,” you cut her off. “He can do anything he damn well pleases.”

“He’s not god, Cat. Your fa- Eric isn’t-”

“You’re right,” you sit up and look at her. “He isn’t god. He’s the Devil, and you have no idea just how much power he-”

“You could tell me.” She’d asked before, years ago, but you told her you never wanted to talk about your life outside this place. Most of the time she honored that request. 

“He’s got enough pull that he can treat the Red Room like a boarding school, that should tell you enough.” 

She looks away, shaking her head, a scowl etched on her face. 

The door slams open. You both exchange a look, knowing it shouldn’t be another trainee. 

“Get up!” A rough Russian voice barks. Both of you move instantly to obey, the movement sends pain shooting through your bruised ribs and you double over. Natalia turns to you. 

“Eyes front!” Another voice commands. “Move out.” Natalia begins to move but you can’t manage it, still trying to force your lungs to work. The man tilts your chin up with the butt of his rifle. 

“Is the little princess deaf?” His hand cracks across your cheek. He doesn’t hit near as hard as Eric, you remain standing. “I said move.” Not wanting to risk a strike with that rifle you comply and head out of the locker room naked as a newborn. 

Madame B waits for you both in the training room, two sets of gear on the ground before her. She eyes you with clear disdain as she gestures to the gear. 

“You have ten minutes,” she turns on her heel and floats from the room. 

Quickly you get into the heavy winter tactical suits. Neither of you speaks as you take stock of the simple provisions and weapons in the duffel. Each of you grabs a knife and a flashlight. She takes what looks like a poncho in a little plastic pouch and you take a space blanket. There is little food but you split it evenly between you, filling your pants pockets, unsure if they’ll be taking the bag from you. By the time you’re done you hear the foots steps of Madame B’s return. 

“They’re waiting out front. Go.” You grab the duffel, expecting her to stop you. When she doesn’t you both march out in silence. 

The helicopter ride is frigid, short, and utterly silent. When you finally land it’s on the vast frozen tundra, twilight making everything seem alien. 

“Get out. Whoever makes it back moves on.” That’s all you’re told before the copter lifts up and away, leaving you and Natalia standing in a wasteland. 

The area around you for miles is flat, frozen, nothing. Far, far, in the distance, you think you spot a copse of trees. Clearly, that will be your best bet for now, not that it mattered much - it was clear that this wasn’t something you were both meant to walk away from. 

“I wondered why they never made us fight. I just thought they saw no point. But this... this is worse.” You look over your shoulder, her bangs whip in the wind as she stares into nothing. 

“Come on,” you say shouldering the bag. “We can make it to those trees before it gets too dark.”

The trees you saw are sad scraggly things that provide little to no shelter from the howling winds. Still, you both manage to fashion a bit of a break from bits you find on the ground and hacking at low branches. Huddling close behind your sorry shelter you assess your supplies - which included a map, marking your location. 

To make it back to the Red Room on foot would take at least a week and a half if not two weeks. Even if you closely rationed your supplies you’d run out in half that time - there was enough for one of you. 

“When dawn comes, you go,” you tell her after you realize. “Take it all and you should make it ok.”

“What?!” Natalia stares at you in horror. “No! There’s some way, we’ll figure it-”

“Nat,” you sigh, “there isn’t another way. Clearly only one of us is supposed to make it back and I’m already struggling. You have a chance to-”

“I’m not doing it.” The fierce determination in her gaze reminded you of a night years before and another impossible choice. Quickly you slam the door on the memory. 

“You have to. I can’t live with myself if you don’t make-”

“So I’m supposed to live with it?!”

You can’t help but smile, “I won’t die out here, Natalia.” 

“I’m pretty sure if I leave you in the goddamn tundra with no food or supplies you’ll-”

“He won’t let me die.” You sigh, “It would be a wasted investment.” You weren’t sure how keen you’d be on living when he found out you’d lost, let her live, and had to be rescued but you didn’t care. Natalia was your friend, the only real friend you’d ever had, and you would not let her die. 

“There’s likely a tracker on these clothes somewhere. Once I don’t move for long enough someone will come for me.” She studies you quietly. “You’ll make it back, graduate, and be fine.”

“No,” she says matter of factly, settling back down beside you. 

“Excuse me?”

“Net. Ora. Non. Nein. Méiyǒu-” 

“I get it,” you cut her off before the dead languages start coming up. “I assume you have an alternative plan?”

“Of course I do,” she smirks. That was Natalia, clever as a fox.

“If they will come for you there’s no need for me to waste my precious energy and trek all the way back. I wait and they take me too. Easy.”

“Except, they may not be taking me back to the Red Room, if my father-”

“And if he shows up I can prove to you that even the Devil bleeds. I see no losing here.”

She was wrong about that but it wasn’t the worst idea. You weigh the possibilities in your mind. 

Eric was not going to bother to come to this desolate local to pick you up, even in the helicopter. Likely he’d send someone for you, two to four people at most, one likely a medic. You also can’t imagine they’d be too heavily armed since they were assuming they’d be retrieving a half-dead girl. This could work.

“We may have to put up a bit of a fight,” you tell her. 

Her smile broadens, “I hope so.”

It takes them three days. 

To say you were both comfortable in that time wouldn’t be accurate but it honestly could have been worse. Other than the harsh elements it was almost like a holiday or like the sleepovers you’d seen girls have in movies. You ate, talked, shared a bit - though you never told her about your mother or Hydra or anything that may get her killed. When you heard the grumble of quads you were a shade disappointed. 

Instead of meeting the crew head on you wait where you’ve been camping. Forcing them to come to you. The team speaks loudly, unconcerned about who may be listening. Looking at Natalia you hold up four fingers. She nods in agreement. 

“Catherine?” A woman calls into the trees. “Are you able to hear me?”

“Over here,” you say, rising from your crouch. The woman studies you, clearly surprised to see you in such good nick. 

“We’ve been sent to collect you.” 

“Excellent,” you say in an unbothered tone. “We’ve been waiting for someone to come.” Natalia rises up beside you. The woman glances back to the two men with her - the fourth must be with the quads. They freeze as Natalia and you move forward.  

“Is there some kind of problem?” You ask as the two men fan out. 

“Not for long,” she says cooly. 

Natalia takes the man to the left. He’s surprised by her speed and in moments blood gouts from his neck. The woman raises her gun only to find your own knife planted in her temple before you rush the second man. 

He fires off a shot at Natalia, she dodges as you sweep his legs from under him. With his focus now on you shes able to come at him from behind. He rights himself, pivoting to attack her but you land a hard blow to his chest - clearly, they will not risk causing you harm. As he gasps she’s on him, her thighs locked around his neck and within seconds a blade protrudes from his eye. 

She jumps from him before he collapses and plucks the weapons from his body like a strange little carrion bird. You do the same to the woman before you both move to the first man. 

Peeking from the copse you see the fourth person, a medic as you expected, prepping a few things in a small trailer behind one of the quads, ears covered by large muffs. When he sees the two of you walk out, a little bloody and armed he staggers back before pulling a gun. 

“Don’t,” you say on a sigh. “Unless you’d like to join the others back there.”

“You should be-”

“Half-dead,” you cut him off, “I know. Can we skip to where you were supposed to transport me?” He looks between you both and drops his weapon. 

“Back to the Red Room.” Your eyes narrow as you take aim. His hands shoot up, “I swear it! It was the closest place we could triage you before transporting you home. We thought you’d be severely injured.” You lower your weapon and the man relaxes. 

You nod, “Toss your gun.” He does so, Natalia grabs it, tucking it into her waistband. “You wait two hours before you head back and-”

“Knock me unconscious at least…” He looks mildly ashamed. “If they know I let you go…” Well, he wasn’t wrong. You nod to Natalia and she heads toward him as you keep him in your sights. 

“One wrong move-”

“No tricks. I at least have a chance of staying alive this way.”

He goes down fast. Maybe someone would come for him and the others, or maybe they’d leave them to rot and he could make his way wherever. Either way, you had little hope for the man.  

Neither of you under the illusion that you could run, you leave him the medical quad and double up on the other. Whatever waited for you at the Red Room you’d handle. 

It takes several hours to get back. Seeing the terrain you shuddered to think of Natalia making the journey alone. 

Madam B stood in front of the manor house, arms crossed. When you and Natalia dismount she takes you in. You almost think you see her upper lip twitch, in a smile or disgust you couldn’t know. After exchanging a look you both follow her inside. 

She leads you to the sparring room, a place where you’d taken more than a handful of lives over the last few years. This didn’t bode well. Two left and only one should have returned. There was no way they’d expect you two to fight to the death now…

You’re distracted, trying to work out the logistics, you don’t clock the shadows moving. Natalia does. Pushing you to the ground she takes a hard blow to her abdomen. She staggers and you hop up grabbing and pivoting her away.

The assailant’s next blow grazes your shoulder. As they bring their arm back you grab it, yanking them off balance. Natalia, recovered, clocks them hard in the jaw, sending them back. You advance with a punishing kick to the solar plexus and they stay down. 

 There’s no time to think. Five other figures emerge from the shadows. 

All you can think about is keeping her alive. It makes every movement, every choice, easy. Whatever it took. 

Natalia and you had been training together since you were 11, you knew the other’s flow as well as your own, could read her body language like a well-worn book. Yes, you were outnumbered but it didn’t matter. Like marble dancers, you perform a brutal ballet until you’re the last two standing. 

In the back corner, Madame B watched, her stern expression lit by the single bulb that hovered in the space. The lights flare up. Back to back, you both blink rapidly trying to adjust. 

“That was lovely,” Madam B says, her face a mask of contempt. She pulls a gun from her waistband, “But only one can-”

Earlier, guns would have been too risky, you could have shot Natalia. Now though, you had a clear sight. In a flash, you pull out the pistol you’d taken from the woman earlier, and shoot the gun from Madam B’s grasp. 

“Enough,” you growl. 

“You insolent little-”

“Enough!” You can feel Natalia tense behind you. “The game is over. We both returned. It’s done.” 

“So the little princess thinks she can give orders now?” She spits. “You’ll never be a Widow.” 

You hadn’t been watching her hands. Bad mistake. A knife materializes from nowhere and buries itself in your thigh. The instant your aim falters she comes for you. 

Her strikes are quick and calculated, focusing on where she must have seen your bruises the other day sending waves of fresh pain through you. In nothing more than a few beats you’re sure you feel a rib snap. You cry out, the sensation of the bone under your skin awful. 

Natalia won’t be able to fight back against Madam B, you knew that. It was part of the conditioning the girls underwent, it was how they were kept in line. There was just you and this woman who, you suspected, didn’t give a damn if you died. 

The hatred that pours from her feels as though it’s been brewing for some time. Absently, as she pummels your body, breaking it methodically, masterfully even, you wonder what you’d done to make her feel this intensely. You’d been a good student, obedient, vicious, strong…

Suddenly she’s pulled back. You don’t even look just take the reprieve to try and breathe through the pain, your rib throbbing with each shallow breath you manage. Finally, you pull your focus to the scuffle happening a few feet away from you. 

Natalia…

You stare at her as she headbutts Madam B, sending blood gushing down the woman’s usually pristine features. Despite the successful blow, Natalia looks like she’s going to vomit, her expression pained. 

Looking to the left you see the gun you’d dropped. 

Willing your shaky hands to still, forcing a breath, you aim and fire. 

The stillness that follows is terrifying. You don’t dare look at Natalia, too scared the bullet hit her and not Madam B. Then you see the red bloom on the woman’s right hip. A painful breath escapes you in relief. 

Standing on legs you force to be steady you stalk toward them, pushing Natalia behind you. Madam B falters, then falls, gripping her wound. Her cold eyes land on Natalia. 

“You’re going to pay for that you little whelp.” Gripping the barrel of the gun you slam the butt across her face sending her sprawling. 

Something dark slithers to the surface. You feel it spread, swelling to fill your chest, slowing your heart rate to a steady thrum, clearing your vision to something clear and terrifying. 

Madam B tries to gather hear bearings lifting herself up on one arm. Before she gets far you kick her hard in the ribs, not even feeling the screaming pain in your own now. Your boot rests against her long slender neck, applying just a bit of pressure, gun aimed at her forehead. 

“She will pay for nothing. Are we clear?” Your voice is calm, almost bored. 

“You do not-”

“I asked you a question. I expect an answer.” Your foot presses harder causing her to cough. 

“Natalia will face no repercussions for what has happened here or on your misguided test. She followed my orders,” it was a lie but you knew it would have the proper effect, “so if you’d like to punish someone that would be me. Though,” a bit more pressure, “I don’t think you hold a high enough rank to truly enact any kind of punishment.” 

“You little cunt,” she hisses. 

“How tasteless Madam, I expected a higher caliber of insult from you.” Just a bit more pressure and she begins to squirm despite the gun leveled at her. “I’ll ask once more, are we clear?”

“Yes!” She rasps, eyes wide. 

“Fantastic!” A slow sinister smile crawls over your face as you remove your boot from her throat. She sucks in a breath and moves to sit up, your boot meets her throat once more resting lightly. 

“To be clear. If I find out any action has been taken against Natalia, I will come and personally skin you alive until you beg me to end your miserable life.” Her expression was all the answer you needed. You step back and she rises slowly, never taking her eyes off of you. 

Slow clapping comes from the doorway. Madam B’s posture straightens despite her injuries. You and Natalia turn to see the source. When you do your blood runs cold. 

“Behind me, Nat,” you whisper as Eric comes into view. 

“That was a spectacular performance my darling!” His green eyes are crinkled with what seems to be a genuine smile. There’s nothing of the devil inside showing now. In his well-tailored navy suit and cream shoes, he looks like any well-heeled London businessman. 

Pride rolls off of him in waves and you curse the little flutter your stomach gives. You hate the part of you that still, despite everything, wants to please him. 

“Don’t you think that was exceptional, B?” He bellows laying his hands on your shoulders. 

“Of course, sir.” 

“Thank you, Papa.” He whips a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes a bit of blood from your face. Turning you to face the others he rests an arm across your shoulders holding you close. Your skin crawls. 

“I have to admit, B, you haven’t slowed much at all.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Clayton.”

“Please, B, Eric is just fine.” You feel rather than see his gaze land on Natalia. Tension floods your body. 

“And you,” he walks forward a few steps, bringing you with him. “You were clearly born for this. Just outstanding. I have no doubt you’ll serve Catherine well in the future.” Desperately you beg Natalia to look at you, to understand how sorry you are, you’d never have her serve you never-

“Thank you, sir,” she bows her head slightly. When she meets your eyes there are so many questions you can’t answer. 

“Sadly, we have to cut this short. I have an early meeting. Thank you, Natalia, you’ve done so well.” 

“Yes,” you hold her gaze, “thank you.” 

“Always,” she nods. 

Eric turns you both away, leading you out. In spite of yourself, you lean into him for support, the adrenaline fading leaving your body aching. 

“Oh, and B,” he turns back. You don’t have to see him to feel the shift, to know the devil was peeking from behind the mask. “If you don’t uphold your agreement with my daughter, you won’t have to bother worrying about her threat. I’ll simply sell you for parts.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response before whisking you out of the house and into the waiting chopper. You never see the Red Room again. 

-

You’re 17 and the sounds from the party downstairs keep you awake even with the door closed. 

Though you weren’t entirely sure what was happening downstairs, the snippets of vile conversation, boisterous male laughter, and the distinct sound of someone in pain made your skin crawl. Even though you’d already scrubbed yourself raw after Eric had left you in your room - telling you he didn’t want to see your face until noon tomorrow - you were tempted to get back in the scalding water. Your burning arms begged you to reconsider, any more scrubbing and you’d likely be a bloody mess, that wouldn’t sit well with, Eric. 

It made you miss the Red Room. Nights there were so quiet, you never worried about who may come into your room or hear things you’d rather forget. It was, despite its purpose, relatively peaceful in the late hours. You hadn’t been back there in years and doubted your return would be welcome if Madam B still presided over the place. 

Finally, you give up any hope of sleep. Settling your headphones over your ears you busy yourself with reading, drawing, some of your lessons. In fact, you complete most of the week’s assignments by 3 am. Only then do you pull your headphones from your ears, listening for any sign of the party. It seemed dead silent. 

Your stomach growls. When Eric had left you, he hadn’t given you time to grab food from the kitchen and none had been sent up. Despite its persistence, you consider ignoring your hunger. But the thought of not eating until the afternoon… 

Silent as a shadow you slip from your bedroom door. Every few feet you pause, listening for any sign of activity below. Hearing nothing you head down the back stairs, furthest from Eric’s master rooms, making sure to avoid the two spots that squeak. 

The kitchen is ransacked and the smell of liquor and cigars hangs heavy in the air. Wrinkling your nose you open the refrigerator slowly, searching for anything you can bring up with you. Grabbing some roast beef, cheese and gingerly picking up a bag of crisps you turn to head back up. A groan coming from the front stair makes you freeze. 

Barely breathing you listen, stealing yourself for Eric to walk in and the hell that would follow. Nothing happens for several moments. Another low groan makes your hair stand on end. This wasn’t Eric.

You don’t know why you set the food down and walk the short distance to the entryway. All you can think is that maybe someone was hurt and maybe you could help. 

The sight that meets your eyes forces you to cover your mouth in order to keep from gasping in horror. 

A man is chained to one of the columns that support the second story landing. The metal links run from the column to a collar around his neck. It’s not long enough for him to lay down so he leans, sitting up, against the plaster - which you note is coated in smears of blood. In fact, the floor is covered with speckles of it and other fluids.

Bile rises in your throat but you force it down. 

Bruises are appearing all over his naked form. “Your turning violet, Violet!” The Willy Wonka line echoes in your head. You almost laugh at remembering a children’s movie in a time like this. Were you hysterical? 

Once more the man makes a pained noise, body shifting. Something on his left side catches the dim light. When you realize what it is, your jaw drops. 

Until this moment you could have convinced yourself that this man had angered Eric in some way, or possibly misstepped - some wayward agent being punished-  but now…

You’d only seen him fleetingly when you were 12. His work was mentioned in the history of Hydra Eric had you read. It had seemed impossible that one person could have done so much and you disliked the thought that you’d been fed a children’s tale. 

“Papa,” you’d been incredulous, “this isn’t real. This Soldier is impossible. I want the real story.” Eric had smiled at that. 

“No? You don’t think he’s real?”

“Of course not!” 

“We’ll see.” The next day he’d brought you to work with him. 

“I have a surprise for you.” Instead of the button that took you to his penthouse office, he hit another and a panel opened revealing many more sub levels. Selecting one the elevator carried you both down down down. 

When the doors opened the harsh fluorescent lights had hurt your eyes for a moment. You weren’t sure you wanted this surprise. 

You seemed to walk forever before he finally reached the right door. Much to your chagrin, it just led to another long hallway. 

Finally, he beamed down at you, “Ready?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, just wanting to get this over with. 

He opens the final door to a large room with a cage on the other side. In it sat a man. 

“Soldat!” Eric barked. The man jumped to attention, long hair hanging loose and a silver arm on his left side. Your father may as well have just shown you proof of the boogeyman, you’d have been less shocked. 

Now here was that same man, The Fist of Hydra, chained in your foyer. Beaten and broken in a way you understood far too well. 

Slowly his eyes slide open, meeting yours. Your heart lodges in your throat. 

That day, he’d had a mask and goggles on, you’d never even thought of what he looked like. Perhaps you expected just a blank mask, empty eyes, but no. 

Those eyes… They were screaming. 

His tongue flits out, licking dry cracked lips, breaking the spell you’d momentarily been under. Getting your breath and heart rate under control you glance in the direction of Eric’s rooms, hoping he was passed out drunk. 

You hold up a finger to indicate you’d be right back, hoping he even understood, and silently make your way back to the kitchen. This was stupid. So stupid. What was possessing you to fill a glass with water from the pitcher in the fridge, to grab the roast beef and what was left of the bread? Why were you doing this? Even as you make your way back to him you’re berating yourself. 

The Soldier’s eyes track you with unnerving intensity. When you approach his whole body tenses as though he actually feared you. It was almost a comical thought. This man assassinated JFK, why in the hell would he fear you? 

Because you’re Hydra, something in the back of your mind whispers. 

Kneeling an arms reach away you hold out the water. He eyes it warily. Understanding you take a sip before holding it out once more. Now he grips the glass in his flesh hand, drinking deep. When he finishes you hold your hand out for it. He gives it back.

You push the bread and meat toward him, your stomach growling loudly. His head cocks to the side, listening. You forgot how hungry you were. 

He gestures for you to go first, his expression soft. Shrugging you grab a couple of thin slices of meat and a piece of bread, folding it in half you take a massive bite, almost groaning in pleasure at the taste of food. When you swallow he does the same. 

Finishing your half sandwich you pick up the glass, indicating you were getting more water. He nods, making another sandwich. 

In the kitchen, you not only fill the glass but you grab the chocolate digestives too, they were your favorite. And, for good measure, you fill a second glass with milk. Something in your head still screams danger, but you just don’t give a damn. 

When you sit back down, you notice he left you half the meat and bread. You try to get him to take more but he refuses, though he does take the water. This time he drinks slowly as you finish your last two sandwiches. 

As you chew your last bite you notice how his eyes keep falling back to the milk. You smile, setting it between you. Gingerly you coax the biscuit package open, praying it’s not too much noise. It’s a success and you pull three biscuits out, holding them out to him. He takes them, though, he doesn’t eat them. 

You take your own biscuit and bite in, savoring the taste. Then you dunk it into the milk so it could soften the biscuit just enough. He watches you like he’s studying some strange practice. When you finish your first you gesture for him to do the same by holding up a thumb and covering your heart like you were swooning. You’d swear he almost smiles. 

He does exactly as you did, taking a bite then dunking. Your brows raise expectantly, clearly wanting to know his take. Now a small smile does lift his lips as he holds a thumbs up. It takes effort to not giggle, the situation was bonkers on every level, but what in the hell was normal in your life. 

The two of you make it through the whole pack. He eyes the now biscuitless milk. Picking it up you offer it to him. He shakes his head. You make an overly exaggerated pouty face and push it in his face. Again he smiles, finally accepting it. 

Once it’s done he puts it in your waiting hand. You nod, turning to go to the kitchen once more, doing away with the evidence. A metal hand grips your wrist. Fear jumps in your stomach until you look at his open expression. He swallows hard, brows knit, as though he’s focusing intently on something. 

“Thank you,” he croaks in a low whisper. Immediately your heart begins to race. You’d honestly thought he couldn’t speak, there was something worse knowing that he could, knowing that you didn’t hear him do so all night despite everything that clearly happened here. 

A noise from the sitting room makes you jump, the glasses, nested together, slipping from your grip, shattering on the hard marble tile. 

“What the hell?” A garbled voice asks. The Soldier’s hand is still on your wrist, both of you frozen by fear as Eric stumbles into view. 

The laugh that tumbles from him is nothing less than sinister. Your stomach flips. 

“Like father, like daughter. You have a taste too?” Even from four feet away you can smell the whiskey on him. “He’s good.” His eyes note your wrist in The Soldier’s grip, “Or did he have some of you?” Another blood-curdling laugh, The Soldier lets go of you. 

“I can’t blame you Soldat,” Eric grabs your arm pulling you to him. “She’s quite a well-bred bitch, isn’t she?”

“Papa,” you try to pull away, “stop, please.” It’s useless you know. 

“What? Don’t want me to join in on the fun?” He throws you to the floor in front of The Soldier. 

“You like to watch Soldat?” He asks before pinning your arms down. “Of course you do,” he sneers, “if I say you do.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at The Soldier, just will your soul into that distant place, just wait it out. Except the sound of metal snapping and the feeling of Eric’s weight being lifted from you bring you careening back into your body. 

Gasping you sit up, scurrying back until your hand meets a shard of the glass you’d stupidly dropped earlier. A cry of pain shoots from your mouth before you can think to stop it. 

With one hand The Soldier tosses Eric to the side, his head hitting the corner of the bottom stair. Cradling your hand you stare at the prone form of your father, the bit of blood trickling from his head, wondering if the devil could die so easy - until The Soldier blocks your view. 

Crouching before you he takes your bleeding hand in his, examining it. 

“First-” he clears his throat, “aid?” 

“Kitchen,” you answer in a disconnected voice, looking around him at Eric. 

“He’s… Not.” Ah, not so easy then. “Let me help?” You nod and let him help you up. 

He follows you into the kitchen. You pause at the cupboard where the silver and linens were kept. 

“There’s a tablecloth in there you could use. If you want to cover up.” You point to the right door. He nods and get’s a crisp white cloth out. Turning your eyes from him as he wraps the tablecloth around his waist you watch the blood steadily pool in your hand. You only know he’s done when he presses a white napkin into the pool with steady pressure. 

“Kit?” 

“Under the sink.” He looks behind you locating the sink and gently guides you in that direction. You stop by the island holding the cloth as he directed. After shuffling around in the cabinet he finds the kit and pulls it out. 

“Here,” he turns the water on. You don’t even flinch as the flow hits your wound. He grabs a few more napkins and turns the water off, gently drying your skin holding the fabric tight until the bleeding slows. 

“Might need to stitch it,” he says. You just shrug. He nods. Releasing your hand he grabs your waist lifting you up to set you on the island. 

It’s strange how efficiently he works to stitch and bandage your hand. Even more strange is how gentle he is. When he’s almost done you look back toward the stairs. 

“Still unconscious,” he says. 

“How do you know?”

“Can hear his breathing, no change.” Methodically he erases any trace of the mini-medical service he provided. You just sit dazed, wondering how he can hear Eric’s breathing from here. 

When he’s done you feel obligated to tell him, “When he wakes up he’ll take us both to task for this.” 

He shakes his head, “Doubt he’ll remember. Can make it look like he slipped in a bathroom, makes sense being so drunk.” It’s actually a pretty good idea. 

“But you’re not…”

“I can just go back before he’s conscious.” The thought makes your stomach clench. “Show me the right bathroom.” 

You lead him up the stairs to the other side of your large Kensington home where Eric’s rooms were. The corner of the vanity was actually sharp enough to account for such a head wound. 

“Ok, I’ll take care of it.” 

You hover as he retrieves Eric, bringing him into the bathroom. He presses the wound into the corner of the vanity to leave blood in the right and reopen it. Eric, to your surprise, doesn’t wake. Painstakingly, he positions Eric as though he collapsed there. It was almost art. 

Even so… you couldn’t help but be afraid.  

“He’s going to know,” your voice cracks, so pathetic but you can’t help it. “when he wakes up he’ll have my-”

“No. Where’s your room?” Unconcerned you lead him to it, blessedly on the other side of the house. He looks around the hall outside, seeming to make calculations. 

“I’ll stay right here,” he gestures by the door. “If he wakes and comes here I’ll take care of him.”

“You can’t, he’ll-”

“He shouldn’t…” He clears his throat again, you realize he speaks like someone who’s not used to doing so. “He shouldn’t do that to you…” 

“He does what he wants. You should know that.” 

The Soldier shudders and looks away, “Different.”

Suddenly a million questions flood your mind. Why didn’t he run? Why didn’t he fight back? Why let them do that to him? But you know the answers already, know they’re similar to your own. There’s only one thing you don’t understand. 

“Why did you help me?” He looks surprised. 

“You helped me.” He studies you. “What’s your name?” 

“Catherine.”

“You’re a good person, Catherine.”

A bitter laugh breaks from somewhere deep inside you. 

Good. 

He didn’t know that at eight you’d beaten your own mother right where he’d been tortured and raped tonight, he didn’t know that you’d killed her years later after she tried to save you from this. He didn’t know that you’d beaten girls to death with your bare hands and murdered people and felt nothing for any of it. He didn’t know the depths of darkness bred into you. 

The laugh shifts into a sob, you try to hold it down but it comes anyway. With a thud, you hit your knees, the carpet stinging a bit. 

This was absurd. All of it. The goddamn Fist of Hydra telling you that you’re a good person after you ate chocolate digestives, after stopping your father from… 

“Fuck,” you choke out. He sits on his knees across from you, reaching out his flesh hand. You take it, holding so tight it aches until you stop crying. 

With burning eyes, you finally look up into his. They’re grey-blue, though far from cold. What had Hydra done to this creature? 

He helps you to your feet, and you release his hand, somewhat regretfully. 

“I’ll keep watch. I swear, I’ll keep you safe.” He looks toward Eric’s room, “Even if only for tonight.”

“Ok,” you nod, turning to enter your room. Something takes hold of you, stopping your motion. 

Before your mind can protest you fling your arms around this man’s torso, holding on so tight. Tentatively his own arms wrap around you. A clear tremor shakes him but you don’t let go. 

No one had ever done what he had. All your life his men had known what he did, to your mother to you, and no one stopped him. Not a damn one had ever dared or cared enough to try. Until this Soldier. 

“Thank you,” you breathe. He looks a little dazed as he nods in acceptance. 

“Sleep well, Catherine.”

For the first time in years, you actually do.

Chapter Text

You weren’t sure how long you’d stared at your hands. 

They seemed strange things, somehow beyond your comprehension. Attempts to flex the fingers on them had resulted in only an unsettling twitch, you knew that wasn’t the right response, and they were somehow both burning and cold in equal measure. 

In fact, your whole body felt like a contradiction. Something known, yet foreign. Too much feeling, too little. Too hot, too cold. Too still, yet constantly something was moving. 

Had you always been able to feel the flow of blood through your veins? Did each hair follicle always hum as the air moved around you? Who… who were you?

All the memories of the past 20 years hit you with the force of a train. 

Frantically you begin to pace in the small white room, your heartbeat increasing with each lap, your breathing turning into a rapid pant. Your mind steadily piecing things together, for better or worse, pulling who you were back into sharp focus. With that clarity comes something else.

Taking a deep breath your pacing stops. 

There wasn’t a word for what you felt. This emotion went farther than rage, conviction, or vengeance. You think you’ve felt it before, in fleeting moments, but now it’s amplified - along with everything else it seemed - now-

A creaking under your hands draws your attention, pulling you away from that line of thought. With confusion, you gape at the metal bed frame beneath your hands. You’d taken hold of it when you’d stopped pacing and now the metal was crumpled and twisted. 

It worked, you realize. It actually, bloody, worked. A small chuckle trips over your lips - you’d genuinely thought you’d end up like Pierce’s daughter, dead. 

A few weeks ago was the first time you’d seen Eric in almost a year. 

He’d been different in a way you couldn’t name since that night with The Soldier. You knew it wasn’t that he actually remembered what happened - if he had you’d no doubt he’d have come close to killing you - but perhaps an impression of something stuck. Regardless, when the time came for you to go to uni a few months later he’d set you up with your own flat and sent you on your way, saying that you needed ‘time to explore yourself.’ 

It was the one kindness he’d ever done you. 

In the last three years, you’d crafted a new version of yourself. 

She was normal, relatively speaking. Studied business, partied in SoHo with friends, had a string of short - albeit far from vanilla - affairs with several people, fairly typical stuff. 

The only time you saw Eric was for required formal events, someone ascending the ranks within Hydra or the random social event. It totaled to perhaps six or seven in three years. Which was why you were shocked, and a bit unsettled, to see him at your graduation.

You’d been worried his presence would keep you from enjoying the moment with your friends, that he’d pull you into some droll dinner to pretend he was a caring and proud father. Instead, he’d simply given you a cold congratulations and instructed you to meet him at his office the following Monday. 

It still put a damper on your entire celebration - all you could think about was what the hell he wanted from you. Not even the distraction of a beautiful woman clad in leather had managed to remove your worry. 

There had been a million things you’d thought this meeting would be about. You’d run countless scenarios in your head. None came close to what your father shared with you from across his polished desk. 

“We feel it’s time for you to join The Council.” He said as though he was commenting on the weather.

“I-I’m honored.” you stammer a bit grimacing internally. He raises a doubting brow at you before striding over to the stocked bar cart to begin pouring a drink. 

“You’ll be taking the third seat.” You almost choke on your tea. “Is that a problem?” He asks over his shoulder. 

“Not at all,” you say, willing your voice steady. “What position will Jennifer Pierce be taking in that case?” Alexander Pierce headed the US arm of Hydra and to your knowledge, the third seat had been intended for his daughter. 

“Jennifer Pierce is dead.” 

“Ah.”

“Of course-” he says, turning back to you and taking a sip of scotch before continuing- “there can be no ascension of this kind without a trial to test your worth.” You knew as much, Hydra always demanded a pound of flesh - at minimum.

“She failed hers.” Jennifer was many years your senior, had done years of fieldwork and been a trusted confidant of her own father if, she failed whatever trial this seat demanded… “You will not.” 

“Can you hear us?” A male voice asks over hidden speakers bringing you back to the present. 

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us your full name?”

“Catherine Eileen Clayton.”

“What is your date of birth, Catherine?” Ah, cognitive tests. 

“The third of January 1983,” you sigh. “I’m twenty years old, a double Capricorn, and very in control of my faculties. Can we move on?”

A buzz sounds by the door. The noise grates against your newly sensitive eardrums, causing you to grimace. When it opens Eric stands in the corridor, a proud, if not smug, smile on his face. 

“I knew you were born for this,” he extends a hand. You eye it before looking up to meet his gaze. Rather than take it you remain unmoving, waiting for him to tell you what came next. For a fleeting second his eyes narrow before sweeping his arm to beckon you from the room.

“There is one final step before you’ll be ready to ascend to your seat on The Council,” he begins to stride down the hall, expecting you to follow. 

“And that is?” He stops dead in his tracks. Your heart leaps into your throat as you recognize the set of his shoulders, instinctively you brace for a blow. Instead, he turns slowly to you, his expression unreadable as he observes how you haven’t moved. 

“You can rot in that room or follow me obediently to find out.” A too familiar chill crawls up your spine and settles in your chest. Without another word, you follow him. 

As you make your way through the labyrinthine corridors of Hydra’s London base you remember being dropped down here at 10, and having to find your way out - none of the adults you encountered would even acknowledge you existed. You remember training in one of these many blank rooms - both physical and mental - though, torture may be a better word. 

The chasm that opens in your mind almost feels like home, one you haven’t been to in a little while. Quickly you turn your thoughts to how your blood seems to hum through your veins, how loud your steps are, the low tension in your muscles - anything to pull you away from that beckoning void. 

Eric stops in front of a nondescript door, pressing his thumb into the handle. An unseen mechanism whirs to life followed by a distinct click. Before he opens the door he turns his eyes on you, studying. 

“You’ve done well thus far,” he turns the handle, looking forward. “Don’t disappoint me now, Catherine.” You don’t miss the order in his tone. A voice whispers, Yes Papa, but you refuse to let your tongue form those words. 

With bated breath, you follow him. It’s much like a room you remember from long ago, a cell where he showed you exactly the kinds of monsters that Hydra could craft. Behind you the door closes, the locks sliding back into place. 

A cell lies on the other side of the room. Through the bars, you see a woman, nude, her back to you. Deep red hair tumbling in thick waves, her ragged breath scraping over your ears. 

No, you beg silently, not her. Please not her.

Once you and Eric enter the cell, the woman turns red-rimmed eyes to you both. Relief thunders through you as you release the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. This wasn’t Natalia, they hadn’t brought her here as a sacrifice to whatever future lay before you. Though, now the question rattled in your brain, impossible to ignore. 

“What is this?” You ask, lazily gesturing toward the woman. 

“What do you think?” 

“Can we stop with the riddles? Just fuc-” 

You were clearly out of practice. When his backhand cracks across your cheek it leaves you reeling, ears ringing, though you don’t fall. Once you blink your vision clear you look back to him, attempting to keep your face straight. 

“I believe I asked you a question,” he sighs out. 

You answer, “I assume she’s failed in some way, showed some unforgivable weakness.” You try to stop the words but they come anyway, “But you cannot expect me to kill her?”

“Oh? And why is that?” It’s your turn to sigh. 

“Honestly, that is hardly a test. If it gets things moving forward I suppose I will,” the woman shifts her back against the wall at this. “I just don’t know what that will prove.” He smiles, slowly. Clearly you got something right. 

“Perceptive. Killing her would be nothing for you, even before,” you swear the sick bastard looks proud. That void threatens once more, something whispering from the darkness. You push it away. 

“However, you’re wrong about her crime. She’s not here for being weak or unworthy, rather, she has refused to fall in line. We have no need for an unbroken horse.” He pauses, striding to the other side of the cell.

With his back turned, you look into her eyes. They burn with a fire you recognize - for an instant, you’re 11 again, you can feel the weight of that gun in your hands, hear your Mother’s voice- 

“But you won’t be putting her down.” The sound of another lock clicking draws your focus to where Eric stands, hands behind his back. 

A panel slides open with a swish. Eric steps aside just enough and you see him, The Soldier. 

He’d been gone when you’d woken in the late afternoon years ago, like some macabre guardian angel. Habitually, your fingers stroke the scar on your palm, remembering how gentle he’d been as he sutured the cut. 

The woman begins to sob. A broken, “No,” slipping out here and there.

Eric turns back to you, a wicked smile coloring his features. “The Fist of Hydra,” he walks back to stand beside you, The Soldier doesn’t move. 

“You remember him don’t you?” Your heart begins to beat a tattoo of alarm against your ribs. “I showed him to you when you were a child.” 

“Yes,” you will your heart to quiet, feeling like it’s loud enough for the whole room to hear. 

“It’s one thing to take a life and quite another to put the blood on the hands of someone else.” He looks down at you, “You’ll prove you can handle that, and The Soldier, by utilizing him to remove this stain from our ranks.” 

He looks over his shoulder at the woman, “Be creative. He hasn’t been let loose in some time.” With that, he strolls casually to the far corner of the cell, leaning back against the wall as though he was about to watch some kids play football.

The Soldier steps forward and the panel behind him slides shut, disappearing as though it never was. You study him, searching those pale eyes for some spark of recognition. Whatever had been there before was long gone, all that stood before you was a weapon, a tool waiting to be put to use. It chilled you. 

Behind you, the woman still weeps. It makes something bitter rise in you - pathetic, she was nothing like your mother. Even so, words you hadn’t allowed yourself to remember for so long rise in your mind.

“Always remember that you are more than this.”

“No.” One crisp, clear, syllable. It may as well have been a bomb. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’ll be better than all of them as long as you remember.” Your mother’s voice echoes in your mind.

Languidly you slide your eyes to Eric, “I said, no.” 

Everything goes quiet as his anger builds, a fire slowly eating all the oxygen in the space. What was coming would likely consume you leaving nothing but a husk behind, you don’t care. It feels good. 

Despite the waves of rage rolling off of him, his face remains impassive as he approaches you. A couple of feet away he stops, head tilting to the side as though he was seeing something puzzling.  

“She’s done nothing worth a death sentence.” You state matter of factly. 

“You’re questioning me?”

“No,” god that word felt so good, intoxicating. Maybe you were mad from the power it seemed to give you. It was the best explanation for your next words. “I’m telling you you’re wrong.” 

You read once that wolves show their teeth before they attack. Devils, you know, do the same. 

Eric’s smile is broad as he slips his suit jacket off his shoulders. Your eyes track him as he hangs it over the horizontal bar of the cell. Unhurriedly he unbuttons his cuffs, methodically rolling the sleeves up to the elbow. When he speaks again, he’s unbuttoning a single button to allow him room to tuck away his tie.

“Then how would you address the situation, Catherine?”

“I wouldn’t.” He steps toward you, on instinct you move back, not wanting to allow him a close range to strike.

“You’d allow disrespect to stand? Allow this stain to spread?” Another step forward, another retreat from you. 

“No.” 

“Then what? You’d do nothing to handle this weak-”

“You said yourself she isn’t weak. In fact, it seems to me, the problem is your own weakness if you can’t handle one-” 

Stupid. That’s the only word echoing through your skull as it slams into the wall behind you with enough force to knock a lesser person unconscious. 

Right now you’re not thinking about the bent metal of the bed frame in your recovery room. You’re not thinking of your sensitive ears or the weeks of preparation, or that you lived through the procedure when others have died. 

No. 

Right now you’re a little girl again, realizing your father is the Devil for the first time. Right now you’re the same powerless thing you’ve always been in his presence, the fear of a lifetime suffocating you. 

“Would you like to finish that statement?” Eric growls. You shake your head, too afraid to speak. “I thought not.” His fingers dig into your neck. 

“You’ve grown far too bold. Forgotten where you belong.” He takes a deep breath, eyelids fluttering as though the smell of your terror was intoxicating. “Perhaps you need a reminder.” 

“I’m sorry, Papa,” god you hate yourself for those words. 

“No,” he reclaims the power you’d felt so briefly. His knee pries your thighs apart, “You will be.” 

When his head dips down, the grotesque feel of his tongue against the skin of your neck almost makes you wretch. Before you close your eyes in an attempt to block out everything happening and all you know is to come, you catch The Soldier’s intent stare. 

He looked as though he was straining on an invisible leash, his entire body coiled tension begging for release. 

He’s waiting on something, you think as teeth sink into your shoulder. The pain brings clarity. He’s waiting on me. 

All it takes is one nod to break the invisible tethers binding him. With terrifying speed, The Soldier strikes, pulling Eric from you, pinning his arms and legs, rendering him immobile. To his credit he didn’t struggle, knowing he couldn’t break such a hold. 

“Release me, Soldat!” Eric barks in harsh Russian. The Soldier doesn’t even flinch, his eyes remain locked on you, awaiting an order. “Soldat!”

The fear which had paralyzed you seeps away as your senses begin to return and you stare at Eric. He looks angry but still calm, never willing to let his facade fall for long. Under the surface though, you can hear the racing of his heart, it seems to pick up at the same pace your own slows. The vein in his throat pulses, his breath is barely controlled, and you note the small beads of sweat beginning to form on his skin. 

Weak, something hisses from that void. This time you don’t silence it - you agree, you welcome it, this darkness he so proudly fostered within you. Now you allow the void to rise. He made you this. Killer. Demon. Weapon. The void whispers. And it is not wrong. You were all these things and now-

You kneel before Eric, gripping his chin in your hand. 

“I don’t think he listens to you anymore, Papa,” you say, the final word laced with mockery. You pat his cheek as you stand and pace away, purposely showing your back to him to be sure he knew you were no longer afraid. That you’d never be afraid of him again. 

“I do think you had a point earlier though. About putting blood on someone else’s hands being different.” You turn back to him, wanting to look into his eyes as you say, “It would be a shame to waste such a prime opportunity to learn. Don’t you think?” His eyes widen in understanding that now, the void he created would consume him.

“Soldier,” you look to him, those cold blue eyes unwavering. “Break him, but do not let him die.” 

You had worried for a moment that you needed to be more specific in your commands. After all, you wanted your father to suffer at least a taste of the horrors he’d done to others throughout his life. It only took a few moments for you to see that you worried in vain. Be it training or retribution, The Soldier methodically broke Eric down in ways that would cause the most pain without the release of death. 

For what may have been hours you remain entranced by the scene before you. Every cry of pain was a symphony. The blood on the cold concrete a masterpiece. 

This was for your mother. For every person, he’d hurt. For the child, he’d broken and forged into something irredeemable. 

This was justice. Or at the very least, the justice you understood, the justice he deserved. 

“That’s enough,” you sigh contently. Without hesitation The Soldier stops, stepping away from Eric. 

Your father’s face is almost unrecognizable. Blood, tears, snot, and vomit all paint his features into something different, something grotesque. The outside finally reflecting the sickening soul beneath. Slowly you take in the rest of his broken body, stopping at the wet stain on his trousers. 

“Piss? Really, Eric, you’re embarrassing yourself.” You press your boot to his throat as he’d done to you when you were a child. 

“You once told me, that dangerous miscalculations only served to land one under the boot of those worthy of bravery. Do you remember?” He makes no move of acknowledgment, only stares up at you with one defiant eye - the other swollen shut. 

“Oh you must,” you press harder and he gurgles. “It was just before you made me put a bullet in my mother’s head.”

“Tell me, Papa,” you spit the word. “Am I brave enough now?” 

You lift him from the floor as though he’s nothing but a rag doll and slam him into the wall where he’d pinned you earlier. Exhilaration didn’t come close to encapsulating this feeling. 

“I believe I asked you a question,” you say in an echo of his own cool tone. 

“You… little… devil,” he manages to say with a mouth missing several teeth. A laugh, bright and ringing, pours from you.

“I am the devil you made. Aren’t you proud?” 

With one hand on Eric’s throat, and the other on his chest, you begin to push your fingers between his ribs, pressure increasing bit by bit. 

The tattered fabric of his shirt and his flesh begins to give way beneath your steel fingers. A whimper rises from him that slowly forms into a cry of agony. All you can do is smile as you feel the wet heat around your hand. 

A little further and you feel the beat, the pulse of life that had animated this man for all his days. 

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper as you squeeze and feel that pulse cease. 

The silence that follows is absolute. 

Everything in you, and around you, quiet. 

Eventually, you let him drop to the floor in an undignified heap, stepping back. Only then does the void recede enough for you to feel anything more than triumph. Even then, you feel no regret, only the heavy knowledge of the price your actions would demand. 

A trembling breath escapes you as soft shifting sound draws your focus from what you’d done and back to The Soldier. He stands straight, quietly observing you. When you meet his eyes you’d swear there was satisfaction there. 

Fuck it. You’d likely die for this and even with him by your side you were not going to get out of this building unless they let you out. 

“Care for a drink?” You ask, lips quirking in a smile. He says nothing, just cocks his head a bit to the side. You shrug, “Suit yourself. I’m getting one.” Or several. 

To your surprise, the door to the cell opens. You stroll out hearing him just behind you. Good. 

“Hey!” A woman calls out. “What about me?” Honestly, you’d forgotten about her entirely. 

“What about you?” Is all you toss over your shoulder as the cell slams shut behind you. 

There was nothing you could do for her now, hell there wasn’t anything you could truly do for yourself. It would be a miracle if you made it back to Eric’s office without a bullet in your head. The Soldier may even be the one to put it there, he may be biding his time - though something in you doubted this. 

You’d spared the woman all you could, the rest would be up to her. 

The private elevator slides open, revealing Eric’s office, not a guard, soldier, or assassin in sight - well, save for the one you rode up with. You’re surprised but not relieved. They’d come, and soon. 

You raise your hands to rub your face only to be hit with the copper tang of blood - your right arm covered almost to the elbow. Suddenly you’re too hot, burning, your chest tight.

Outside the floor to ceiling window, London glitters like something in a fairytale. You rush to it, pressing your face to the cool glass, forcing your mind to focus on the city around you. Even through the thick glass, you can hear the rush of the wind, the slightest hum of traffic below. 

Breathe, Catherine, you try to coach yourself. Breathe. But you can’t. 

The blood paired with the city sounds that should have been impossible for you to hear makes you realize something you’d been foolish to miss in the first place. They would not kill you. Not now. 

Eric had once said that Hydra didn’t make a habit of wasting good parts, one look at The Soldier was a fair reminder of that. Before, you’d been valuable enough but ultimately replaceable - now you were an investment. 

“Someone is coming.” The Soldier’s voice cuts through your panic like a knife. You turn to see him by the door, arms crossed. Whether he was keeping you in or others out you couldn’t know. 

Taking a shaky breath you nod, “Thought they’d be faster about it if I’m being honest.” As the doorknob turns his hand moves for the knife in his belt. Interesting. 

“No,” you shake your head. He stands at attention instead, looking more like a blood-spattered statue than a man. You lean against the desk as the door swings open to reveal -

“Secretary Pierce?” You don’t try to hide the surprise in your voice, he wasn’t exactly who you’d expect to come for you. 

“Miss Clayton,” he smiles brightly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here. It’s been too long,” he holds out a hand. 

“Ah,” you hold up your red right palm. “Haven’t had a chance to freshen up. Please, make yourself comfortable,” you gesture to the bar cart. “I’ll just be a moment.” 

Freshen up? You lean against the bathroom door judging yourself. Freshen up. As though you’d been out for a light jog rather than literally shoving your hand through your own father’s chest. Freshen up. Christ. 

You catch your reflection in the mirror and freeze. 

Blood not only covered your arm but had soaked into your shirt, staining your chest, leaving splatters up your neck and on your face. Despite the gore, you looked fresh, skin dewy and bright, your eyes sparkling. It painted an unsettling image.

Even so… you smiled. 

He was dead. That bastard you’d once called Papa. Dead. By your hand.

No matter what followed, no matter what they did to you, your Mother had her justice today. They couldn’t take that away. 

You wash your hands as best you can and wipe some of the blood off your face. Getting rid of the rest would be impossible right now and there was a part of you that didn’t want it gone. Let them see it. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” you say exiting the bathroom. 

“No apologies needed. Honestly, I wanted to give you time to process before speaking with you, but the others thought it best we move quickly.”

“I see,” you turn to the bar cart to make a drink. 

“So?” You sigh as you take a seat in the wingback across from where Pierce had settled himself. He sips his drink before speaking. 

“Of course we want to give you time to transition. It will be an abrupt change to your lifestyle, especially for someone so young - but we feel confident that you’ll manage spectacularly. You’ve always-”

“Excuse me, Secretary-”

“Alex, please.”

“Alex,” it felt strange to call this man who you’d known your whole life by his first name. “I’m not sure I follow. I just committed treason and-”

“I’d view it more like taking out the trash.” Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Alex looks like he wants to spit, “Your father was... dedicated, to the cause. However, there are some sins that simply can’t be overlooked.” His intense eyes meet yours. 

“We didn’t know for certain until today how far his depravity went. I don’t ask you to forgive us for that, but as a father, I would never have let that…” He shakes his head, taking a deep drink. 

“I’m sorry,” he looks to you confused. “About your daughter. About Jennifer.”

His face softens, “Thank you.” He sneers, “Your father-”

“Eric,” you correct him. 

“Eric,” he nods, seeming to understand. “He said-”

“Let me guess, ‘Blood will out.’” 

“Yes, as though it was a personal failing - her death.” You look away, disgusted. “But you are not him.” Your gaze shoots back to him. 

“Miss-”

“Catherine,” you say smiling. 

“Catherine. You are what we’ve waited so long for. A child of Hydra, fit to lead us into the new age.” Your eyes narrow. “You’ll be taking your - Eric’s seat.” 

You can’t help but be shocked. Taking what should have been Jennifer’s seat had been enough of an upset, to take Eric’s… It would mean-

“It will be an honor to have you serve with me in the first seat.” The first seat, the head of The Council that governed Hydra, was always held as a joint position. “And it will be an even greater honor when you ascend even higher.”

“Higher?” There was no higher seat. 

“In time.” Alex leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking up at you. “While Hydra has many heads it has always been in need of a strong body, one that will not easily bow to the weight of time or illness, one that has transcended so many of our meer human weaknesses. I believe that you were meant to be this body, Catherine.” 

“I… I’m humbled,” you almost choke on the word. It was the right response though, judging by Alex’s smile.

“I will take that as you accepting,” he says it like you have a choice. 

“Of course!” You force joy into your tone. 

“Fantastic!” He stands, raising his glass. You join him. “To a bright future. Hail Hydra!”

“Hail Hydra,” you echo as your glasses clink together. The whiskey tastes like dust on your tongue. 

“As I said, we want to give you some time to transition. However, we will need to move quickly to ensure things continue to run smoothly.”

“I completely understand. I shouldn’t need too much time.” You look around this office, a space you’d spent so much time, a space filled with so many terrible memories. “Mainly, I’ll need to… clean house.”

Alex gives a knowing nod, “Absolutely. You have full power to change and remove,” he holds your gaze for a moment, “whatever and whomever you see fit.” 

“Thank you.” Your eyes settle on the soldier. That sense of conviction from earlier floods you again, the slightest rumblings of a very dangerous idea making their way around your mind. 

“Also,” you stride to the bar cart and refill your drink, making a gesture to do the same for Alex. He accepts. “While I can no doubt protect myself, I will need some additional security to allow me to more fully focus on the needs of the organization. No doubt, there will be those who will see this ascension as overstepping on my part.”

“Unfortunately,” Alex concedes. “You can, of course, have any security detail Eric employed.” He catches your cocked brow, “Ah, yes. Well, you can have your choice of Hydra for your own detail.”

“I had a thought actually,” you take a sip before continuing. “I’d like The Soldier.” Alex looks from you to The Soldier, still standing in the same place he was when Alex had entered.

“The Soldier…” He says thoughtfully. 

“Yes. I’d prefer to not have to doubt the integrity of my security detail, especially given the unique situation I’m finding myself in. Typically someone in this position would have had years to form their inner circle - I haven’t had such a luxury.” 

“Of course,” you add, “he’d still be at the full disposal of Hydra should he be needed.”

Alex nods, “I see no problem with it. He’s housed under European jurisdiction as it is and you clearly have a steady command of him - no small feat I’ll have you know.”

“Lovely.” 

“Any other immediate needs to make this an easier transition?” Alex asks sincerely. 

“Just one,” you walk back to the chairs and sit. “The woman Eric was going to have killed. What was her crime?” Alex shifted, seeming a bit uncomfortable.

“She was a Brown Widow,” he began. 

“A what?” You’d never heard of such a thing. 

He purses his lips, “Of course, Eric wouldn’t tell you about the Brown Widows.” He sighs, “The Brown Widow program is a sister to the Black Widow program. Brown Widows are trained in much the same way, in fact, they begin in the Black Widow program before being hand-selected to be Brown Widows. They’re chosen for having a more… genteel temperament if you will. More suited to domesticity than your typical Black Widow graduate.” 

A memory tingles in the back of your mind, just out of reach. 

“Your mother was a Brown Widow.”

You wanted to marry a spider, your mother had spoken those words when she’d garroted Eric the night she died. 

“Her death was not sanctioned, Catherine. I tried to push for an investigation-”

You shake your head, “It’s in the past.” 

“She was a spectacular woman. Eric always had to have the best-”

“So the woman?” You don’t want to think about your mother anymore. Can’t bear the weight of knowing that she could have killed Eric at any time, could have run, but she didn’t… Because of you. 

“Yes,” he clears his throat, “the woman from this evening, was a Brown Widow. She’d been assigned to a lower level associate. He was apparently… unpleasant.” You note that Alex won’t meet your eyes and suspect you know what kind of unpleasantness he means. “She may have removed a specific part of his anatomy in retaliation before fleeing.” You bite your lip to restrain a smile. 

“Is she dead?”

“Not at all. We agreed with your decision. Some punishment should likely be metered but not what Eric had in mind.”

“I’d like to have her as my personal assistant.” 

“Oh?” 

“What better way to foster loyalty than saving someone’s life?”

Alex smiled, “Wise. I’ll have her sent up.”

“Thank you. I feel that puts me in a good position to get moving quickly.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Alex says finishing his drink and standing. He sets his glass on the side table and extends his hand once more. 

“This couldn’t have been a better outcome, in my opinion, Catherine. You’re going to do incredible things. This is only the beginning.”

You take his hand, giving it a firm shake. “I couldn’t agree more, Alex. Thank you for the opportunity.” 

“We will connect soon.” 

“I look forward to it,” you open the door to let him out. 

As soon as he is on the elevator you call out to Eric’s former secretary. “Anita, can you join me?” You don’t wait for an answer, instead, you turn back into the office to refill your drink and wait. 

She enters a minute later, nervous energy rolling off of her. Her eyes grow wider by the second as she takes in your blood-soaked form leaning casually against Eric’s desk. 

“Slackjawed isn’t a good look for you, Anita.” She snaps her jaw shut. 

“W-What can I do for you Miss Cathe-”

“Madam Clayton will do.” Her eyes somehow manage to get wider, making her look like one of those popeyed pugs she doted on. “Will this arrangement be a problem for you?” The vile woman had served your father longer than you’d been alive.

“No, Madam Clayton, of course not.” 

“Good. I need a change of clothes. One for The Soldier as well, and clothing for the woman being sent up - she should be about a size eight.” 

“Yes, Maam.” She turns, her wiry frame trembling. 

“Oh. One more thing, Anita.” She freezes, no doubt expecting something awful. “I want every bit of information on The Soldier. I’ll need all of this within the hour.” Nervously she eyes the statue-like man, you can hear her heartbeat rise. 

“But, Madame Catherine… I… I don’t.”

“Anita?”

“Y-yes?” You hold her bulging eyes, staring her down until you knew she was about to break. 

“My father wouldn’t tolerate excuses. Neither will I. Is that clear?” 

“Of course,” she squeaks. “Yes, Maam.” With one last glance at The Soldier, she scurries from the room. 

Rounding the desk you finish the rest of the entirely, and annoyingly, ineffective whiskey before plopping down hard in the desk chair. Looking across the room you see that The Soldier had recrossed his arms, eyes studying you with unnerving intensity. 

A lifetime of violence had taught you how to scent it. Right now, it was beginning to crackle in the air. 

He moved so quickly you almost missed it. Almost. 

Your hand moves under the desk, gripping the Glock you knew would be waiting. As he went to vault the desk you push the chair back, rolling you toward the window and aim right between his eyes. He freezes, crouched on the desk, murder in his eyes. 

“I am not your enemy,” you say softly, remaining seated. 

“Hail Hydra,” he sneers. His hatred feels like a slap. 

You release the gun, letting it dangle on your finger, from the trigger before you stand slowly, hands up, and place it on the desk before him. Leaning in so close you can feel his breath you return his hard stare. 

“Fuck. Hydra,” you growl. 

Never had you been grateful that this room was off the grid, Pierce had confirmed that earlier. Had they eyes or ears here they’d have known the things Eric had done to you. Even so… you didn’t dare say anything more. 

It must have been enough because his mood shifts back to a skeptical neutral. Slowly he backs up, standing on the other side of the desk. Neither of you speak, you just stare, assessing if you were friend or foe until a buzz sounds from the phone on the desk. 

“Yes?” You ask pressing the intercom button. 

“I h-have the clothing you requested. The woman should be up soon.”

“And the information on The Soldier?”

“I’m getting it to-together now.” That tremulous little stammer was beginning to grate your nerves. 

“Bring the clothes.” 

One bag contained three pairs of black boots, practical though none of you would leave here in them. The other revealed three sets of black hoodies, caps, tees, and bluejeans. They’d do. 

“Here,” you hold out the pile of clothes to him. He eyes them. “Look, even if you weren’t covered in blood you can’t go out on the street looking like Edward fucking Scissorhands.” Did they have a point in dressing the man like he was on his way to a cheap dungeon?

Finally, he takes them. 

“You can use the bathroom,” you turn to pull your own clothes out. “Oh, and be sure to check them for-” He nods, turning for the bathroom. Clothing could easily conceal trackers and bugs - it was why the boots would remain here unused. 

You meticulously check the clothes provided for you and the woman, pleased to find nothing suspicious. In the small closet where Eric kept a few changes of clothes, you find the trainers you were hoping for. They’d be far too large for either you or the woman but at least you knew they’d be clean. 

Just as you pull the plain black tee over your head The Soldier walks out. His own tee stretches tight across his chest, the metal arm somehow seeming more alarming when paired with the plain clothes. Still, no one could deny that the man was a specimen. 

Drawing your eyes away you pluck the card of hair elastics from the bag, handing one to him. “If you wanted to pull your hair back.” He takes it, his eyes landing on your throat. 

“You still have,” he gestures to his own neck.

“Oh, right. If they come with the woman would you mind letting them in?” He says nothing. With a sigh, you duck into the bathroom to remove the lingering traces of blood. 

You hear the door to the office open followed by a muffled cry of alarm. When you pop your head out of the bathroom the woman stands, still nude, in fighting form. Much more firey than when she was in the cell.

“Don’t fucking come near me,” she growls in an American accent. The Soldier stands several feet away, hands tucked into the pocket of his jeans, hair up in a low ponytail. 

“He isn’t going to harm you,” you say stepping out. Though, you didn’t entirely know if that was true. He’d been ready to eviscerate you not a half-hour ago. The woman throws you a wild glare. 

“I’m Catherine Clayton,” you grab the hoodie intended for The Soldier from the pile and toss it to her. Christ, they couldn’t even be bothered to give the woman a towel to cover herself with. It’s just long enough to cover her.

“I know what you are,” she spits. What. Not who. 

“I highly doubt that.” The woman didn’t know the half of it. “Drink?” You ask nodding to the bar cart. 

“So now I’m invited to drinks?” You can’t help but smile. 

“In defense of my rudeness earlier, I truly thought I’d be dead or worse by now. Seeing as that’s not the case,” you shrug. 

“Whiskey,” the woman says, stepping closer but still keeping a wary eye on The Soldier. 

You pour her a glass and look to The Soldier, “And you?” He simply glares and turns to resume a vigil by the door. 

Surprisingly she sniffs the glass only once and downs it all in one go before you take a drink. You raise a brow and reach for the glass to refill it. 

She shrugs, “If I’m going to go out there are worse ways than poisoned whiskey.”

“I’ll drink to that.” You gesture for her to have a seat. She eyes eye chair and simply leans against it, you don’t miss the slight spark of defiance in her chestnut eyes. 

Rather than sit in a chair yourself you hop onto the desktop, facing her, and wait for her to ask the question. 

“What do you want from me?”

“I’d like to offer you a job.” She looks at you disbelieving. 

“A job.” You nod. “I’m not sure if you’ve seen my resume lately, but I didn’t exactly leave my last position on amicable terms.”

“I’m well aware. In fact, it’s what made you a prime candidate for the position.” She studies you as you continue. “I’m not looking for someone loyal to the cause. I need someone loyal to me.” You can see the flames of curiosity begin to rise. 

“And what does loyalty to you look like?” She asks before taking a sip of her whiskey. 

“Details will come in time. But, from what I hear of you, I feel our intentions may align nicely.”

Finally, she pushes away from the chair and steps closer, “Fuck it. I’m in.” You hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Your skepticism must show. 

“Look, I’d rather answer to a woman than another mouth breathing wanna be Mussolini. And,” her stare intensifies, “anyone with the spine to put down that monster like you did today is pretty good in my book.” 

She extends her right hand. Smiling you hop off the desk and take it. 

“I’m Mara.”

“Pleasure.”

“So,” you release your shake and she finishes her drink, “what do ya need from me boss?” 

“On paper, you’ll be my personal assistant.”

“And off the books?” 

“We’ll get to that.” You nod to the clothes, “For now go ahead and get changed. That hoodie is his.” Tension visibly rolls over her. 

Without another word, she grabs the clothes and disappears into the bathroom. A moment later the intercom buzzes. You press the button but say nothing. 

 “Ma-Madam Clayton, I have the f-files on The Soldier you requested.”

“Good. Before you bring them, how much cash do we have on hand?”

“Oh, I can provide you with the ca-”

“I asked a clear question, Anita.” You’d all need a place to stay until you could get your private finances sorted. With Eric gone it should be easier to do so, especially since you’d spent the last three years building a stockpile even Hydra couldn’t trace. Still, for the next few nights you all needed a safe - or at least safe enough - place and using a card would let Hydra know exactly where you were. 

“Yes, so-sorry Madam. We have over one hundred thousand-”

“Bring me forty of it along with the files.” You shut the intercom off and wait for the tentative knock. 

It comes as Mara steps out of the bathroom. She eyes The Soldier as he opens the door and warily drapes his hoodie over the wingback before standing beside you. 

Anita, carrying two banker boxes stacked beneath her chin stumbles in. The Soldier catches her by the shoulder before she topples, causing her to freeze until she catches sight of Mara. Her expression shifts from shock to indignation. 

She pulls away from The Soldier’s grip, blustering to the small table sitting between the wingback chairs. Straightening her dowdy blouse she plucks a thick envelope from the top. 

“The files and money, Madam Catherine.” She shoots Mara a filthy glare. Mara responds with a fox-like grin that further flusters the older woman. 

“Madam,” she clips out in a nasal tone as you pull the money out. 

“That will be all, Anita,” you don’t even look up at her as you ensure the bills are all there and authentic. 

“Madam,” she says again. Slowly you raise your eyes to meet her pathetic attempt at a confident glare. “This-this, woman,” she spits. “She’s to be disposed of! Your father wanted-” The rest of her words are lost in a garbled scream, your grip on her throat trapping the sound. 

For a split second, you’re a bit disoriented by the speed at which you moved, so much so that you almost squeeze too tight. With effort, you relax your grip. This was not her time to die. 

“Anita,” you purr, “who’s blood do you suppose that was earlier?”

“Mr-Mr. Clayton,” she manages to eke out. 

“That’s right!” You say in a tone one may take with a child. “And knowing that, do you suppose I give one holy fuck about anything that beast wanted?” You stare into her bulging eyes, watch her pasty skin burn red with fear and shame - both tasted so sweet. How many times had she turned a blind eye… 

She shakes her head. 

“Good,” you toss her to the ground. She rolls onto all fours, gasping for air as she crawls away to put distance between you. 

“Oh, and Anita,” her whole body goes rigid. “If you ever bring him up again, I’ll do things to you that would make the Devil himself cringe. Do we have an understanding?”

She nods. 

“Excellent. That is all, Anita.” She manages to rise to her feet, though her body remained deeply bowed as she scuttled out the door. 

You could feel the eyes of the others on you. 

“Does anyone here have a problem with how that was handled?” You ask. The Soldier simply looks at you with narrow eyes. 

“Not me.” Mara hops onto the desk. One out of two was good enough. 

“Here,” you tuck a wad of bills into your pocket and hand her the envelope. “That’s thirty thousand pounds. It should be more than enough to get us ensconced in a good hotel. I’d prefer a penthouse, two bedrooms, with clear sightlines to the roofs of the surrounding buildings. But mainly something as private as possible.” She nods. “Book a room for yourself as well.” 

You cross to one of the bookshelves, giving the bottom a swift kick. The old mechanism groaned as it slid open to reveal a small closet filled with an arsenal. 

“Help yourselves.” 

“Nice,” Mara comments with sparkling eyes. The Soldier doesn’t make a move. 

“There’s another elevator in there,” you tell her. “It will take you to the street.” 

“Where should we rendezvous?”

“French House,” it would be easy enough for you and The Soldier to disappear into the ever-crowded pub. 

“Got it,” she slips a gun into her waistband. “Shoes?” 

“Oh!” You kick off your blood-spattered black trainers. “Take these. I found another clean pair.” 

“See you soon!” Mara tosses over her shoulder as the elevator closes. 

Within two hours you’re walking into the Dome penthouse over The Hotel Cafe Royal. The terrace overlooked the London skyline and provided an easy escape should it be necessary. 

“I have to admit, Mara. I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be,” she kicks off your old trainers, slipping into a new pair. “Money talks, so it wasn’t exactly difficult.” You look out one of the curved windows to the terrace. 

“What now?” She asks from behind you. 

“Now,” you sigh, “rest.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Order food to your room, have a soak, get drunk. Whatever you need.” You don’t mistake the relief that floods her face. “I’ll ring you tomorrow,” you hold up the burner phone that matched her own. 

“Ok,” she sighs. 

“Thank you, Mara.”

“For what?”

“For trusting me this far.” 

“Don’t make me regret it,” she says with a wink. The Soldier reenters the living room and she studies him. “Be careful.”

You nod, “Goodnight.” With that, she leaves. 

“I’m taking a bath,” you say to him. “I assume you chose your room?” His brows knit, a bit confused. 

“There are two additional bedrooms, what did you think I was going to have you do? Stand at attention all night?” His cold glare is enough of an answer. “Pick a room. Order food. Do whatever you want.” You turn on your heel and stalk toward the bathroom. 

You sink under the scalding water, hoping it will help clear your mind, allow the fragments of a plan that had been ricocheting around in your skull become something solid and tangible. Instead... it reminds you of the hot slick feeling of Eric’s blood. 

Gasping for air, you fling yourself from the tub, sending the small table of neatly stacked towels flying into the wall. With no small effort, you force your eyes open, half expecting to see your whole body coated in the thick red substance. 

There’s nothing. Of course, there was nothing. Nothing besides The Soldier, standing in the entrance, concern coloring his features. 

“I’m fine,” you huff, cheeks burning a bit from embarrassment. “A little privacy?” He seems to flush a bit himself and heads wordlessly from the room. 

A shower was clearly the best option. 

You wrap yourself in a plush robe before stepping from the bathroom, expecting to see the soldier in the living room. But he wasn’t there. 

No matter. You head onto the terrace, taking in the spectacular view and relishing the cold night air on your damp skin. 

Now clarity comes. 

You hear the rustle of someone behind you, the slightest hum of gears indicating that it was The Soldier. 

“I’m going to burn it all down.” The words feel electric on your tongue. “All of Hydra.”

Your mother was wrong. You were not more than this, more than them.

She was also wrong about evil. Sometimes the only thing strong enough to defeat it was an equal… 

Your father had made you such an equal. Honed you into a weapon, something as dark and deadly as Hydra itself. Being bred in the belly of that beast you knew its anatomy, its every weak spot, every flaw. 

They wanted to make you the body. Instead, you’d be a cancer, consuming the beast from the inside out. 

You turn to him, “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

His intense eyes seem to sparkle and a slight smile curls his lips. 

“Not at all.”

Relief surges through your body. You knew what you wanted to accomplish was an olympian task and without the strength and fear The Soldier afforded you - well it would have become a near-impossible one. 

A knock draws both your attention. 

“I ordered food,” he says beginning to turn away. “For both of us.” 

The gesture catches you so off guard that it renders you immobile for a moment. When you finally make it inside he’s moving the boxes filled with information on him to the ground to clear the table for food. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I ordered several things.” The cart was stacked to bursting and the smells rising from it made your mouth water. But there on the bottom, a familiar package catches your eye. 

Chocolate digestive biscuits. The same kind you shared with him on that night so long ago. Silently you bend to retrieve them, looking from the biscuits to him a couple of times before speaking. 

“You do remember.” He nods. Confusion roils, “Then why did you charge me earlier if-”

“People change.” He pulls the cover off of a trey revealing a cheeseburger and fries and moves it to the table. You think he’ll say more but, instead, he starts eating. The growling of your stomach convinces you to not press the subject and instead locate the curry you can scent hiding under one of those covered trays. 

Honestly, you’d never felt this hungry. You tear through the red curry and move on to another tray, this one housing a second burger and fries. It’s not until you’re done with that and are nibbling on a poor excuse for pizza that you actually slow. 

“I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

He smiles a bit, taking a slice of the pizza, “I think it’s the serum. I’m always hungry.”

You study him for a moment, “Any other insights on that front?” 

He shrugs, “Things can be overwhelming,” he clears his throat, “sensations. Even your own body can seem too loud. You feel… more. Everything’s dialed up so you may be stronger, harder to kill, but it doesn’t mean shit hurts less.” That was actually very good information. “I’m sure there’s plenty of information in those boxes.” You don’t miss the bitter edge in his voice. 

Silence hangs thick for a bit until he asks, “Did you choose this?” 

“Choose what?” You meet his intense gaze. 

“The serum. Did you let them do this to you?”

“Do you think my bastard father would have let me choose something like this?” You scoff. Anger flares in your chest, “No.” You push away from the table and begin to pace. 

“I was simply informed that whatever life I thought I could build for myself was over. That I had to, yet again, prove myself worthy of something I never wanted and never asked for. That I had better not, disappoint.” You feel your body start to shake, “Because even my death, death at their hands, would have been a disgrace.” 

“I got milk too,” he says behind you. 

“What?” The statement seemed absurd until you turned to see him pouring two glasses, the biscuits on the table. Somehow the sight tamps down the flame of your rage. 

“Oh,” you collapse on the couch, hiding your face in your hands. Maybe emotions, like sensations, were dialed up because you couldn’t seem to get a hold of yours.

“I’m sorry,” his voice comes from closer than you expect. Looking up you see him kneeling before you, worry etched across his face, a lock of hair falling from his ponytail. 

“I didn’t… I should have…” He seems to struggle to find the words suddenly. “I don’t have space to speak freely… ever. And I-”

“You’re free. Or as free as I can make you.” You couldn’t truly grant him freedom that you yourself didn’t possess, but you hoped it was something. The emotion that shows in his eyes is beyond words but it makes your chest constrict all the same. 

“Thank you,” his voice cracks a bit at the end and he quickly stands. 

For the next hour, you both burn through the biscuits in comfortable silence. Once they’re gone you slump back into the deep cushions of the couch, exhaustion crashing over you. 

“I could sleep for three days.” You wished. Sleep and you had a tense relationship at best. 

“You should rest.” He says. 

Sighing you nod and stand, turning toward the master suite attached to the living room. 

“Actually,” he begins. You look back. 

“Yes?”

“You should probably take one of the back rooms. Less direct access from the terrace.” He had a point, there were no actual doors to the master bed or bathroom, just an open space cut up with walls that didn’t quite reach the high ceiling and the terrace wrapped around almost the entire suite. 

“I’ll take whichever. Lead the way.” You hadn’t really inspected the other rooms. 

He guides you to the one furthest from the entry assuring you that he’ll hear anyone who comes. 

“You’ll be safe,” he says, reminding you of the vigil he kept for you years ago - protecting you from the monster in your own home. You nod, in acceptance and open the door. 

“One thing,” you turn to him. “What you did back there, to Eric. Was that because I-“

“I did it for both of us.” You don’t think you imagine the slight spark of satisfaction in his expression. 

“Goodnight, Catherine.”

“Goodnight.” You realize suddenly that you don’t know his name, he never offered it, and knowing what little you did about him you wondered if he even knew… 

That would be the first thing you’d find in those files tomorrow. You couldn’t give him true freedom, not yet, but you could damn well give him his name back.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t expected sleep to come easily. It rarely did even before this seemingly endless day, and yet the moment you settled into the plush bed you fell into blissful unconsciousness. 

A few hours before sunrise, your eyes pop open. It certainly wasn’t the longest night’s sleep but you felt more than rested. Another side effect of the serum you suspected, and honestly, not a bad one. 

You had work to do. 

Tentatively you step from your room, both cautious of any potential threats and not wanting to disturb the presumably sleeping Soldier, wherever he may be. Thankfully, you found neither assailant nor your new muscle stalking around the space. 

Given your first goal of the day you were honestly more grateful to not see the Soldier awake than you were to not face an attack.

On the small dining table, the boxes of files on The Soldier sat just where you’d left them the night before. You lay your hand on top of one, almost reverently. 

There was no doubt that what these boxes contained was unpleasant if not horrific. Part of you almost didn’t want to crack into them, not wanting to take this journey now. 

With a deep breath, you shake your head, dismissing your hesitation. You’d made a commitment, albeit only to yourself, that you would give him his name back. And if his freedom could be wrenched from these files… Well, you’d do that too.

By the time the sun finally lit the windows you felt ill. No one could ever accuse you of having a weak constitution when it came to violence but still… some levels of depravity, especially sanctioned depravity, were more than even you could bear. 

The story told of The Soldier unfolded in the files on the floor around you. It was a lesson in just how deep the cruelty of man could go. 

Beyond the more gut-wrenching details, you’d gained a surface understanding of how he ticked. The triggers and tools available to you, none of which you intended to use, as well as his limitations. 

Part of his appeal was that he could be rendered a blank slate, a human weapon at the full control of whoever had a firm enough grasp on his leash. However, wiping him and bringing him fully back to square one had its risks. 

The insidious technique always carried the chance of simply leveling him to a state of drooling uselessness at best and death at worst. Because of this, they only wiped him entirely with the use of the chair when absolutely necessary. In fact, his last full wipe had been almost four years ago—which likely explained his remembering your encounter from several years prior. 

From what you gathered so far, this was one of the longer stints Hydra had gone without either icing or wiping him. The notes indicated that this was a great win. They thought they’d finally broken him. 

A smile filled your face knowing this was far from true. 

“Amusing read?” 

You had been so absorbed in your research that you didn’t hear his approach and embarrassingly jumped at the sound of his voice. 

“The content isn’t amusing. Their misguided ideas though…” 

His brows raise at this, “Ideas about what?” 

“That they have somehow finally broken you.” The moment the words leave your lips you regret them. His expression is unreadable, a combination of horror, disgust, and murderous rage that no language you knew had a word for. 

“Haven’t they.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Your presence here says they haven’t.” As did his attempt on your life last night and the fact that he didn’t kill you when you told him your plan. He doesn’t respond, just shoves his hands in his pockets, fixing his gaze out the window. 

“They think because they haven’t had to wipe you in so long that you’ve given in. It’s amusing because it’s the exact opposite, isn’t it? You figured out-”

“Even a dog learns not to bark when the shock collar goes off too many times.” His frigid tone makes you flinch. You think to respond but his cold glare freezes your jaw shut. “It doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

“You’re wrong.” 

A muscle in his jaw ticks and you brace for his rebuttal. It doesn’t come. He simply turns and strides onto the terrace. 

To say that wasn’t what you expected would be an understatement. Last night he admitted to remembering you, admitted that what he did to Eric he did for the both of you. Clearly, he had grabbed hold of a bit of autonomy, some level of self-awareness. Yet he didn’t see it as any kind of victory… 

Rather than push the matter, you sigh and begin repacking the boxes, tucking the nightmarish pieces of The Soldier’s puzzle away–all but one. 

The file was old, dating back to WWII, its edges frayed and flaking. Once more you flip open the cover. 

Held by a rusted paperclip is a black and white photo of a striking young man in military dress with a mischievous smile. 

Your eyes wander from the photo to the man on the terrace. Logically you knew they were the same person but at the same time, it seemed impossible. There was a spark in the person staring back at you in the photo, an effortless charm that couldn’t be dulled by the passage of time. For that energy to remain in a photograph and not in the man himself… 

Taking care to not damage the picture, you slide it from the paperclip. The document below held nothing but basic information, information he may want. The photo though–well it seemed almost cruel to present him with it when it was clear the man in it had died a long time ago. 

“Oh,” you breathe out as his reaction makes some kind of sense to you. 

Before you’d wondered if he may remember his name, it seemed marginally possible given that he’d known you. But after what you’d learned and how your words had clearly hurt you knew that wasn’t the case. He may have wrenched some control back out of sheer will over the past few years but it was, for him, a hollow victory.

With effort you swallow the lump in your throat, setting the file on top of the box before you head back to the room you’d slept in. 

Looking to take your mind off your bungled good deed you pick up the burner phone Mara had given you thinking to ring her to come on up until you note the early hour. The woman had been through hell, you could grant her a few more hours of what you hoped was restful sleep. 

Unable to think of anything else to do you get in the shower, turning the water to a scalding temperature. The sting on your skin grounding you in your body, making you feel present, as pain so often did. 

-

He wanted to… apologize? Maybe? Even though he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to or if he was just afraid of what may happen if he didn’t. 

She isn’t like that, he tries to tell himself. But whether that was the truth or just his own pathetic need for it to be true he didn’t know. 

If he was being honest, he could hardly tell up from down.

Sighing, he rubs his temples, forcing down a few deep breaths. 

She didn’t deserve that, a voice in his head whispers. It’s right. She may be the one who was wrong but he’d been needlessly cold. 

Squaring his shoulders he heads back inside only to be met by the sound of the shower. 

Relief floods him. He may have decided he would apologize but he hadn’t actually known what to say. Before he’s able to think more about it his eyes land on a single folder sitting conspicuously on top of the boxes. 

In the span of a heartbeat, everything around him falls away for just a moment. Then the alarm bells sound. 

He’s both too hot and too cold. His breath ragged, if not gasping.  In his chest, his heart threatens to break free. 

Still, he moves like a man possessed toward the unassuming document. 

All night he’d thought of coming out here and opening these boxes. Tearing through them with the hopes that he’d get back whatever they took from him or find out that there was nothing worth regaining. 

Really that’s what he wanted to learn. More than anything he wanted to open these boxes and know that he had always been this creature of Hydra. He wanted there to only be this. He needed the skinny boy with the busted lip and bright smile, the woman humming in a kitchen, and the little girl on ice skates who haunted his dreams to be figments crafted by his fractured mind. 

If the Soldier was all he ever was he could continue onward. Anything else… 

With shaking hands he lifts the file and opens it. 

It’s like being punched in the chest. 

Gasping he falls to his knees on the plush carpet. In his mind, he’s falling elsewhere. A man screams a word printed on the page. 

“Bucky!” 

It echoes through his very bones. Over and over. 

“Bucky, you promise I won’t fall?” The little girl wears a red scarf, her blue eyes big and trusting. 

“Bucky, take this to the table and tell your sisters to wash up.” The woman has the same blue eyes, her smile feels like home. 

“Bucky, I don’t need you to fight my battles.” The skinny boy says, wiping blood from his lip. 

“Bucky!”

“Bucky!”

It feels like the only sound in the world. 

“James!” 

That wasn’t right. 

“James!”

Another word. Another name. 

“James, you come back to us. You hear me boy?!” The man’s voice and face were severe but his brown eyes shone with tears. 

“James, you really bring out the best in him you know?” The woman’s red lips curl in a friendly smile. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake. James!” 

The sting of a slap brings reality crashing in sending all the nameless ghosts tumbling back into the fog always lingering at the edges of his mind. In their stead is a face with a name he knows. 

“Catherine.” 

She huffs out a breath, wet hair tumbling into her face smelling like flowers. When she looks back at him her eyes flood with regret. 

“I’m so sorry for hitting you. I… You didn’t seem to be breathing but you looked like you were screaming…”

“It’s o-”

“It isn’t ok.” Sighing, she sits cross-legged in front of him, her eyes lighting on the file still gripped in his hands. 

Only then do his eyes reluctantly find their way back to the page. 

Barnes, James “Bucky” Buchanan 

He fights down the bile rising in his throat. 

“James.” It comes out garbled like his tongue can’t quite make sense of the syllables. He doesn’t notice his trembling until her warm hand rests against his left forearm. 

“You called me, James.” 

“I did. Was that ok?” He meets her eyes once more, unsure of how to answer. “I won’t use it if-” Shaking his head he cuts her off glancing back at the page. 

“James is good.” Too many nameless faces whispered the other name. But James, there were fewer echoes there. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, James.”

Her voice is warm, soft. He almost thinks he’s imagining it. 

“Is it?”

“Without question.” She gives his arm a squeeze, and he knows this is real. 

“I assume you prefer coffee to tea?” Catherine asks as she rises to her feet, striding to the phone without explanation. 

“I-” He’s a bit baffled by the shift. 

“Well, you are American. So I assume you prefer coffee.” 

Did he? 

“I’ll get both and if you prefer coffee I win.” He can’t help but laugh a little. 

“What do you win?” 

“I’ll think of something.” She winks before picking up the receiver and James could almost swear his pulse quickened if only a little. 

Chapter Text

Above Kensington Garden, the sky blazes in shades of pink and orange, painting one of the most spectacular sunsets you’ve ever seen. It feels unreal, this view, this sense of freedom. The breeze picks up, lifting your hair off your neck just a touch and you smile. 

True, it wasn’t real freedom. You were bound to Hydra and always would be until you burned them out like vermin. But for now, you could enjoy this taste. 

“That is one hell of a view,” Mara sighs coming up beside you. “Honestly, it’s what sold me.”

“You made the right call,” you turn to her, still smiling. She holds up a bottle of champagne. 

“Toast to my first success as a realtor and my poor life choices?” 

You laugh, “To your success yes. Poor choices though?” 

Finding a new home had to be the first bit of business sorted. You’d be damned if you returned to your father’s home and your small SoHo flat wouldn’t serve. When you set Mara to the titanic task of finding a flat that was spacious though not ostentatious, lacking in clear sniper sight-lines while not feeling like a dungeon, with a terrace, in a prime location, and most importantly was not linked to Hydra in any way, you had been convinced she’d be hunting for months.

Three days later you stood together on this terrace and you knew it was exactly what you needed. 

As soon as the paperwork was signed the three of you set to securing the place. Within a week it was a fortress with Kensington Garden views. 

“Well,” she pops the cork, “agreeing to your suicide mission seems like a poor choice in terms of dying an old bitter woman. Though, that doesn’t exactly sound appealing either. 

“Shit,” she laughs, “I didn’t think about glasses.” 

“Not necessary,” you take the bottle, holding it up. “To Mara, and her eye for both real estate and opportunity.” You take a drink and pass the bottle over. 

James steps out as Mara takes her drink, the sunlight glinting off his metal arm. 

“Everything is secure. And-”

“Can’t you see we’re trying to have a celebratory moment here, Tin Man?” Mara cuts him off. “Come on,” she nods him over. 

You’d been nervous that she’d be unable to handle being in his presence. After all, stories of The Soldier and the threat he posed weren’t uncommon conversations in the Red Room. But, thankfully, Mara had begun to warm to him–or at least tolerate him. 

The only time she’d directly questioned his involvement was when you’d told her of your intentions the day you’d begun work on the flat. She doubted he could be trusted as long as he could be controlled. To her credit, the same had worried you, but your gut told you he was truly on your side. She’d trusted your judgment, though hesitantly.  

He stands beside you, hands in his pockets, not quite leering but pretty close. 

“To Cat,” Mara raises the champagne, “and her merry band of misfit murderers.” You can’t help but laugh. 

“To Catherine,” James says tilting the bottle to you, his expression softening a touch. 

Until now you weren’t sure you fully comprehended that the lives of these two people were solely reliant on you. If you failed, they would suffer unspeakably. 

Failure is not an option, you remind yourself as the champagne bubbles pop on your tongue. 

With your new home secured, Mara settled in a well-appointed flat a few blocks away, and James–finally having acquiesced to taking one of the guest rooms–it was time to play your part. 

If you had your druthers you would have barreled through Hydra with the force of a hurricane, leaving nothing but rubble in your wake. Sadly, this was a task that demanded patience and no small amount of subterfuge. 

Your white suit was well-tailored, the fit veering away from dowdy but still exuding an air of professionalism. The sleek high bun lent a severity to your sharp cheekbones and the Louboutin pumps took your height from moderately tall to intimidating. 

A wolfish grin curls your burgundy lips. Battle-ready, you think. 

James stood in the private lobby of the penthouse, wearing one of the suits you’d had made for him. A simple black number, perfectly fit to his broad form. He chose to forgo the tie, the neck of his black button-up open revealing just a peak of chest hair, and had pulled his long hair back at the nape of his neck. Along with the black leather gloves, and coat draped over his arm, you had to admit he was almost too handsome. 

“Not too shabby,” you say, teasing. He rolls his eyes but you would swear the corner of his mouth twitches up just a smidge. 

“If we run into trouble I can’t promise this will stay in one piece.” 

“And I’ll just buy you another.” You reach over and unbutton the bottom button on his suit jacket, “No one buttons both.” 

He shrugs his coat on and punches the button for the garage elevator, looking away, “Then why put two there?”

“I don’t make the rules,” you say, slipping into your crimson trench. 

Once the elevator closes you feel the smallest bit nervous for the first time. You glance at him, staring severely at the descending numbers. 

“James,” you begin, “when we’re there I… Just please know that how I speak to you is purely-”

“I understand.” He looks over at you, eye level with the heels, “We all have our parts to play.” 

Mara leans against a brand new black Rolls Royce, in your private section of the underground garage, smoking. 

“Don’t you two cut an intimidating picture,” she flicks her cigarette aside. 

“That’s the goal.” You gesture to the car, “A Rolls? Really?” 

“It’s classy!” She exclaims. “More importantly, she’s a tank. Literally.” 

James circles the car, inspecting it thoroughly. 

“Bulletproof, armored, lifts for off-road needs-”

“Anywhere to aim from?” James cuts her off. 

“Yup. In each door and in the back panels here,” she points to the panels by the back windows. He nods in approval. 

“I named her Bertha.” Mara stands beside you arms crossed, “She’s a big beautiful bitch.” 

You couldn’t keep the laugh in if you’d wanted to. It echoes in the space, joined with Mara’s own. James shakes his head at you both before getting into the driver’s seat.

“Just don’t think about it when you’re trying to be scary later,” she says opening the door. 

“Oh don’t worry. I’m good at scary.” 

Your point was proven by the flurry of activity that followed your unexpected arrival at the office. 

“We didn’t realize you’d be in today Miss Ca- uh, Madam Clayton. If we had-” 

“What? Would you have rolled out the red carpet,” you cut Anita off as you stride toward your office, James at your heels. “I don’t need the pomp, Anita.” 

The office looks much the same as when you left it, all dark wood and oppressive memories. That wouldn’t do. 

“I’ll be having Mara up here later to begin planning our remodel of this space-”

“But, Madame Clay-”

“Anything she requests provide her. If you don’t she’ll be sure to tell me. Any respect you would show me you’ll do the same to her, are we clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she says, her jaw tight. 

“Good.” James extends a hand for your coat, you hand it to him. You walk to the desk, leaning casually against it, studying her long enough to make the woman squirm. 

“How many board members are here?” 

“All four London members, Ma’am. But-”

“Let them know I want to see them in thirty minutes,” you round the desk. Anita stands frozen, “Is there a problem, Anita?”

“I- It’s-” She stammers, eyes locked on James as he takes position by your desk. “They have been in meetings all week, trying to figure out how to handle Mr. Clay-”

“Excellent. That’s what I need to speak to them about.” You take a seat. Anita remains planted. 

“That wasn’t a suggestion, Anita. I expect them to be in a conference room within the next half hour. Go.” The woman scurries away like a frightened rat. 

A half-hour later, the four men sit in still silence around the large conference table. Two were board members of your family’s wildly successful private investment firm. They moved much of Hydra’s money around through clean legal channels in addition to laundering plenty of funds for celebrities and royals alike. One of the remaining two had a seat on Parliament while the fourth was a lawyer who looked like he would rather be anywhere else. 

“Gentlemen,” you address the room as James holds the door for you. 

“Miss Clayton,” one of the board members, Reggie Summars, greets you. 

“Catherine, please Reggie,” you give him a warm smile. “It seems disingenuous for people who’ve known me my whole life to be so formal.” 

“See you have a valuable asset serving as a footman,” the lawyer, John King, quips. Your warm smile cools a degree. 

“Do you have a problem with chivalry, Mr. King?” You ask. The man shifts uncomfortably. The Parliament member and youngest among the men, David Shirley, stifles a laugh.

“It’s a fair question, Johnny,” he says in response to King’s glare. “Seems to me it just further demonstrates her gasp of him, as Alex pointed out. Personally, I’m impressed.” 

You catch his eye with an appreciative nod. King says nothing. 

“Catherine,” the second board member, Thomas Miller, speaks up, “Miss Anita informed us you wanted to discuss the-” He clears his throat “-uh, matter of your father’s death.”

“There isn’t much to discuss is there? He’s gone to hell where he belongs.” The tremor of tension that ripples through the room is beyond satisfying. 

“Gentlemen, I feel no need to mince words both due to the fact that you’ve no doubt been informed of how Eric Clayton met his end–or bore witness yourselves–and that anyone who spent much time in his presence knew the kind of man he was.” You pause, waiting for a rebuttal that doesn’t come. “I’m here to discuss how we put him behind us and move forward.” 

“You speak as though Eric was not an example of a dedicated Hydra-” King begins. 

“I speak as the newly appointed head of your order, sir,” you see his eyes widen just a touch. “I speak as a child of Hydra. And Eric Clayton was a disgrace, not an example. He desired power for his own sake, not to serve our great cause.” You scan the room. 

“Now that I’ve made myself clear, let’s move on.”

“Yes,” David says with a smile. “We’ve been considering a natural death. Stroke perhaps. Nothing too unheard of for a man in a high power position.” 

“Hmm,” you nod. “Perhaps a more sympathetic narrative.”

“Do tell,” Thomas says, leaning back. 

“Though beautiful, my father’s home is rather old. Houses at that age can be unpredictable even with proper maintenance.” Excitement tingles up your spine, “Tragic how much damage a gas leak can cause.” 

“A bit showy isn’t it?” Thomas asks. 

“A bit. But how tragic for his young daughter to lose both her last remaining parent and her childhood home in one evening.” 

“And what a lovely story of resilience in the face of tragedy it is for this newly orphaned ingenue to step in to run her prestigious family firm,” David catches on.

“Mentored by members of the firm’s senior partners, of course,” your smile hits the target with both Reggie and Thomas. 

“Masterclass my dear,” Reggie beams. 

“Disgusting,” King grumbles. 

“Do speak up, Mr. King,” you slide your attention to the man. “This is a discussion after all.” 

“How can you all disrespect one of our own like this?!” He slams his palms flat against the table as he shoots to his feet. “Listening to this overconfident, insolent, brat!” 

“We’re listening because she has yet to say anything wrong, Johnny,” David drolls. “Honestly man, what’s with the histrionics?”

“Histri-” King blusters. He turns to face you directly, “I suppose we can’t expect respect from a woman that would kill her own father in cold-” With a nod from you James was on the man, lifting him from the floor with one hand on his throat. King kicks wildly as the others push back from the table. 

“That’s not necessary, Soldier,” you say cooly, rising from your seat and walking over to King. James lowers the man to the ground, clamping his metal hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to face you. 

“Mr. King,” you say gently, “I understand your anger. But there is something you need to understand,” you grip his chin hard. “I showed my father the respect he deserved.” 

You catch James’ eye, nodding again as you let go of the man’s chin. Understanding, he releases, King. He stumbles away trying to gather his composure. After a moment he straightens, his self-righteous demeanor returning. 

“I am a member of Hydra’s high council! How dare you lay a hand-” 

It’s surprisingly easy to lift him off the ground and slam him onto the table. You still weren’t used to your strength. He groans, writhing but unable to do more than lay there like a sacrifice on an altar. 

The other men stare in shock. 

“Let’s make one thing clear. You are members of Hydra. I am Hydra. She is and has always been both mother and father to me. Her power and will quite literally run through my veins.” You take a slow breath, hating every word. 

“I have a singular goal, to see Hydra ascend to its rightful place. Not for my own sake but for the sake of this misguided world. If any of you do not share that vision, I suggest you get your affairs in order.”

You look to each of the three other members, “Are we aligned, gentlemen?”

“Absolutely,” Reggie says with a proud, almost fatherly, smile. 

You smooth your blazer, “We will arrange for Mason to transport Eric’s body. He knows the house and his arrival won’t raise any flags. He can take care of the arrangements to ensure it all looks proper. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Without another word, you make your way back to his–your office. Somehow you manage to say hello to several people on the way with a pleasant smile, all the while feeling like your chest was about to crack open. 

The door closes behind you and James with a click, leaving you in a bubble of safety within this viper’s nest. Late morning light filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows catching on the liquor cart, scattering rainbows through the crystal. 

It seemed obscene. Too beautiful. 

Calmly you walk over to it, running your fingers over the carved surfaces of the decanters. You lift the whiskey bottle, amber liquid lazily shifting, and hurl it at the window with a scream. 

The crystal explodes, shards shimmering like glitter. 

Those fucking men. King had spent so much time in your home, been close to Eric. He had to have known the things your father had done but did nothing. 

The others weren’t much better. 

Everything in you wanted to break them with your bare hands. Reduce them to the same simpering heap as you had Eric. But you couldn’t. Not yet.  

Marcus, you think. Your father’s head of personal security, he was free game. 

Marcus had been there your whole life. Watching, savoring every sick thing Eric did. He even stood by, hell assisted, when your father… when you… when your mother… 

The thought isn’t one you can stomach. You grab the next largest bottle sending it to its end. 

He’d loved it. Loved the illusion of power. 

You don’t stop until the cart is empty. Stumbling to the desk you lay your palms flat on the surface, wilting. 

“Make sure Marcus burns with him,” you say. You turn to face James, who hadn’t moved throughout that scene. “Alive.” 

James nods, turning to leave. 

“And James,” he pauses, turning back. “I want there to be nothing left of that house.”

“Gladly,” he says. You know this will feel good for both of you. 

The silence that’s left is heavy. You crumple in one of the wingback chairs. 

There was nothing of value left in the house. The two of you had emptied it of files and weapons and anything else you decided to take the week before. It was when you decided that this was where you’d end Eric’s story. 

In the foyer where you’d first met James, you both stood frozen for what felt like an age. 

“It wasn’t the first time,” his voice was barely a whisper. Your stomach turned. 

“I assumed,” you swallowed hard. “It was the last time he touched me,” you told him. 

“Good.” His voice was hard. 

You hardly spoke again as you swept the place clean. 

And by this time tomorrow, it will be a heap of ashes. It didn’t feel as satisfying as you’d hoped. 

Behind you, the door clicks and swings open. You’re on your feet in a flash. 

Mara stands in the doorway, hands raised. 

“Just me. Brought samples,” she holds up a portfolio. You relax. Her eyes catch the pile of broken glass by the window. 

“Everything ok?” 

“Of course.”

She raises a brow, “Guess if it can’t get ya drunk it can at least be cathartic.” 

“Samples?” You ask, not willing to discuss this further. 

The next week a story in the business section of the Times reported Eric Clayton’s untimely death. A moving story of a loving father survived by a now orphaned daughter left to uphold the family business. 

“‘Though running such a prestigious company may seem out of hand for most twenty-year-olds, a source close to the family shares that it is a task the young Miss Clayton is uniquely prepared for. ‘She was always a gifted child,’ says the source, ‘we have the utmost faith that she will honor her father’s memory by ushering the firm into a new era of success.’” Mara laughs, folding the paper and setting it aside. 

This was becoming a sort of weekday habit, tea and coffee on your terrace before the day started. 

“I may have to frame that,” Mara says, still giggling. 

“What?” You grin over your tea. “I was quite gifted.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “I heard whispers of your gifts in the Red Room.” 

“I was well rounded.” 

“So, what now?” James asks. He didn’t always join the two of you but he’d been quietly listening to Mara mock the article while he ate. 

“Now we play the long game. Let them get comfortable with me in this position.” You swirl your tea in your cup. 

“Most of Hydra’s leadership don’t possess our skills. They’re politicians, businessmen. A few, like Pierce, are more but they tend to be comfortable in their own company.” You grin, “And they prefer to hear themselves talk, rather than listen. We stay vigilant and wait.” You look at both of them.

“This may mean doing things we would rather not, though I don’t believe that’s a situation any of us are unused to.”

“Understatement,” Mara sighs. James nods in agreement. 

“If we are patient, if we move with purpose, we can do this. I know we can.” 

“If we’re playing the long game you know this means you have another part to play right?” Mara asks. 

“What part is that?”

“The wealthy twentysomething socialite.” You raise a brow. “No one with your level of power, influence, and money is just going to go to board meetings all the time. You’re going to have to make some appearances.” You open your mouth but she cuts you off.

“And I don’t mean in the places you prefer.” Her long stare told you she was well aware of your preferred extracurriculars. 

“What do you suggest?” 

“A small house party to start.”

“No,” James’ tone brooks no argument but Mara wasn’t easily swayed. 

“And why not?”

“That is a massive, unnecessary, risk. We have too much to-”

“Hide? Yes, we do.” He doesn’t take the bait. “B`lyad’,” she curses in a rare display of Russian. “Do I have to spell this out for you? If we appear like we have something to hide that’s a red flag. A young woman with a 10 million dollar flat isn’t going to keep it to herself.” 

“She has a point,” you say. James glares at you. 

“Nothing wild. A few friends, some other social types, maybe even invite some non-threatening Hydra affiliates. The kind of thing a lonely girl with too much money would throw to fill the time.” 

“Make me sound more tragic, Mara.”

“You know what I mean,” she playfully punches your arm. “Between us, we can lock this place down and mitigate the risk. Plus, neither of you is even capable of getting drunk as far as I can tell so there isn’t the risk of distraction.”

“And you?” James asks. “Can you stay undistracted?” 

“Look here, Tin Man,” she points her coffee spoon at him, “I’m a fucking Widow. I can handle myself. I’m more concerned about you not lurking around looking like a morose mannequin.” 

As it turned out, Mara’s concern was somewhat unfounded. 

James seemed to do well meandering through the crowd, nursing a drink, looking more brooding artist than morose mannequin. It likely helped that he and Mara were taking shifts being on the floor and watching the security feeds, giving him time to escape. 

Though when he seemed trapped in a one-sided conversation with one of your very drunk former uni classmates, you felt compelled to step in. 

“Shane!” You call over. He turns his bleary gaze on you. 

“Cathern!” He slurs the second half of your name. “C’mere.” Shane slings an arm around your shoulders, leaning heavily on you. 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” you say with a laugh. 

“Ohm, yes! This place is amazing. And the drinks,” he takes a gulp of the pink concoction in his hand, savoring it. “So good.” 

“I’ll let you two catch up,” James says. He mouths, Thank you, before taking a step away. 

“Wait!” He flaps a hand at James. “I’s was about to tell Jake how we met at a party like this one. Except,” he finished his drink, “except everyone was much more naked.” Shane laughs. 

“Oh ho, ok,” you pull away. “Looks like you need another drink babe.”

“It’s gone! You’re right!” With that Shane tumbles toward the bar. 

You massage the bridge of your nose. 

“You alright?” James asks, his right arm pressed against your left. 

“Yeah,” you huff out a shallow laugh. “Just really wishing I could be at Shane’s level about now.” 

“At least the scotch tastes good,” you look over as he takes a sip. 

“I gotta say, Jake,” you use the false name he’d been slinging all night, “I’m impressed. I didn’t think you could handle a room this well.”

“Wouldn’t be much use if I couldn’t blend in when necessary.” 

Across the room, you spot David Shirley, the younger member of the London board. You had invited them all but he was the only one you expected might make an appearance. 

“Shirley,” James whispers, so low only you would have been able to hear. You turn as though looking out the window.

“Let him come to me.” 

You chat with another guest who approaches for just a moment before David makes his way to you. 

“Excuse me,” he taps the woman on the shoulder, “I’d love to steal Miss Clayton for a moment.” 

“Sure,” she smiles, clearly struck by David’s handsome well-bred features. “Great party, Cat!” 

“David, so glad you could make it!” You place your hands lightly on his shoulders, air-kissing each cheek as though he was a dear friend. “I told you to call me, Catherine though.” 

He laughs, “Well, you actually said it was odd for those who’d known you your whole life to address you formally. I didn’t have the pleasure.” 

“Fair. But we’re colleagues now. Formalities are tiresome.”

“Agreed.” His smile flickers a bit as he glances up at James. “Your attack dog seems to be handling himself.” 

“He’s multifaceted, I’m learning.” 

“Will he bite if I request to speak to you in private for a moment?” 

“Not at all. We can chat in my office.” 

You meet James’ eyes, “I’ll be back. Amuse yourself however you’d like.”

In your office the sound of the party fades entirely, each room having been soundproofed by the previous resident. It had no windows but one wall was glass, allowing for light from other parts of the flat to enter. For now, you pulled the heavy drapes to ensure privacy. 

“Did you get a chance to grab a drink?” You ask David as you step inside. 

“No, seemed to be quite the crowd by the bar.”

“That’s what happens when you offer free booze.” You step to the liquor cabinet. “Preference?“

“Whiskey.” You nod and pour him a glass, passing it to him. “Thank you.” He pauses, “None for you?”

“It’s a waste on me, sadly. One of the few unfortunate side-effects of what I am.” 

“Ah, yes. That must be a bit of a letdown,” he savors the drink. You gesture toward a seat in front of the desk. Rather than sit behind it you take the one next to him. 

“You know, I find it interesting how you handle him.”

“Him?” You study his face as though you’re confused. “Oh! The Soldier you mean?”

“Mhm.” 

You shrug, “Abused animals will always come back to bite the hand that feeds when given a chance. But show them kindness and they will die to protect you.”A wicked smile spreads across David’s face.

“And how does someone so young come to such a wise conclusion?” 

“I was that beaten animal.” You don’t break your hold on his gaze, “And I did much more than bite.” The silence that follows doesn’t feel tense so much as strangely respectful. 

“And we’re all the better for it.” You offer no reaction, waiting for him to reveal more. His eyes land on today’s copy of the Times. 

“You read the Times daily?” He asks. 

“Of course,” you say. He takes a sip before continuing. 

“Then when you peruse tomorrow’s issue you’ll find an obituary for our dear Mr. John King.”

“Oh?” 

“Seems his heart gave out in the small hours of the morning. An unfortunate side effect of keeping a beaten animal in your bed.” 

You had met the new Mrs. King once. She was the third or fourth version if you were keeping count. Each woman who held the title appeared more miserable than the last. 

“I see. And will the council know that it isn’t I who let the animal lose?”

He smiles, “I brought this to the council myself. I felt it was in your better interest that you remained unaware, given the… scene, he caused.”

“And they agreed with your proposal I assume?”

“With vigor.” You raise a brow at this. “Many of us recognize and respect the accomplishments of the old guard. But you’ll find the majority recognizes that loyalty built on fear is fragile at best. 

“Eric was-”  He pauses choosing his words with care. “Effective. While he could be charming, cunning even, he was an inflexible man. As was King. Their way is not the way forward.” 

“That is reassuring to know. So, King’s removal was to make room for a new era then?”

He leans forward a touch, “In part. I want to be sure you knew, in no uncertain terms, that I am in your corner, Catherine. Whatever you need, I will provide.”

Hunger flashes in his eyes, intentions dripping off him like saliva from a hungry beast’s maw. For all his feigned respect he viewed you as a lamb in wolf’s clothing. A pretty young thing that would run to his protection at the first opportunity, giving him what he truly wanted. Power. 

This was excellent. 

You soften your features, “Thank you, David.” He smiles warmly finishing his drink. 

“Well, I should let you return to your party.” You give an exasperated sigh. He laughs standing and extending a hand to you. “Oh come now! It can’t be so bad.” You take his hand. 

“If I could enjoy a drink, maybe I’d agree,” you say with a laugh. He begins to open the door. 

“Oh David, one thing,” you press the door shut. His eyes slide up to meet yours, “The next time you think to withhold something from me for my better interest. Don’t.” 

You don’t miss the approval in his expression, “Understood.” 

“Have a good night, David,” you release your hold on the door and don’t follow him out. 

Walking back to your desk you run your hand over the biometric scanner, turning the portrait on the wall to your right into a screen. You watch David make his way through the crowded flat and out to his waiting car before leaving the room. 

James finds you on the terrace a few minutes later. 

“What was that about?” He asks, looking concerned. 

“We’ll talk about it later,” you say, scanning the people drinking and chatting. Through the glass wall of the garden room, you see a shock of red hair. Dinah, a shiver of desire hums through your body.  

“For now,” you pat his shoulder, “I’m going to attempt to have a good time. Maybe try to do the same.” 

-

Catherine thought what freedom she could give him was a blessing, he didn’t have the heart to tell her it was driving him mad. 

Nights were the worst. 

Once the sun disappeared, once Mara left and Catherine went to bed for the evening, and he was alone, free to do as he pleased, that was when he became aware of just how empty he was. The countless hollow spaces within him where a man used to be, echoing with whispers he could never parse out. They kept him from sleep most nights and even when they didn’t they followed him down into dreaming. 

Even on this night, filled until an hour or so ago with the noise and life of the party. He felt no release in this solitude.  

This purgatorial existence was worse than being bent to someone’s will. At least when he was fully The Soldier he wasn’t empty, or if he was he didn’t give a damn. And good god, he hated that. 

To salt the wound, the file–his file–sat in the top drawer of the dresser, buried under clothes. He knew there may be answers there, ways to make the echoes make sense,  fill in those empty spaces but… he couldn’t. 

It seemed absurd, to hate this emptiness and to also refuse the thing that may help alleviate it even a little. 

“Could make it worse,” he says aloud to no one. And if it did make it worse he would be of no use to her. That was something he couldn’t allow. 

The clock on his bedside table reads 3:30 am. Too many hours until sunrise. He wants to scream. 

Flinging the covers off, he rushes to the balcony doors, wrenching them open. A scream rises in his chest that he cannot let free. Desperately he sucks in the cool, damp air, hoping it will soothe him. 

When he hears the cry on the wind, he flinches, worried he was losing control without realizing it–certainly would be the first time. But when it comes again he knows it isn’t him. 

All those hollow spaces in him cease to echo as they fill with rage. The sound is coming from within the flat. He checked every security measure, swept every… Every room but hers. She’d insisted it was fine.

“Fuck,” he breathes. 

Moving like a shadow he leaves his room, knife in hand. 

Nothing but the party refuse seems out of place.  

The rage in him fades with each careful step, replaced with a bitter, cold, darkness. 

In truth, it was almost a relief, feeling ‘James’ fall away. He was not made for this. The Soldier was. 

The entrance to the master suite began in the dressing room. He pauses in the long corridor-like space, listening. To his right, the door to the dark bathroom was open, no sound coming from it save for the gentle woosh of wind. That must have been how the cry reached him. 

To the left the door to the bedroom, cracked just a touch, dim light spilling out. 

“What do we say?” Catherine asks in a husky tone. Her lack of distress almost takes him back. 

“Please, Madam. Please.” The breathy voice is a woman’s, he feels like he heard it tonight at the party but couldn’t be sure. “Please,” she hitches. 

The distinct sound of something hard hitting skin almost makes him jump. A whimper, that isn’t quite pain, sends his hair on end. 

Confusion clouds his mind. Still, he moves slowly forward. 

The sound of the strikes continue.

Catherine’s bed looks untouched. From the other side of the wall dividing the master bedroom from the sitting room, the woman groans. 

His gorge rises. Maybe he didn’t know you… Maybe you were just like the rest and this was all some sick game. They loved their games, loved teasing freedom and safety. Loved ripping those things away in the most painful ways imaginable. 

“I… I… Please, Madam,” the woman begs. 

“Have you earned it?” Catherine asks.

Though he’s cast in shadow, he can see her, black negligee and large smooth paddle in hand. The woman is nude, bound on all fours, body slick with sweat. Catherine raises the paddle and James freezes. 

-

“Yes, Madam,” Dinah pants. 

Tenderly you caress the red hot flesh of her beautiful ass. Laying the paddle flat on the back of her skull you press her head into the cushion of the bench. Slowly you draw the edge of the paddle lightly down her spine, mouth-watering as goose flesh covers her. 

“You know,” you purr as you lower to your knees, “I believe you’re right.” You kiss her burning skin, feeling her tremble beneath your touch. Playfully, you nip at her right ass cheek with your teeth. She squeaks just a little.

“Thank you, Madam,” she sighs as you trail the tip of your tongue over her swollen cunt. 

Desire thunders through you. All you want at this moment is to give her this. To make her cum until she can’t stand it. 

“What the fuck!” Dinah shrieks, body jerking against her restraints. 

You’re on your feet in a flash, gun pulled from under the bench and aimed at the darkness beyond the sitting room. The slightest flash of light on something silver catches your attention and you realize it’s James. 

Fuck, you think. 

“It’s alright. I told you I had security staying here,” you place a comforting hand on the back of her head. She laughs a little, leaning into your touch. 

“Guess the soundproofing isn’t as good as you’d hoped huh?” She asks. 

“Guess not. Sorry, James.” And you meant that. You’d never want to subject someone to a scene without consent.

His face is barely visible in the shadow and entirely unreadable. Ever so subtly he moves, tilting his left side away to better conceal his arm. Only then do you realize he’s shirtless, bare chest heaving with barely controlled breath. 

“If he’d like to watch I’d be down. May be a little extra,” her big brown eyes meet yours. “But I do like an audience.” 

That she did. You knew from experience. 

“Well,” you catch his burning eyes, “you heard the lady. You’re welcome to observe if you’re interested.” 

The only answer you get is the sound of the door to your room closing. 

“Damn he’s fast,” she says. 

“We scared him off is all.” You dip two fingers into her, earning a surprised gasp. “Now, I think I owe you something.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she giggles. 

You end your session much sooner than planned. Once you’re sure Dinah’s properly cared for and compensated you see her out. 

Guilt hits you like a hammer. 

This exact scenario is why you’d avoided bringing anyone here. Yes, you’d invited Dinah to the party, she was a sort of friend–albeit one whose company you gladly paid for–but you hadn’t planned on playing tonight. In retrospect, that was a bold assumption for you to make. 

It took one touch from her to make you mad with need. And in your defense, it had been weeks. Everything in you ached for some kind of release, you needed it, ached for it. 

Not that it was Dinah specifically. Any one of your former partners would have likely solicited a similar response. She was simply the most discreet. 

You thought it would be safe. James rarely left his room once he went to bed. But you hadn’t considered that the soundproofing may not be able to hold up to someone as… expressive as Dinah. 

It was a shitty risk to take, no matter how hard up you were, no matter how you justified it. You’d seek him out in the morning, explain everything.

Needing fresh air you head to the terrace, avoiding the trash from the party. 

London felt almost quiet at this time of night, or morning rather. With a sigh, you lean on the glass half wall, staring out toward the city.

The way he moved gave credence to every tall tale you’d heard about The Soldier. Even with your enhanced senses, you didn’t hear him coming. 

Cold metal presses against your throat catching your scream as he pulls you back from the edge of the roof. Your heart thunders, panic flaring. 

Uselessly you scrabble at his grip. You were strong, he was stronger. 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” He growls into your ear. 

“Wha-” You manage to croak. Strength wasn’t everything though. 

Sucking in what breath you could you let yourself go slack, the pressure increasing for only a brief minute. His grip loosened just enough. Immediately you slam your left elbow into his ribs with every ounce of strength you have. 

James releases you and you stumble away coughing. 

When you look back he’s clutching his side but still glaring at you. 

“Look,” you say voice hoarse, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean for you to-”

“See what you really are?” He says with a bit of a wheeze. 

You raise a brow, “I mean I’d like to think that I’m more than my sexual preferences but-”

“You were hurting that woman. She was-”

“She was getting exactly what she wanted.” He just stares, clearly not believing you. “I didn’t do a single thing she didn’t consent to. And if it went too far at any point, she only had to say so and I would have stopped.”

“Oh I’m sure,” he snarls. It feels like a slap in the face for so many reasons. 

“If you were so concerned you could have just stayed and watched, she invited you in!” You rub a hand over your face, “Whatever.”

You push past him, unable to think of a way to explain it all to him in a way that he would understand. His left-hand shoots out, grabbing you by the arm. 

Neither of you speaks. You stare at the place where he holds you then up at his face, the muscle in his jaw working. 

“Look, if you honestly believe I’m full of shit if you think I’m like him, kill me.” 

He releases you stepping back 

“Do it.” You shrug, “It would be easy for you. Kill me and run.” He takes another step back. 

“But you won’t. Because you know I’m telling the truth.” 

You look away, “There are things about me you may not understand. Things I don’t know how to make you understand. Desire and…” You shake your head, “Humans are complicated, even though people like you and I may fool ourselves into thinking otherwise.” 

When you look back, his steel-blue eyes are a mix of confusion.

“What happened tonight won’t happen again. I shouldn’t have ever put you in that position and I really am sorry. If you want assurance I’ll get Dinah’s permission to provide you with her number, you can talk to her yourself without me being there.” 

With a sigh, you walk past him pausing at the door, “Tell me tomorrow if you want out of this. I’ll do my best to get you to freedom, or at least get you a head start.” You swallow hard, “Goodnight, James.”

Chapter Text

“Wait,” Mara says around a mouthful of food, “Jimmy, you actually made this?”

“Don’t call me that,” James says, taking his seat at the table. You snicker into your wine glass.

“Fine, James,” she says in an exaggerated BBC accent, “did you truly craft such a fine meal?”

“I’m taking personal offense to this,” you say with a smile.

“Can’t please anyone around here,” she grumbles.

“But yes, Marilena-”

“How dare-” She begins.

“I did actually make everything on the table.”

“And the cheesecake in the fridge,” you point out.

Mara takes another bite of perfectly executed roast beef, “I’m speechless.”

“Clearly,” James says, spooning potatoes onto his plate.

“Seriously though, how?”

“I do know how to read you know?”

“I know how to read and I can guarantee you that no amount of reading would make this come out of my kitchen.”

“Have you ever stepped into your kitchen?” He asks.

“Of course I’ve been in my kitchen,” she waves him off. “That’s where I keep the vodka.” James grins, rolling his eyes.

Almost a year had passed since you all began your partnership and yet moments like this one still caught you by surprise. The comfort, the easy banter, the… friendship.

“Oh!” Mara points to you with her knife, “I hate to admit it but I think you were right about the club being a good investment.”

“Club?” James looks at you. Given the way his brow ticks up you assume you don’t succeed at hiding the cringe on your face.

“Just a club,” you say far too quickly. Rather than keep talking you shove food into your mouth.

“Yeah. Just a club where several high ranking government and Hydra officials are known to find themselves more than a little tied up… Literally,” Mara says with a smirk.

“Tied…” He trails off. Rather than take the bait you focus on your wine, feeling more awkward than you can ever recall.

Mara laughs, “Mhm. It’s a front for a bougie dungeon. Ya know, whips, chains, nip-”

“I believe you painted the picture, Mara,” you cut her off with a touch more venom than necessary.

“What? That’s your whole scene. Wouldn’t think you’d be a prude about-”

James clears his throat, “Why?” Reluctantly you glance over at him, unsure what exactly he wanted an explanation for. “Why invest there?” You practically sigh in relief.

He’d never brought up the situation he’d walked in on. Things had been tense for a bit after but eventually he just seemed to move past it. Even so, you didn’t feel the need to open that box and certainly not at the dinner table.

“People like to talk to hairdressers and hookers,” Mara says in her signature blunt style. You hear James cough a bit beside you and try not to laugh. “Ooo, maybe a salon next?”

“Find me one that services the right clientele and I’ll consider it,” you say with a soft laugh. “But yes. Lips tend to be loose in certain situations and I do believe we all know the effect that loose lips can have.”

“It’s gonna take more than that for the ship we’re lookin’ to sink,” James says, skepticism dripping off his words.

“True. But we need every ounce of ammunition we can get our hands on.”

“And we have to source it from as many places as possible,” Mara continues your thought.

“So we just wait until they give us something useful?” James asks.

“Oh,” Mara’s impish grin lights her face, “they already have.”

-

James wakes, body sweat-slick and shivering. While between his legs…

Clenching his eyes shut he tries to will this hunger away. He doesn’t want it, and even if he did he didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.

Closing his eyes only brings her image back into focus.

Catherine. From the night of the first party, clad in black satin, the woman on the bench begging her for more.

Without his permission, his hips buck up. Even the feeling of his boxers shifting over him was almost too much to handle. Just barely he stifles the moan crawling up his throat.

His back arches. Teeth grind.

God. He wanted… wanted…

No.

Panting, he stumbles to the bathroom, turning the shower on cold.

When the icy stream hits him he bites his fist to keep from screaming but doesn’t move from its path. This may hurt. It may bring too many other memories to the surface. But at least when his eyes squeeze shut this time it isn’t Catherine he sees. At least the aching need flees.

He slides onto the floor of the shower, shivering and miserable.

At least he understands misery.

It was that damn conversation over dinner yesterday that brought this on. For months after the night of the party, he’d had dreams like this. Imagining her. What her skin would feel like. What she tasted like. What that paddle-

He digs metal fingers into his right bicep enough to hurt.

She’d left the number for the woman he’d seen her with, Dinah, by the coffee pot the morning after the party.

At first, he considered not calling, just letting the whole thing go. But he wasn’t able to look at Catherine without feeling red hot rage begin to boil in his gut. He couldn’t stand it. After a few days, he caved.

For her part, Dinah handled the call well. In fact, she’d been hoping he’d call. Just as Catherine said she would, she’d gotten Dinah’s permission before sharing her contact information with James.

Dinah was incredibly apologetic, insisting that they would never want someone to see them “play” who wasn’t willing.

Without coaxing she assured him everything he saw was consensual, explaining briefly about safe words and rules of conduct. She even said she understood that it likely sounded mad to him but, “different strokes and all that.”

Naively he’d thought that would be the end of it. He’d assuaged his fear that Catherine wasn’t as she seemed, the woman was fine. Problem solved.

But no, the call had just made things far worse. Now, he wished he never called. Had he not, the dreams wouldn’t have come and he could just cope with the anger. Anger was easier. Desire, as Catherine pointed out, was complicated.

Sighing, he turns the water off.

There wasn’t any chance of getting more sleep, or at least not uninterrupted sleep. Rather than tempt fate, James slips into a pair of black sweatpants and makes for the kitchen. Food was always a good distraction.

Even after the shower, his mind was far too loud, leaving little space for any outside information to sink in. A mistake that he would have chided himself for had any other sight greeted him in the kitchen.

Catherine perches on the counter in a short black satin robe, one leg drawn to her chest, the other swinging in the air. The only light coming in from the large windows on the other side of the flat leaves her half in shadows. Still, her eyes, big and expressive, sparkle when they meet his.

Suddenly he can’t breathe properly.

“Biscuit?” She gestures to the stack of biscuits and glass of milk beside her.

If he were a wiser man, he’d have turned around. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what kind of man he was, but wise clearly wasn’t a part of the equation. Or so he learned when his head nodded without his permission.

He tried to only get as close as necessary, tried not to breathe too deep. Still, as he takes a biscuit from the neat stack, he catches a whiff of her perfume, vanilla, and coffee, and something earthy.

The bite of biscuit sticks in his desert-dry throat. He coughs.

“Here,” she says with a smile, holding the milk out to him. Her robe slips off her shoulder.

Around her neck, bruises bloom in a distinct pattern. Heat flares up his spine.

“Catherine!” Any fear of being too close evaporates in the flash of his rage. He reaches out, almost touching the soft skin of her neck. Almost.

She doesn’t flinch away from him as he expects. Not that Catherine had ever once seemed nervous in his presence. But he sees the pulse in her throat flutter. Quickly he steps back until he hits the opposite counter.

Since when was this kitchen so fucking small?

“Nothing I didn’t ask for,” she says, pulling her robe back up. “They’ll be gone by morning. Which,” she finishes the biscuit in her hand, “is an unexpected perk of whatever we are.”

James has no idea what to say. Or even how to form words.

“Sorry,” her expression is earnest. “About last night. I didn’t want you to feel like I was coddling you by not telling you about the club, I just-”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I- It’s fine.”

The silence that follows is uncomfortable. Oppressive.

“Well,” Catherine sighs, sliding off the counter. “You can have the rest of the biscuits. Goodn-”

“Did, she--Dinah--ever tell you I called?” The words shoot from his mouth so fast they run into each other.

Catherine stops mid-step, turning to lean back against the counter opposite him.

She raises a brow, “No. But Dinah doesn’t make a habit of sharing.”

What was the point of that? Did he want her to know he wasn’t upset about the club or the bruises? Did he want…

What? What was there for him to want? How could he even… How-

“Why?” The question that haunted him for months finally forces its way out.

“Why what, James?” His mouth opens but nothing comes out. “Why this?” She slides her robe away for a moment to reveal the bruises before replacing it. He nods.

“It’s…” She trails off, gesturing in the air with her hand.

“Complicated,” James says, his dry throat making the word a rasp. A half-smile quirks the corner of her full mouth.

“It is that.” She shifts her gaze up to the ceiling as though looking for something. “To oversimplify, I suppose it’s a way to feel...”

She trails off and he holds his breath waiting, wanting her answer to make this easy. But as the silence hangs he fears the answer won’t come or worse, won’t help.

“Human,” James says, with what little air was left in his lungs, praying he’s wrong. Her eyes meet his, holding them for a moment.

“Yes.”

Again the silence covers them like a shrowd. He shuts his eyes, unable to keep hold of the chaos in his mind, and look at her.

“You want that, don’t you?” Catherine asks.

Suddenly, she’s close enough that her perfume yet again fills his nostrils. Intoxicating. Dangerous. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“James?” He forces his eyes open. The way she looks at him makes his heart stutter. There was so much care in those eyes.

“Yes,” his mouth barely moves.

If only he knew how to feel… anything.

“Do you want me to-” her hand hovers over his chest, close enough he can feel the heat.

“No!” He slides away but finds that he’s unable to move out of the kitchen, some invisible force keeping him in her orbit.

“Do you want to touch me?” Her voice, so soft behind him, sends goosebumps over his body.

It’s not a conscious choice, to turn and face her as the black robe slides off her shoulders, puddling on the floor. The black satin negligee he’d seen in his mind so many times, skims over her curves.

Like a man denied water for days, he drinks her in even while some part of him tells him not to, screams that he cannot.

“I-” His voice cracks and he swallows hard. “I don’t know.”

“That’s ok.” She hadn’t moved an inch. Everything about her exuded patience, careful consideration. He has the absurd thought that she’d stand there forever, a dark saint, waiting for her supplicant.

“Would it help to know,” he swears he sees her pulse quicken, “that I’d like for you to touch me? If you wanted to.” Her words are careful, chosen so that they don’t hold the barest hint of command. His stomach flutters.

“Why?” It seems impossible. She smiles, honey-sweet.

“Because I trust you.” She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

He doesn’t deserve that trust. How could he? What he had done… what he was… Still, his feet move forward.

When the fingers of his right hand lightly trace her jaw it’s like touching a live wire. Shocks hum through his body causing him to tremble. They trail down her neck, stopping where someone else’s hands had been that night. He can feel her pulse, her heat-

“It’s ok,” she gently covers his hand with hers, moving it ever so slightly lower to her collarbones, her chest. His hand continues to journey south when she lets go.

His fingers dip under the lace neckline barely daring to slide across the soft flesh of her breast. The rough flesh of her nipple is under his touch before he realizes, his calloused hand daring to run over the peak. She makes the smallest noise in her throat.

If everything before had been a live wire this was a lightning strike.

Sucking in a breath he steps back quickly, unable suddenly to look at her.

“James-”

“Goodnight Catherine,” he manages before turning and fleeing like a coward.

-

Thankfully, the momentum gained from the informants at the club kept you busy over the next several days.

Research, logistics, picking apart the gossamer strands of the spider’s web that was Hydra’s network left little room to linger on late-night rendezvous in the kitchen. If you felt your mind slipping--remembering how good he looked, the way his touch practically burned your skin, how you considered begging him not to stop--you forced yourself to open another file.

Besides, what right did you have to want him?

Whatever power and privilege you possessed was directly linked to his own suffering and subjugation. Not to mention the fact that with a single word you could render him catatonic. Or worse, with several words send him on a killing spree.

No. You couldn’t have him. You wouldn’t. It didn’t stop the wanting though.

Best to focus on the work.

The frustrating, infuriating, impossible work.

“Fuck this!” Mara flings a file across the room, sending papers fluttering across the space. You glance up at her.

A flush colors her skin. The anger pulsing through her clear in her shaking hands. She begins pacing the room.

Something about the outburst makes you recoil.

“Care to explain?” You ask cooly, even though you know exactly what the issue is.

“Seri-” She shakes her head in undisguised disgust. “You’re really ok with this? With the civilian loss here?!”

In truth, you weren’t. But that didn’t matter.

“There are always casualties in war, Mara.”

“These people don’t know they’re in a war,” she says through gritted teeth.

“If they’re too blind to know, on some level, that there are a million silent wars happening around them all the time then I don’t-”

“They are trying to survive. Making it to the next day is the only war they have time to care-”

“I understand-”

“What the fuck would you know about survival, princess?” Mara snarls.

There’s truth there. You know there is. Never had you feared where your next meal would come from. Homelessness, destitution, poverty, these were not things you could comprehend. But survival…

“What about you?!” Mara turns her rage on James before you can retort. “You haven’t said a thing for the past two hours. You have-”

“Catherine’s right,” he says, voice devoid of any emotion.

“What the fuck,” she throws her hands up in exasperation. “Where’s that American idealism, huh?!”

Pain flashes so fast through his eyes that you’re not certain that you didn’t imagine it. Because almost immediately he is nothing but cold fury.

James leans forward in the armchair he’d set himself up in, elbows resting on his knees. Those steel blue eyes settle on Mara in such a way that a chill runs up your own spine.

“They tore it out of me,” his voice smooth as glass. Mara shudders and turns away.

“You’re monsters,” she whispers. Not bothering to grab her things she silently storms to the elevator and leaves.

The swoosh of the elevator doors feels like a gust of winter air when the sun slides behind the clouds. Any warmth, any fiery heat of humanity, left with Mara. Now there was nothing but the cold silence and the two monsters.

Neither of you speaks for what feels like hours, though you know it’s just a few minutes.

“Should I make the arrangements?” James’ voice, too smooth and measured, hardly ripples the stillness of the silence.

“Yes,” you say in a similar fashion.

-

From the small seating area of his room, James looks out of the massive windows into the peaceful night beyond.

He knows that if he opened the terrace door he’d feel the breeze, hear the hum of late-night traffic, the buzz of the power lines. He knows that just beyond the glass, life is happening.

Yet he sits in the sleek modern armchair, a man frozen. He barely binks, or breathes. All around him the silence of this soundproof room presses in. An indescribable force.

He sits because he deserves this discomfort.

He does not deserve the feel of the breeze on his skin or the lullaby of London outside. He doesn’t deserve the peace of sleep nor the absolution of oblivion.

He doesn’t deserve these things because tonight, 128 civilians in a small Latvian town were going to die.

Their deaths would not be gentle.

As they worked, assembling shipments of weapons for one of Hydra’s many satellite militias, soldiers from an opposing faction would come. They would all be killed, the weapons and any intelligence gathered. The building would likely be their funeral pyre.

It wouldn’t stop there.

The aftershocks would be far-reaching. It was why this was chosen to be their first point of attack.

He knew many more would die because of what happened tonight. But those were nameless.

The 128, he knew their names.

He added them to the others in his mind. The names and faces of those who would always haunt him.

Moving in a manner that felt more mechanical than human he stands. Unable to allow himself the relief of fresh air nor the comfort of distraction he chooses to make a circuit of the flat, under the guise of security.

Still penance he told himself, just penance in motion.

When he opens his door he pauses, listening.

Catherine should have left hours ago. Off, he assumed, to keep herself distracted. Yet from the direction of her office, he hears what sounds like the crackle of a two-way radio, indistinct voices breaking through here and there.

Cautiously he makes his way through the flat toward the sound, remembering the last time he’d similarly sought the source of a noise in the night. Perhaps he’d learn to stay put after this.

The office door stands open though the curtains are drawn across the glass wall. Catherine sits at the desk, eyes focused on nothing.

Before her, a half disassembled radio pours out static laced Latvian. Bits of casual conversation, nothing particularly interesting. Clearly, she’d rigged the device to pick up on the wiretaps in the warehouse where the attack would take place.

Her own form of penance.

Catherine brings a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid to her lips, drinking deeply. He assumes she has yet to notice him until she speaks.

“Don’t know why I’m even drinking this. It’s useless.” Her voice is low and ragged.

“What are you doing Catherine?” James asks, trying to keep his tone gentle.

She shrugs, “Couldn’t sleep.”

He takes a few cautious steps into the room. Each carefree word from the radio hit him like a bullet. Still, he stays, staring at the radio, listening.

When the first startled exclamations rise through the static he shuts his eyes.

Pavils Liepins, Gita Bogdanovs, Dizdra Strode, Teodors Aleksejevs… The sound of glass cracking interrupts his thoughts.

Catherine’s formerly vacant expression had been exchanged for one of barely contained agony. Her wide eyes shine with withheld tears as they focus intently on the radio. Whiskey and blood drip from her clenched fist, pieces of glass glint in the light of the lamp on the desk.

A scream tears from the radio.

James rips the wires from the back of the device sending them both plummeting into dismal silence.

Immediately, a different kind of emotion tickles the edges of his mind. It was not his place to do that. His body tenses, preparing for her anger, for retaliation.

It doesn’t come.

“I wish…” Catherine’s voice is hardly a whisper.

He looks at her as she opens her bloody hand, small pieces of crystal decorating her palm like some kind of macabre sculpture. There isn’t the slightest flicker of pain on her face as she wiggles one of the shards, causing fresh blood to well.

“I wish them dying was the worst of it,” she finishes her thought. A pregnant silence follows as she plucks the largest shard from her palm, letting it fall into the pile of bloodied crystal already on the desk.

“What is?” He finally rasps.

“That the bastard was right,” she answers like it makes sense, pulling another sliver out. It hits the desk with a soft clink.

After a few breaths she continues, “It is harder to have someone killed rather than doing it yourself.” All the crystal gone, she studies her palm, blood dripping down the sides. “He just forgot to mention that it’s when they’re innocent…”

He wants to tell her that her father didn’t forget, he just wouldn’t have understood the distinction. To Eric Clayton, all people were cannon fodder, dispensable and disposable in the wake of his unyielding will.

Catherine presses her finger into the largest cut with such force she sucks in a breath.

Without hesitation James moves to her side, catching both her wrists in his hands, preventing her from pulling the cut open any further. She struggles against him, unable to get much leverage from her seated position.

“Stop,” he growls, tightening his grip.

When her eyes look up into his, the woman he knows is not there. These are the eyes of a frightened animal, both fiercely feral and deeply terrified. It sends a pang through his heart.

Unwilling to release her but not wanting to scare her further, he kneels down before the desk chair. Her expression softens a touch but her eyes remain wild.

“What have I done?” She chokes out.

“A necessary evil.” It is not a comfort, he knows that, but he respects her too much to lie.

“Is that what I am?” All ferocity drains from her, replaced with desperation.

“No,” he whispers. And he believes that.

Her eyes close as a shudder moves through her body.

“Look at me, Catherine.” He doesn’t think she’ll listen but finally her eyes open again. “Evil would not mourn these people.”

James knew in his bones that Catherine was not evil, she was not the monster she perceived herself to be, or even that others may see. Rather she had been molded in the image of evil--this, he was certain, was not the same. For his sake, he had to believe that it was not the same.

“Tell me this was the right thing to do.”

“I can’t,” he wished he could.

Tears slide silently from her eyes. He reaches up without thinking, brushing some of them away with his right hand.

As he begins to pull back she catches his hand with hers, holding it in place. Her cheek presses against his palm, resting there as she closes her eyes to suck in a few shaky breaths.

For his part, he can hardly breathe. The feeling of her hand over his--a benign and welcome touch--shakes something loose deep inside him.

It isn’t desire. That was another creature.

No. From the hollows of his being something hungry and forgotten, broken, and lonely howls with need.

When she releases him he almost cries out. Automatically his grip on her right wrist tightens.

Distracted by his desperation, he almost flinches when her delicate fingers brush against his own cheeks. They wipe away tears he hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“You mourn them too,” she says.

It isn’t a question, still, he answers, “I mourn all of them.” A sob catches in his throat as he fights to swallow it.

Was she not cupping his cheek he’d hang his head in shame and sorrow. Was he not so deeply desperate for her touch, he’d run.

“James,” she says on a breath.

When had he closed his eyes? With effort, he opens them once more.

“That is too much,” she says.

In that moment, he knows she understood he had not only been speaking of the lives lost tonight. She knew he spoke of a legacy of bloodshed going back decades.

How horrible that he could remember so little of himself and yet the faces of the lives he’d taken, their names, those he always knew. Their ghosts, and the guilt they brought with them, made up so much of who he was.

She traces his brow with a featherlight touch. Fingertips catching more tears. And finally, she stops, her palm once more pressed against his cheek.

“Give these to me,” she says. “The red is in my ledger, not yours. They aren’t for you to mourn.”

She says it as though it was an easy thing. A package he could simply lay at her feet.

“Could you?” He asks. Her head tilts to the side in confusion. “Could you let go, give them to someone else?” He takes her hand in his, pulling it from his face though he would rather she never stop.

His thumb runs over the raised scar on her palm. He remembered the anger he’d felt that night, years ago. It hadn’t come when he’d been surrounded by those jeering men as they’d beaten him and worse. No, it came when this young woman who had dared to show him kindness had been harmed.

Such a bittersweet memory. But it did feel good to remember.

“It’s different. You never had a choice.” Catherine’s voice had taken on that far away quality once more.

He wanted to ask how many times she had a choice but decides better of it.

“I did this time.” And that mattered for some reason suddenly, deeply. He releases her wrist finally. With metal fingers, he gently tilts her chin to look at him.

“Catherine, I chose to join you knowing people would die for it.” She pulls her face away from his touch. “But I also know that if you, if we, can do this, the world will be better for it.”

“But I chose,” saying that out loud feels better than he could have imagined. It didn’t absolve him or lessen his guilt but it did feel good, after so long, to choose.

And hadn’t that been the way of it where she was concerned from the very beginning? Something about her allowed him to make a choice.

She flexes her injured hand, wincing. Before she can do so again he lays his metal palm against her bloody one lightly.

“I’m with you-” He sucks in a breath as a zinging shoots through his skull. Whispers of another life rising louder. They do not belong here though and he pushes them away. “So we can share this grief, together, and the others that will come before this is over.”

Catherine looks from their hands and to him, disbelief on her features.

“I’m with you,” he says again, the feeling that he’s forgetting to finish the thought nagging at him.

“Ok,” she nods in acceptance. “Together?” She asks.

“Together.”

Chapter Text

The plan went off without a hitch.

Losing that singular warehouse in Latvia wasn’t enough to cause major damage to Hydra’s hold in Eastern Europe but it was more than enough to send fissures all through their networks in the region. It was all you needed.

Death by a thousand cuts. That was the approach you had all agreed on.

You just wished it felt good to have finally drawn blood

In all the time leading up to that moment, you hadn’t grasped the fact that Hydra didn’t bleed. It bled everything around it.

Every victory would have a death count. You’d have to make peace with that if you had any chance at succeeding.

“Are you listening?” Angelica’s leather clad hand claps across your right cheek with a sudden sting.

“No, Mistress,” you admit in a hollow voice.

Angelica grips your chin hard, forcing your face up at her. She sighs, lowering into a crouch, releasing your chin.

“Pause,” she says, studying you.

With that word, you were no longer in-scene, not that you’d been engaged to begin with. It bothered you. Not that you could blame her, you’d likely have done the same.

“Catherine, are you sure this is what you want?”

No. You think. But you couldn’t have the peace you wanted, not even the artificial peace of a good bender, so this was the best there was.

“Yes. I’m… distracted is all.”

“Well,” she strokes your hair, “I suppose I will have to be more intriguing than your distraction.”

“Yes, Mistress,” you give her a smirk that you know she’ll enjoy though you don’t feel any of the joy you normally would.

“Let’s play then.”

-

“You look rough,” Mara says as she walks into your office.

“Good morning to you too.” The offense in your tone was a ruse. She wasn’t wrong.

Angelica had done her best, and good god did you have the bruises to prove it. Still, it hadn’t been enough to keep your mind from darker thoughts, nor had the exhaustion you’d felt after led you mercifully into sleep.

Even if she hadn’t been wrong you would have welcomed the jibe as you were still glad she was talking to you again.

It had taken a few days but she’d come around. No prelude or parlay, she’d simply picked up as though nothing had happened. Neither you or James wanted to break the spell by looking too far into it.

She studies you, “Nope. Can’t let you just go around looking like this.” Without another word she disappears into the bathroom and returns with the small makeup bag you keep there. She hops onto the desk facing you and rolls you between her legs.

You’re too tired to argue.

“What's the point of super soldier serum if you still get circles under your eyes?” She asks as she dabs concealer under your eyes.

“I’ll be sure to pass along your complaint.”

“What you should do is help me convince James to let me cover his.”

You almost laugh, “I think they’re a part of his whole quietly menacing charm.”

Mischief sparks in Mara’s dark eyes, “So you find him charming.” You roll your eyes and she barks a laugh. “It was too easy.”

She adds a bit of blusher to your cheeks and examines you once more.

“Do I pass inspection?”

“Good enough.”

“Am I interrupting something?” James asks from the doorway. Mara falls onto her back, her head hanging over the edge of the desk to look back at him.

“Yes, our fearless leader was just ravishing me.” He raises a brow. “Your lack of belief is offensive, Jimmy. I’m a fucking catch.”

“Uh-huh,” he says crossing the room. “Here,” he passes you a paper cup of tea so strong it could kill a lesser woman.

“Thank you.” Of course it wouldn’t do much to make you feel less exhausted, but the placebo was welcome.

Mara doesn’t leave her perch, just sits up and begins putting the makeup back in the bag.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you let her leave the house looking like someone punched her in both eyes.”

“What?” James asks, looking genuinely confused.

“Hopeless,” Mara grumbles. She hops off the desk.

“I have to make a few runs to check in on some potential investment properties,” Mara says, smoothing out her perfectly cut pencil skirt. The office was secure but it was best to be cautious when talking about your burgeoning information network.

“You,” she points to James, “make sure she takes a nap or something. We’ve got to make an appearance at that club opening tonight.”

You groan, “Must we?”

“Yes. Because it’s exactly the kind of thing you’re expected to be at. So don’t bitch.” She grabs her bag, “I’ll be back after your meeting with the board.”

“Sometimes I forget she’s not my boss,” you say when the door closes.

“Would you want it any other way?” The ghost of a smile plays on James’ lips.

“Probably not.” You let your head fall into your hands, eyes burning with the desire to close.

“Maybe you should reschedule the-”

“No,” you say as you force yourself to your feet, smoothing your blouse. “Best to get it over with.”

At the door you pause, looking back at him, “Do I really look half dead?”

James’ eyes run over your figure, lingering longer than you expected.

His eyes meet yours, “You always look lovely, Catherine.”

Your heart flutters in your chest. Catherine Clayton, you will not blush, you chastise yourself.

“Thank you,” you say through the desert filling your mouth. “Shall we?”

-

The club was as overwhelming as James anticipated. A sea of bodies and pulsing light move to the beat of what he supposes is music on the floor beneath the VIP section.

Even though it all feels like too much he has to admit, he isn’t hating it. Something about the raucous energy feels familiar in a far off way. More the idea of a memory than something he can actually grasp onto.

He catches flashes of Catherine in the crowd below, dancing, seeming to be enjoying herself. As the bass thrums through his bones he wonders what it would be like to be down there with her. Would it feel good to rest his hands on her hips? To taste the salt on her-

Something wet splashes onto his face, burning his eyes briefly. The smell tells him it’s whiskey.

He almost reacts, almost wipes the burn from his eyes, almost grabs the smirking man standing just to the left of him holding an empty glass. But he does none of these things.

These people viewed him still as only the Winter Soldier. As the Soldier, a splash of whiskey in the face was meaningless. It wouldn’t cause him harm and did not threaten his handler nor the area he’d been charged to keep watch over.

So he simply blinks his eyes clear, studying the man and his friend beside him. Assessing, before redirecting his gaze to the dance floor.

“See, I fuckin’ told you!” The one with the empty glass says in triumph.

“No shit,” the second man, an American, studies him.

“Pay up,” the first demands with an outstretched hand. The second man does so without taking his eyes off James.

“So he really won’t do anything?”

“Nah,” says the first man, shoving the couple of bills into his pocket. “Not unless you try to kill him or that uppity Clayton bitch orders him to.” James slides his eyes to the man, savoring the brief flash of fear in his expression.

“The Winter fuckin’ Soldier,” the second man steps closer. He studies James as though he was a beast in a zoo, expression cautious but sickly fascinated.

He grabs James’ left bicep, “It really is metal.”

“Of course it is.”

“If I had an arm like that I’d’ve snapped your neck.”

Oh I want to, James thinks. The first man barks a laugh.

“But there ain’t nothin’ up here,” he knocks his knuckles hard on James’ forehead. “Isn’t that right mate?” The man asks, patting James’ cheek, his smirk shifting into a kind of snarl that James knows all too well.

“That’s right Mr. Mickey,” he mocks, moving James’ lips with his fingers. James’ heart begins to beat faster.

The American laughs, moving closer to join his friend, placing both men less than a foot from James. James’ skin begins to itch, sweat trickling down his back.

“I wonder,” the American studies James’ face with black eyes.

When his hand roughly grips James’ crotch he almost loses his control. This is not like all the times before when he couldn’t do anything, he could kill them both before they knew what was happening. If he did… The suspicions that would rise could ruin everything.

He would not. Not over these cretins.

But fuck it was somehow so much worse. They were no one. They had no power over him. And still they felt they could do this as though he wasn’t even human.

“I’m no fag but I’ve heard rumors about the fun some of the higher ups have had with it,” Mickey says conspiratorialy.

It. Not him. It.

James’ feels his tenuous control slipping as the American sneers, hand moving to unbuckle James’ belt.

“That so?” he asks, head tilting to the side. Blood pounds in James’ ears as he feels the button of his jeans undone, the zipper sliding down.

“What is this?” Mara’s voice draws the American up short.

“Not your problem sweetheart,” the American says. “Why don’t you keep moving?”

“Oh, I think it is my problem.” Her eyes meet James’ and he knows he doesn’t miss the flare of fury there. “To me, Soldier.”

Without hesitation James grips the American’s wrist, holding it tight for a moment as he drinks in the trickle of fear sinking into the man’s features. He wasn’t ordered to harm them though so he releases him and moves to Mara’s side.

“Are these men guests of Miss Clayton?” Mara asks, knowing the answer.

“No, ma’am,” James answers, thankful his voice is hollow, hiding the white hot anger burning through his body.

“I see,” she studies the men.

“We was just havin’ a bit of fun is all,” Mickey says with a note of panic coloring his syllables. “It’s a party ain’t it?”

Mara nods, “It is. But it’s usually best to stay in your lane boys. Do you even have clearance to be in this section?”

“Do you?” The American asks, his ignorance laid bare. Mickey visibly grimaces.

Mara laughs, a soft sinister sound. “Sweetheart, I suggest you stop while you’re ahead.”

The American looks at James then Mara, “So you’re Clayton?”

“Just shut up, Brock,” Mickey hisses.

“Your friend is smarter than you look, Brock,” Mara says, stepping between James and the two men. “I’m Miss Clayton’s assistant. I am absolutely cleared to be here. I am also cleared for secondary command of the Winter Soldier.” She looks him up and down, “Not that I think I’d need to use him to put you on your back.”

Whatever Brock saw on Mara’s face causes him to take a step back.

“But we don’t want to ruin the party for everyone. Do we?” She directs this question to Mickey.

“No.” He puts a hand on Brock’s shoulder. “Let's go." Without another word the two men turn and disappear down the stairs.

“What’d I miss?” Catherine’s voice comes from behind him. All the shame he didn’t feel before hits him.

“Nothing,” James says, turning from Mara’s worried expression to set his pants to rights.

“I think we should call it a night,” Mara says, holding out a bar napkin for him to wipe his face. He’d practically forgotten about the whiskey.

“It’s fine,” he says in a low rumble.

“I’m set to leave,” Catherine says, her voice lighter than her expression.

No one speaks on the ride back to the flat. It’s not until the elevator deposits them into the safety of Catherine’s home that she breaks the silence.

“Alright, explain,” she says to both of them.

James ignores her and moves straight for the kitchen sink, needing to immediately wipe the sticky feeling of the dried booze from his skin before he starts screaming.

“Anyone?” She asks.

“I… I’m not sure but...” Mara says, studying James. “Are you alri-”

“I am fine,” he growls, turning the sink off. “Nothing happened.”

“Bullshit,” the two women say in tandem.

A bitter laugh bursts from his chest, he can’t stop it. The sound is fractured, joyless. The two of them stand on the other side of the kitchen island, watching in concern.

“It doesn’t matter,” he wipes the dish towel over his face, grateful for the relief.

“Yes it does,” Mara says defiantly. “I saw-”

“It doesn’t matter!” He snaps. Mara doesn’t flinch.

“You matter to us,” she says in a steady voice. “So what happens to you matters.”

“That’s a nice sentiment,” he sneers. “And maybe it’s worth something in here,” he gestures around him. “Out there, around those people,” he shakes his head, hands curling into fists to prevent himself from cracking the countertop.

“Both of you need to understand something,” he fights to keep his voice from shaking. “Outside this flat, especially around anyone affiliated with Hydra, I’m nothing.”

“James-” He cuts Catherine off.

“You know I’m right.” He looks up at them, wishing their care meant anything at all. “So what they did or didn’t do to me is irrelevant. It wasn’t a threat to my life or to those I’m charged to protect.”

He sighs, “And as long as we’re holding up appearances, what they did or didn’t do can’t matter, because I can’t matter. Let it go.”

It was clear they wanted to argue. He couldn’t bear any more of this though.

“I need to shower,” he turns and leaves, if they wanted they could discuss it among themselves. He was done.

-

James can’t move.

The bare skin of his back stings against something cold while his veins scream with fire, his muscles tense, begging for the release of movement.

It hurts. Everything. Hurts.

There are people. He can’t see them but he feels them close, their presence visceral.

Suddenly, he’s terrified to see them. Praying over and over that they stay out of his sightline.

Let them do what they will as long as he doesn’t see them.

He should know better than to wish for such mercy.

In a rush they come at him. Screaming names, begging, sobbing, wailing.

Some faces are clear, others hazy. Some are whole, others bloody and rotting.

He knows these people. People he’s hurt. People he wants to hurt.

Their hands begin to grab at him hungry and demanding.

“James,” someone whispers. If he can see them they’re lost in the chaos.

A man beyond the crowd of screaming faces blurs in and out of focus. One moment he’s a large man, the next a small boy--no a small young man. They look so different but he knows they are the same somehow, same sad eyes.

“Bucky,” the strange shifting man says, the sound of the name sending a shock through his body.

“James!” The other voice calls louder.

“Come on pal,” the man says, his image shuddering closer to the people surrounding him.

“Wake up,” both voices say in tandem.

Strong hands shake his shoulders. The feeling of being touched sending panic and fury flooding his body.

Blindly, he throws the person off finding his way to his feet on instinct alone.

“James,” the voice says calmly again.

The other voices rise in his ears, a roar drowning out everything else.

He doesn’t remember hitting his knees. Doesn’t remember crying. Or screaming. But when awareness slowly returns him he’s on his knees, sobbing, throat raw and painful as small crys manage to break through.

None of these realizations shake him like the sight before him though.

Catherine sits on her knees before him, eyes wide and worried. Her hands grip his wrists, holding them against his thighs with powerful force. A bruise he swears wasn’t there before blossoms on her right cheek.

“Oh god,” he croaks.

“Shh,” she releases his wrists. Without hesitation she shrugs off her knit robe, using the soft fabric to gently wipe at the moisture on his face.

Tremors begin to crack through him, violent in their fury. Hesitantly, she cups his face in her delicate hands, trying to steady him.

“Do you know where you are?” He nods and a flicker of relief shows on her features.

“Do you know who you are?” There is nothing but kindness in that velvet voice but the question hurts all the same.

Did he? Did he truly know?

No.

He focuses on her hands. It feels so good, her touch.

He didn’t know who he was, any more than he did all those months ago when she first offered him a taste of freedom. He does know one thing still, the only truth that matters, that grounds him. He knows who he is to her, and maybe who he wants to be for her. For now it’s enough.

“James,” he rasps.

“Yes,” she sighs, tension leaving her shoulders a bit. “James.”

He squeezes his eyes shut as he wishes the tremors away.

“What can I do?” Her thumbs wipe at new tears on his rough cheeks.

He doesn’t know how to answer, his mind still a jumbled mess.

Catherine, misreading his lack of response, begins to pull away.

“No,” his eyes shoot open, desperate. He presses his hands against her’s preventing her from releasing him. “Pl-please,” his voice cracks as a sob claws up his throat.

If he has to, he’ll beg her to stay. He’s too broken to feel ashamed of this fact. Because he knows that if she releases him he’ll be lost to those voices and he isn’t sure he will return.

“Ok,” Catherine nods.

Something about her understanding, her willingness, opens the floodgates wider. It feels like his chest is breaking open.

“James,” she whispers, “I-” She doesn’t finish, just pulls him to her.

He doesn’t fight, shocked to find he wants this. Wants to hide his face in her neck, wants to let the feeling of her envelop him. He wants to be safe, even if it’s an illusion, he wants to believe in it just for a moment.

Catherine holds him so tight he isn’t sure he won’t have bruises come morning but he doesn’t care. The tremors begin to calm though his tears show no sign of stopping.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers into his hair. “I’ve got you James.”

-

Tears burn behind your eyes but you deny them.

You had no right to cry.

Even if you hadn’t meant to, you'd put him in harm's way tonight.

Mara told you what she saw, the men crowded close around him, one of them--the American, Brock--with his hand down James’ jeans. No doubt they wanted to feel powerful. And James had let them because, as he said, it was necessary to maintain this illusion they had all built.

Your stomach turns.

I’m so sorry, James.

The sun was rising over London by the time you released your hold on him.

Somehow he looked both ancient and like a tired young man, eyes red and sunken. The combination rendered the color of his irises almost a clear blue. They were ethereal, the eyes of a fallen angel, a broken god. Someone too good for the world brought low.

“I hurt you,” his voice was barely a whisper as a shaking hand rises to your right cheek, metal fingers barely brushing the place where he’d stuck out.

“It’s not your fault. You were frightened.” He doesn’t look like he accepts it, hand withdrawing. You take hold of it, bringing the cool metal of his palm against the sore flesh. “It’s ok,” you reassure him.

After some argument--or rather angry glares and hand motions from James as his voice was practically gone--he concedes to staying at the flat while you go into the office. You insist you can handle a quick trip and that you only have to take care of a few minor things.

As your bike roars to life, a choice made both for its speed and the helmets ability to cover your bruised cheek, you text Mara:

Meet me ASAP at the office. With the names of the men from last night.

You’d only just set your helmet on your desk when Mara enters, two files in hand and a look that could kill, set on her face.

She draws up when she sees your cheek.

“James?” You don’t know if her question is regarding the bruise or his wellbeing but you take a guess.

“He’s… He had a rough night.”

“Those fucking bastards! I swear I-”

“Mara,” she pauses her furious pacing and looks at you. “I assume those files are about them?”

Mara glances down at the blank manilla folders in her hand, “Yeah. I, uh, maybe didn’t sleep much either.”

You can’t help but smile, “Just gathering information?”

“Sure, let’s go with that.” You raise your brows. “He’s my friend. I’ll be damned if anyone gets away with-”

“They won’t.” You hold out your hand for the files, “May I?”

Mara was, unsurprisingly, thorough. Family histories, bank accounts, vices. She laid them bare in a few hours of research.

“Excellent.” You close them, tossing them on the desk. “Help me with this,” you point to the bruise.

She worked her magic, hiding the bruise and your circles, while adding a perfectly executed cat eye and red lip.

“Give yourself a raise, Mara,” you say looking at the image you both cut in the floor length mirror.

Both of you wore fitted black dresses, her’s sported a square neck and sleeves while your own neckline swooped down to expose a bit of cleavage and left your arms bare. Her curls were slicked back into a severe bun, your long dark tresses tumbled freely over your shoulder. The monotone look extended to her sensible black heels, you opted for a pair of breakneck white python Louboutins setting your height to around six feet.

She laughed, “Don’t kid.”

“I’m not. Up your pay 25% and if they argue, send them to me.”

“I’m not arguing but why?”

“Because, makeup artist was not in the job description.” You give your face one more pass, the bruise completely hidden. “And I’d rather the file you have on me never see the light of day.”

You expected her to smile or make a joke. Instead her eyes meet yours in the mirror, expression serious.

“I burned the file I started on you 10 months ago. His too.” Mara smiles, “Shall I get our guests?”

“Please.”

You perch on top of your desk, crossing your legs causing the hem of your skirt to hike high up on your thighs, and sip a glass of scotch. With the press of a button, some trashy euro pop begins to play just a smidge louder than necessary for the space.

Mara tentatively opens the door, “Miss Clayton?”

“Oh yeah! Come in!” You call, voice cheery.

“Hello boys!” You croon from your perch, taking a drink before turning the music down.

“Miss Clayton,” the one named Mickey says cautiously in greeting.

“Oh fuck, please no. Catherine is fine.”

When you saw that these two were around your age you easily knew how you wanted to approach them. Mara already had words with them so they could view her as some kind of hard ass to Catherine’s rich socialite.

It was clear from the way his shoulders relaxed that the American, Brock, was quick to buy it. Likely, he knew little about you or your lineage. Mickey was less quick to accept the ruse.

“I missed you both last night so I had M find you.”

“C-can we do something for you ma’am?” Mickey stuttered. Brock looked physically pained by his friend’s formal demeanor.

“Ma’am?” You sigh, “No. Just thought maybe you two were, I don’t know,” you take a drink almost pouting, “more fun than some of the dry assholes I have to spend my time with.”

Brock smirks, “Can I have a drink,” he motions to the bar cart.

“Please!” You say with relief. “And have a seat,” you gesture to the chairs in front of the desk.

Brock pours a hefty slug of whiskey and tosses a smug look at an uncomfortable Mara, who’d been hovering in the corner, before sitting. After a sip he made himself comfortable in the low back chair, legs spread, lounging as though he’d spent all his time here.

To his credit, Mickey poured a tight finger of whiskey and teetered on the edge of his chair, ready to bolt.

Good. Brock was the one you were focused on first.

“You’re new right, Brock?”

“Yeah. Been here about two months.”

“How are you enjoying my city?” His eyes travel from the red soles of your shoes up to your matching lips.

“It’s good. Haven’t gotten out much but the sights are… impressive,” he holds your gaze and gives what you’re sure he thinks is a charming grin.

“And have you been helping him learn the ropes, Mickey?” You turn a sweet smile on the tightly wound man that seems to undo a bit of the tension swirling around him.

“When I can. We’ve been pretty busy.”

These two hardly qualified as grunts. Fresh initiates who lacked anything extraordinary were always put through the ringer of menial, mind numbing, low level security after boot camp to remind them of their place.

“I should see if Mara can find some time for me to show you around. London has many hidden gems I’m sure you’ll adore. I bet I could even surprise a native like you, Mick.”

“Surprised someone like you would want to play tour guide,” Brock says looking far too pleased

“You’d be amazed how low I’ll go to entertain myself,” you finish your drink and slide off the desk, glass in hand for a refill.

“Oh really?” Brock says as you stride past. You pause to set your glass on a side table. Appearing to abandon your drink to slake a different thirst.

From behind him, you run your hands across his shoulders and down his arms, leaning in. You cover his hands with yours, feeling the tendons of his right hand flex against the glass.

“Positively, shocked,” you whisper into his ear.

Just as he begins to turn his head you squeeze his right hand with enough force to shatter the glass in his grip, forcing it into a fist and crushing the shards deep into his palm. At the same time you crack the bones in his left hand.

So easy.

He screams in pain. Desperately he tries to force you off but his position and your strength have him at an extreme disadvantage.

“Now, now,” you release his hands and grip the back of his neck with such force you see blood trickle from where your nails cut into his skin. “Let’s not make a scene.”

Swiftly you rise, lifting him from his chair and forcing him to his knees as he cradles his hands to his chest. Once his cheek pressed against the floor you hold his head down with one red soled heel.

“Struggle and I’ll crush you like the worthless little cockroach you are. Do you understand me Mr. Rumlow?” He groans. You press his head harder into the floor, “That is not an acceptable answer. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” he sputters.

“I don’t expect you to know your manners so I’ll let this slide. But next time you will answer, ‘Yes, Madam Clayton.’”

Mickey was at the door trying to open it, clearly not viewing Mara as any sort of decent leverage. A knife flies from behind him embedding dangerously close to his hand.

“Did you dismiss him, Miss Clayton?” Mara asks with an air of sincerity you can’t help but respect.

“I did not.” Mickey turns a wide eyed expression toward you. “Come join us Michael,” you order, pointing to the floor beside Brock.

He crosses the room like a man moving through mud. Slow, laborious. And stops, eyes downcast before you.

“Down,” you say. The man hits his knees without hesitation.

“Now, Michael,” you snap your fingers, “look at me when I speak to you.” His head shoots up. “Better. Michael, I would expect someone like your friend here to behave so boorishly but you,” you shake your head in disappointment. “What would your sweet mother- Carol, was it Mara?”

“Yes. Carol Addison. Lives in Reading,” Mara responds cooly.

“What would sweet Mrs. Addison, think of her boy behaving so poorly? Your family has been serving the cause for decades with such glowing records and yet…” You shake your head.

“It was just a bit of fun Ma-Madam. Didn’t mean no-”

“I asked what your mother would think, Michael.”

“She’d be disappointed, Madam,” he answers like a scolded child.

“I suspect so.”

You grind your shoe into Brock’s cheek, he groans. “You still with us?”

“Yes, Madam Clayton.” The hate in his voice tasted like honey.

“Good. I want to be sure you both hear me. I’m not angry about what you did,” you tenderly stroke the side of Mickey’s face. “I’d never fault someone for having a bit of fun. But, you see, I don’t take kindly to people touching my things without permission.

“Tell me, Michael, would you have dared do that if the Soldier belonged to my father?”

“All’s I did was splash a bit of whiskey on ‘em!” Mickey bursts out. “Rumlow’s the one who-”

“Fuck you!” Brock growls from his place under your heel.

“Michael,” you grip his chin hard, “I asked you a specific question.”

He swallows hard, “N-no Madam. I wouldn’t’ve.”

“And why is that?” Your voice was satin, “Be honest.”

You hold his gaze for a moment before he blurts, “He was the devil himself, your dad. No one in their right mind-”

You laugh, high and bright, cutting Mickey off cold.

“Did you hear him, Mr. Rumlow? The devil.” You press down on his face once more, he whimpers.

“I’m sorry I didn-”

“Oh no, Michael, you’re correct. My father was the devil.” Your voice drops, “I want you to remember that the next time you even think to disrespect me. I am the devil's daughter. Cross me again and I will break you in ways even my dearly departed daddy couldn’t fathom.”

You look from Brock to Mickey, “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Madam Clayton!” Both men rush to say.

“Excellent,” you release Mickey’s face, patting his cheek briefly before gripping his nose between your fingers. “Make sure the other cockroaches understand, won’t you Michael?” He nods.

“Good boy,” you coo and break his nose. He gargles falling forward as you release him, blood streaming down his face.

You remove your foot from Brock’s cheek and kneel before him, lifting him up with your bloody hand.

“You’ll be on the first flight back to DC. You’re welcome to return once you learn some manners.” You wipe your hand clean on the shoulder of his uniform.

“Yes, Madam Clayton.” You were shocked to see not hatred or even fear in his eyes, but deep respect.

This one only speaks in violence, you think.

“Get out of my sight,” you order. The two men slink out in silence.

“I was really hoping Mickey would put up a fight,” Mara says, disappointed.

“Sorry to rob you of your pound of flesh.”

“I’ll find some way to cope.” She studies you for a beat, “You ok?”

You shrug, “As I ever am.” She nods. “Mara,” you say as she walks toward the bar cart.

“Hmm?” She pours a drink, savoring it.

“You know I don’t think of him as a-”

“Oh, I know,” she throws you a knowing wink.

“What is that about?” You ask, crossing your arms.

“Look, I have no interest in knowing what you two get up to-”

“It isn’t-”

She holds up her free hand, “Well, however you do think of him, I know it’s not as an object or as something you own.”

“How?” The question is out of your mouth before you can think to stop it.

Mara smiles warmly, “I’ve seen how you look at him when we’re at your place.” She finishes her drink, “And, for what it’s worth, I’ve seen how he looks at you. Whatever it is, it's pretty clear it matters to you both.”

She lets out a burst of laughter, “I just watched you decimate two men and yet here you are blushing! Woo, girl you’re on a whole other level of fucked up.”

“Thanks,” you grumble.

“And,” Mara sets a hand on your shoulder, “I love ya for it.” Begrudgingly you return her smile.

“What I said applies to you too. If anyone lays a finger-”

“I can handle myself, princess.”

“I know. Still.”

“Thank you.” She ducks into the bathroom and tosses your street clothes at you. “Now, we should go check in on our boy.”

Chapter Text

For a few days after the incident, James was eerily quiet. It didn’t shock you. The kinds of horrible memories those men had no doubt dragged to the surface of his mind weren’t the kind that left someone particularly chatty or sociable. You gladly gave him as much space as you could, not wanting him to feel overly coddled or suffocated. 

Now, 12 days in, it was getting to be a bit much. 

Most conversations you’d shared hardly exceeded five words. Not to mention that if you were to tally up exchanges having to do with topics other than food or transportation, those could be counted on one hand. 

Even being in the same room appeared to make him uncomfortable to the point of physical pain. In your office, he remained by the door, more statue than man. At the flat, he immediately exited any room you entered unless you asked something of him. And yesterday, when you’d touched his shoulder in the car, he’d actually flinched. 

It galled you to admit just how much it hurt. Each time he actively avoided looking at you or left the room it felt like someone was twisting barbed wire in your gut. Some part of you begged you to just ask him why, to tell you what you’d done, where you’d misstepped, but your pride would have none of it.  

So you just kept your mouth shut. That was easier. 

Mara lounges in one of the chairs in front of your desk, her bare feet crossed on the edge, as she drags a file across her nails. “I was thinking you should wear that white satin gown tonight.” She holds her hand out, studying her work, “Sexy but innocent.”

“Hair?” You ask, only half paying attention. 

“Hmm… Chignon.” 

“What approach do you want for security?” James pipes up from his new favorite place across the office. 

“He speaks!” Mara gasps, tilting her head back to look at him. 

Anger flares in your chest, so hot you’re genuinely concerned you may combust. Which was absolutely ridiculous. 

James’ question wasn’t strange. Depending on the type of guests in attendance or the venue itself, it sometimes made sense for him to shadow you closely; others called for a more casual situation. A typical question. One that had been asked before almost every public appearance since you’d begun this journey. Yet you were having to put effort into not gripping the arms of your chair too tight. 

“You won’t be attending,” you say casually.

“Excuse me?” His argumentative tone almost snapped your control. You wouldn’t give him that win. 

Sighing as if you were already bored you turned cool, indifferent, eyes on him. “You’re poor optics.” His brows knit in confusion. “Having no security is far less suspicious than a detail that can’t stand being within ten feet of me.” 

“Cath-” 

A wicked thing uncoils from some dark place inside you, taking hold of your tongue, “And honestly James, it isn’t like I need you.” When he doesn’t react, you want to throw something. 

“Is that a dismissal?” All argument, all emotion, was gone from his voice.

“If you’d like,” you shrug, turning your attention to the papers you’d been staring at for the better part of the last hour. 

When the door snicks shut signaling his exit, you feel like throwing up. 

“What the fuck was that?” Mara’s tone borders on reprimanding. 

“What?” You flip the page, not looking up. A hand appears in your field of vision, closing the file and tossing it aside. Your eyes drag up to meet Mara’s.

You’d expected anger or at least annoyance. Instead she looked… disappointed. Guilt mixed with your anger and that dark thing roared louder. 

Crossing your arms across your chest you lean back a touch, “I do hope you intend to pick that up.”

She rolls her eyes, huffing a breath, “Don’t play that cold cunt card on me. Won’t work.” You open your mouth but she holds up a finger, “By now you should know that you don’t scare me so whatever veiled threat you’re about to deliver, just don’t.” Your brows rise, honestly a bit shocked at her audacity. 

Massaging the bridge of her nose, Mara sits back down, “I swear the two of you are going to kill me.”

“I didn’t-” A dramatic sound between a grown and a growl cuts you off. “What?!” 

“Is your memory more shot than Jimmy’s? Or do you just not want to acknowledge what you just did to that man?” The dark thing begins to shrink back, shame choking it. You look away from her knowing gaze. “That’s what I thought. So I’ll ask again, what the fuck was that?” 

“What I-” You burst to your feet, sending your chair skittering into the glass wall behind you. Pacing to the bar cart you pause remembering nothing there will help and settle for leaning against the wall next to it. “What about what he’s been doing?” You gesture at the door, “I assume you won’t be berating him for that.” 

“I’ve already berated him. Now it’s your turn,” she pulls a knee up, resting her arm on it. 

You pride howls in protest but the words slink from between your lips anyway, “Did he- What did he say?” 

Something dark flits over Mara’s features. Worry immediately snuffs out any traces of anger or pride, “Mar. Did I do something? Is he-”

“An idiot? Yes,” she smiles wanly. “But, clearly, so are you so I guess I need to reconsider who I spend my time with.” 

Despite everything you still laugh. Mara was the only person who could make you furious and endear you at the same time. You take the seat next to her, tucking your legs under you. 

“He’s scared, Cat.” Your face falls. “Not of you!” She shakes her head, “You’re both hopeless. He’s scared of himself. Of what he’s capable of. He...” She trails off. 

“Mara?”

“I’m only telling you this because you’re both driving me crazy and… And he’s just… I don’t know.” You hold your breath. “He’s scared of what he could do to you. Thinks that night he struck out at you proved you’re too comfortable around him to see the danger or to respond to it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” you shake your head. “I’m perfectly capable of-”

“Oh, I know. And I told him.” She sighs, “But he’s not going to listen to me.”

You scoff, “You think I’ll have any better luck?”

“No,” her grin is sad, “but you need to try.” You look away gnawing your bottom lip. “Just talk to him.” 

Talk. You don’t want to talk. You just kind of want to throw something at him. 

Mara stands, “And... maybe apologize,” she rests a hand on your shoulder. You look up, meeting her eyes, “Because you know that was bullshit. If you didn’t need him you wouldn’t give a damn about how he’s been acting.” Your stomach flipped. 

-

“And honestly James, it isn’t like I need you.” Those words played on a loop in his head.

Not like she’s wrong, a voice in his head says. 

He couldn’t deny that. Catherine was necessary. True, he was an asset that would be difficult to replace but it was Catherine who they needed if they were going to have any chance at success. Without him she could still find a way to kill Hydra. If anything, he was a liability. 

Which was exactly why he had to maintain this distance. It didn’t matter that it felt like the worst kind of torture--and he had plenty of experiences to compare. Every time he stepped a little farther back, changed seats, or left the room some hungry, horribly selfish, part of him howled at him to do the opposite. When he didn’t comply it filled his dreams with memories of her smell, her touch, tormenting him.  

Worse, was that Catherine’s hurt also couldn’t matter--something Mara just didn’t understand. He saw the pain in her expression with every withdrawal and it killed him but better these small hurts than something far worse. 

The only thing that mattered was her safety. 

Safety that he currently couldn’t guarantee. Beneath his grip, the railing of his balcony groans and he pulls back. 

Mara was right about one thing, he needed to talk to Catherine. He had to make her understand the danger that he presented, to explain why he had to keep this distance. If he didn’t it was going to continue to backfire like tonight. Because, even though she didn’t need him… He needed to keep her safe. 

His stomach growls. Loudly. Clearly, he also needed food. 

In the kitchen, he grabs a protein bar, barely tasting it as he leans against the counter. His eyes wander around the empty flat, opulent and cold, the city glittering beyond the glass wall looking out onto the terrace. 

A slash of white against the shadows catches his attention. 

Catherine.

Leaning against the terrace wall, her gaze on the city beyond, she seemed to glow. Ethereal in that white satin. He swallows thickly. 

He glances at the time on the microwave. Only midnight. Far too early for the gala to be over and just on the line of too early for a graceful exit. A twinge of worry curls in his gut. 

Surely he’d have been informed if something had happened. Mara had gone with her after all. And if something had happened it was his own damn fault for not being there. 

Talk to her you coward, he chides himself. 

Catherine straightens slowly when she hears the door to the terrace open. She turns, her long body relaxing against the railing as she lifts a black cigarette to her lips, the contents crackling as she takes a drag. 

On a lesser woman, the gesture would have seemed like a pantomime, an act of nonchalance. Not on her. For Catherine Clayton this brutally cool demeanor was entirely natural. 

As the smoke slithers from between her crimson lips he follows it up and feels a stab in his chest. Those eyes, as cold and hard as the emeralds they stole their color from, cut him as surely as a blade. 

“And honestly James, it isn’t like I need you.”

A breeze rustles the dark locks of hair framing her face and presses the white satin of her gown snug against her body. It was hard to feel as if she didn’t summon the wind itself for that purpose. He wonders if he didn’t imagine every time he sensed warmth in her because this creature before him, this flawless creature, was made of winter just as much as he was. 

“What?” She asks without the barest hint of emotion. 

“I…” He feels the words die on his tongue. I’m sorry. I only wanted to keep you safe. I think you’re beautiful. He doesn’t say any of those things. “I’m surprised you're back so soon.” She ticks one brow up but doesn’t respond further. 

After a long excruciating silence, Catherine sighs and flicks her cigarette into the night air. Without a word, she brushes past him and through the open glass door. When she doesn’t go to her room but rather heads for her office James’ curiosity can’t be ignored. 

By the time he joins her she’s already kicked off her heels and is opening the hidden floor safe by one of the bookshelves. He actively tries to look anywhere but at her, one shoulder of her dress slipping down, the curve of her neck so damn inviting. 

That creature in him wondered if he kissed her there what would she- Abruptly she stands, once more walking past him without a word. 

Like a man in a trance, he follows her into the living room, watching curiously as she flips a switch, igniting the gas fireplace. The glass stones glitter in the light. 

Finally, she looks at him. The emotions on her face shift with the firelight. One moment sad, another angry, another determined. Trying to decipher which emotion was dominant distracted him from the small black book in her hands. 

Catherine holds it up and his blood runs cold. Fear sends his heart into a staccato beat, sweat beads his brow. That red star embossed on a black background was a thing of his nightmares. 

“I assume you know what this is?” She sounds far away even though she’s only a few feet from him. He opens his mouth to answer but nothing comes out, instead he settles for a nod, praying it’s a good enough answer. Praying he didn’t do something wrong enough to-

“I’ve read every word. I could recite them from memory if necessary. I-”

“Please,” the word comes out choked and broken. It takes every ounce of dignity he has left to him to not drop to his knees and beg. “Anything you need I’ll do just please don’t-”

Catherine looks like he’d slapped her, “I would never…” She shakes her head and opens the glass door of the fireplace. 

The black book hits the flames with a hiss, leather crackling before turning a deeper black. After a beat, the smell of burning paper fills his nostrils. It’s the sweetest perfume. 

“When I find the red one, I’ll let you burn it.” His eyes shoot from the burning book to Catherine, trying to comprehend what was happening. 

“What-”

“You’ve been avoiding me since that night. Tell me why?”

His brows knit, “I don’t understand how that-”

“James-”

“What does it matter?” 

“Humor me.” 

He had wanted this hadn’t he? Wanted to tell her why and make her understand. But now... His muscles tense.

“Please.” The tone is too gentle. A soft caress. He hates it. Hates how broken it makes him feel. Hates how the beast in him howls and how he wants to give in and how she makes him...

Metal fingers coil around her throat with inhuman speed. The force of Catherine slamming into the wall is enough to send a painting crashing to the floor, frame cracking on impact. 

The silence that follows is all the heavier for the violence that precluded it. Actions spoke louder after all. 

Firelight glints in Catherine’s spectacular eyes, the only trace of warmth in her cool expression.

That dark, monstrous, part of him wants to melt that icy mask. It wants to see those sharp cheeks flushed, those full lips--so close to his now that he can feel her breath--kiss bruised. But it cannot- He cannot have her. 

“Do you know what I could do to you? Do you-” 

“Zhelaniye,” Catherine says. The way she delivers the first word of the sequence with such a lack of emotion belies the power in it. The sound slams into his brain like a sledgehammer, shattering all other thoughts beyond pure, desperate, terror. 

“Do you know what I could do to you ?” 

James shivers, frozen and unable to speak. 

In the space of a breath, she sweeps his feet from under him. The air flies from his lungs in a hiss as she uses his own weight against him, throttling him hard against the floor. Not that he’d be able to breathe once his vision cleared. 

The sight of Catherine straddling his torso, the heat of her body releasing some of the cold fear in his chest, felt like a dream. Even the way her nails bite into the sides of his neck feels too delicious for this to be real. He blinks a few times, expecting her to vanish but she remains impossibly real. 

She studies him from her perch, “And I don’t only mean with what was in that book.” Her hand tightens the slightest bit for emphasis, “Do not, for one second, think you are any more of a threat to me than I am to you.” 

Catherine leans down, the motion drawing his attention to the way her dress sits hiked up her thighs. If he was bold enough, he could lift a hand and touch the smooth skin. The idea almost breaks his tenuous control, an ache already building between his legs.  

“We are equally matched monsters, James Barnes,” she practically purrs. 

The sensation of her breath brushing his lips is too much. It may as well be fire the way it seems to burn through his veins. 

Control be damned. 

James pushes his throat tighter into her grip, desperate to close the space between them. Let her crush his windpipe, let his last breath taste like her. Of all the deaths he’d experienced, this one would at least be sweet. 

Much to his shock, it isn’t the cold oblivion of death that rises to claim him. This oblivion is something entirely different, almost forgotten. It’s heat and hunger. It is consuming and god damn he wants to burn. 

Catherine yields to his kiss completely, hand slipping from his throat to tangle in his hair. Her smoky sweet taste fills his body, seeking out every hollow part of him and making him feel whole. Alive for the first time in so fucking long. 

She nips his bottom lip and he can’t contain the growl that rumbles in his chest. Grabbing hold of her waist he flips her onto her back, pressing his body into hers.

His hands slide up her arms until he’s caught both wrists in his left hand, pinning them above her head. The satin of her dress is cool to his touch as he bunches the neckline in his fist. With barely a tug it gives way, thin straps snapping. 

Catherine gasps as he catches her nipple between his middle finger and thumb. He devours the sound. Oh god, he wanted to devour all of her. Wanted to savor every inch of her and to be consumed by her at the same time. He wanted-

Her hand slides under the fabric of his shirt. The touch burns its way across his back and… 

Too much. This was too much. He can’t- couldn’t- His lungs seized as a tremor rocks him. 

“James?” He hadn’t realized he’d frozen. She cups his face, “It’s ok.” Her eyes hold so much warmth now, so much… Longing? He couldn’t let himself think that. 

“I-” His voice cracks. “I’m sorry.” He lifts off of her, backing up until his back pressed against one of the armchairs. 

When he looks at her, he aches. Her hair had fallen loose, sending dark waves cascading over her shoulders. She held her dress with one hand as she rested the other arm on the couch, legs tucked beneath her. Along with those flushed cheeks and swollen lips, he just couldn’t fathom how she could be real.  

-

The way James looked at you made your heart stutter. 

“For what?” Your voice was rough, breathy. It almost didn’t sound like you. 

A crooked grin pulls at the edge of his mouth, “Everything.” 

You look at the fire, “Even…” Kiss was too mild but your brain was feeling short on words. Your fingers touch your lips. 

He takes a shaky breath, “I…” You hold your breath, watching the flames dance. “I don’t know.” Your heart twists. Stupidly.  

The weight of his gaze forces you to look at him. Good god, has anyone ever looked at you like this? Hunger, longing, and something you can’t name mixing into something utterly intoxicating. A chill runs up your spine and your flesh prickles. 

“No,” he says with such surety you almost jump. “Not for this. Maybe I should be but-”

You shake your head, “You shouldn’t.” 

He smiles then. It’s a small one but the corners of his eyes still crinkle. It breaks your heart that he can’t see himself like this, warm and glowing in the firelight. How could he ever think you’d fear him? And how could you-

“I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, throat feeling oddly tight. 

“Mean what?”

You suddenly don’t know where to look or where to put your hands or how to exist in your body. Everything feels gangly and wrong like you’ve been put together at wrong angles. Finally, you settle on staring at the rug beneath you, the grey and cream pattern blurring mysteriously. 

“I need you-” Your voice cracks, solving that mystery. “I need you,” you manage to sound less pitiful. “I was just angry and acting like some spoiled petulant little brat and I didn’t even think-” 

The rest of your apology is cut off by those lips on yours again. This time they feel different, less a demand and more an invitation. Regardless, you open to him. Something in you says you’d answer any call he made. 

James, pulls back, cupping your face in his hands, thumbs stroking the cut of your cheekbones. That hunger is still there but there is a tenderness too, you don’t even know how to feel about that. Hunger you understood but this… 

“There isn’t anything to apologize for. I should have… I shouldn’t have- I knew I was hurting you but I thought-” He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut for a beat before metal fingers lightly touch the place where he’d struck you. 

When he opens his eyes your throat closes. Unshed tears shine, making the blue of his irises soft, like a pool you could fall into forever. 

“Catherine,” he says your name like it’s a prayer, a holy thing. Somehow it sounds right on his lips. “If anything were to happen to you… I’d be lost. And if I-”

“Stop,” you press a finger to his lips. “We established that you are not the only danger here.” He begins to speak but you continue, “Don’t argue with me.” 

Reaching for his hands you pull them from your face. Holding them in your own, you study them, running your fingers over calluses and jointed metal. Neither looked sinister. You see the edge of the scar on your left palm, the one from the night he’d saved you from your father. Warmth spreads across your chest. You lay your hand in his, palm up, and guide his metal fingers to the raised line bisecting the skin. 

“You’ve always saved me, James.” You see his adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. He brings your palm to his lips, kissing the scar. 

“You are my salvation,” he whispers so low against your palm you almost miss it. 

Tears sting your eyes. How could the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to you also be the most terrifying? Because if you failed, failed at this mission, you would cost him that salvation. 

I will not fail him. It was that simple. It had to be.

Chapter Text

A new chapter is coming soon. 

I'm so excited to be back, I missed this series. 

Chapter Text

Things had been going well since the night you burned The Soldier’s book of commands. 

Your most recent blows to the beast that is Hydra were relatively bloodless. No one innocent was harmed and the intended impact was achieved. Globally, the organization felt the squeeze of losing some key supply lines due to—as far as anyone knew—nothing but hubris and infighting. The kind of entirely human self-sabotage that couldn’t be traced back to your Trojan horse of a team. 

On the home front, you and James had managed to break your streak of tense and awkward exchanges, mostly. Mara was thrilled, announcing she could now table her plans to lock you and James in a room until you kissed and made up. 

She didn’t need to know you’d done the kissing without her interference. Not that it had happened since. 

It would be the single blemish on this blissful time if it wasn’t the one thing keeping you from expecting the other shoe to drop. Things were going well. And as long as James wasn’t in your bed, they were not perfect. 

Which was how things should likely stay. 

Maybe if you keep telling yourself that it will make you lean less into those lingering embraces when you were both home alone. Dampen the heat of those moments before you parted ways for bed, the ones that felt like a held breath–each of you waiting for the other to cross the invisible line between you.

You almost crossed it at that insufferable New Year’s event you had to attend the other day. Tried to tell yourself a wealthy socialite kissing her bodyguard was just the kind of fodder The Mirror loved. And wouldn’t that only help the image you were trying to build? 

No amount of internal bargaining could make you do it. 

Coward. That word your father had taught you from a young age to loathe. The weakness of the defeated you were meant to rip out by the roots. Yet, you knew that was exactly what you were when it came to James Barnes. A bloody fucking coward. 

All of this runs through your mind as you stare at the ceiling above your bed. 

For the last few hours, you’d been trying to force your mind into sleep. Staying prostrate under the covers out of spite more than anything. Before your thoughts can loop back to that night, to James’ look of relief when you burned the book, and inevitably to your single shared kiss, you fling the covers off. 

Tossing your sleep shirt aside, you pull on sweats and a sports bra. Maybe a run in the frigid early January London night would make you feel better, or at least tired enough to get some sleep. 

The scent of chocolate causes you to pause as you step from your room. You sniff the air. Not just chocolate. Warm chocolate. Dark and rich. Your mouth waters. 

From the kitchen, the sound of James humming follows that delectable scent. You stay hidden, listening, a gentle smile working its way across your lips. Lyrics break through the humming here and there:

Why can't I let you know the song my heart would sing?

A few hummed bars and then:

The song is you.

James stops, silence filling the space. “Catherine?” Damn his perception. 

You lean around the corner, waving awkwardly. “Sorry, didn’t want to interrupt.” 

“Did I wake you?” His brows knit in unwarranted concern. 

“No.” The soundproofing in your room had, not for the first time, completely muffled his late-night kitchen escapades. There were many mornings since you’d begun this journey together when you woke to some new treat—muffins, and crumpets, and cupcakes, anything that struck his fancy. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

“You alright?” He wipes his hands on a cup towel, tossing it over his shoulder. White dusts the front of his dark gray shirt and black sweats. 

“Of course.” You hop onto the side of the island facing the small dining space, tucking a knee under your chin. 

He rounds the island, toeing one of the cushioned barstools, a fond smile on his face. “I don’t know why you bought stools if you never use them.” 

“Can’t have people know how feral I am. Appearances, James.” 

“I’m not people?” The question could have been dark but the teasing tone in his voice assures you he took your meaning.

“You’ve seen the beast,” you say with a wink. Bowls and measuring cups sit in perfect order on the countertop behind you, some with ingredients awaiting their purpose. “What’re you making?” 

He sighs. “Well… It was meant to be a surprise.”

Your brows knit, “What was?” You pluck a chocolate chip from a bowl, grinning at his disapproval as the delicious bitter-sweet taste fills your mouth.

“The cake,” he says as though that made things more clear. When you just stare at him he moves a little closer. When you reach for another piece of chocolate he grabs your hand, stopping you. 

“Do you know the date?” He shifts his grip, interlacing your fingers. Such an innocent thing and still your heart beats faster. 

“The da-” The third of January. You try to pull your hand away but James tightens his grip, closing the remaining distance between you. “No,” you groan. “Please, no. I don’t- I haven’t…”

The words die on your tongue, turning the lingering chocolate taste to ash. How to say that you haven’t celebrated your birthday since your mother? True, you may be a beast, but it felt especially heinous to celebrate your birth after what you’d done to the woman who brought you into the world, regardless of whether that had been your choice or not.

“Catherine?” His fingers lightly trace your jaw. Confusion and concern color his features, deepening the blue in his eyes. It makes you ache.

“I don’t do my birthday. I-” A shudder runs through you. Rather than risk cracking in front of him you push him back, hopping down. 

You barely make it two steps before strong arms wrap around your middle, pulling your back flush against his warm chest. “Don’t go.” His words and breath flutter against your ear. 

“James-” you try to pull away but he holds you firm- “please.” Your voice cracks despite your efforts. 

“It can just be another day. It can just be a cake. I’ll let Mara know.”

“Mara?” You manage. 

His chuckle vibrates between you. “This was her idea. I’m pretty sure she’s filling your office with balloons as we speak.”

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips or the warm feeling in your chest. Your head falls back onto his shoulder. “Why? Last year she didn’t-”

“She said last year she was still testing the waters but that, and I quote, ‘I’ll be damned if I let another pass without embarrassing her at least a little.’” 

You laugh despite yourself and look over your shoulder at the kitchen. “And you were going to make me a cake?” 

“Technically, I’ve already made it.”

“Could’ve just bought a cake at Tescos.” 

“I wanted to make one for you.” 

Why did that simple statement unleash a swarm of bees in your chest cavity? Why does the thought of these people trying to do something kind make you want to laugh and cry and scream all at once? This feeling, this warm and gentle feeling, is so foreign it feels like your body is rejecting it like a bad organ transplant. 

For a few long moments, you both stand there, swaying ever so gently in the soft silence. He doesn’t ask you for an explanation you don’t feel ready or willing to give and you don’t pull away. 

I’m sorry I let him make you think that being kind is being weak, that love is weakness. It isn’t. 

You hadn’t thought about those words, some of the last your mother had spoken to you, in so long. She believed love and kindness made you stronger. And maybe she was right. Maybe allowing this softness to take root would lead to something good. 

We’re going to be happy, baby.

You owed it to her memory to try.

“What if I didn’t want cake?” You say in as light a tone as you can manage. 

His low laugh makes the bees swarm faster, “I’d say you’re a liar. You love dark chocolate.” It was true.

“But, if I wanted something else?” The words fall from your lips, much more coy and confident than you actually feel. 

James loosens his hold, turning you to face him. “I thought you didn’t do birthdays?”

You shrug. “Seems foolish to try and go against both you and Mara.”

He tilts your face up to his. “So, what is it you want?” 

Your heart lodges in your throat, making breathing difficult, much less speaking. This was madness. No one had ever left you speechless or breathless, it was such unknown ground you couldn’t find your footing. 

“Should I guess?” The pad of his cool metal thumb grazes your lower lip. You nod, breath held. He leans in slowly, giving you space to stop him, as if you’d ever dream of doing such a thing. 

The initial brush of his lips silences the swarm in your chest. All the chaos and guilt and doubt falls away. 

He cups the back of your head, deepening the kiss. You melt into him, hands finding their way to his waist, holding him tight against you. 

The timer ringing causes you both to jump back, breaking the kiss. You stare at one another for a breath before laughter fills your flat.

“I have to check that,” James says, words still colored with that warm laugh of his. 

You trail behind him, hopping back onto the counter as the rich smell of warm chocolate billows from the oven.

“How many cakes did you make?” You ask, watching him remove another cake after the first.

“Three.” 

You don’t try to hide your surprise. “Are we feeding all of Hydra?”

“It’s a layer cake.” He finishes setting the cakes out to cool.

James chuckles as turns around, taking you in. “I think you’re part cat. Always sitting in places that aren’t made for it.” 

A sweet sadness stabs through your chest, “My mum used to call me Kitty. Drove Eric crazy but she did it anyway.” 

“Brave woman.”

“She was.” You take a shaky breath, focusing on the grout between the floor tiles. “I pretended to hate it, but… I didn’t. Not really.” 

“Kitty,” he tests the name. It had been so long since someone had called you that, you’re unsure how to feel until you look up and see the tenderness on his face. “It suits this part of you.” 

You don’t hide your confusion as he closes the distance between you, his palms coming to rest on your thighs, giving them a gentle squeeze. 

“It’s who you are here. The version of you who sits on things that aren’t intended to be chairs. Who sneaks into the kitchen for biscuits late at night. ” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair out of your face. “The one who indulges Mara’s bizarre movie choices, and who never minds reading silently in the same room as me. That’s Kitty.” 

“Is this a gentle way of telling me I have some kind of split personality?” You tease darkly. 

He cocks a brow. “Don’t we all?” You shrug in acquiescence. “I’m glad to know Catherine but I’m honored you trust me to see Kitty too.” 

A fierce blush spreads across your cheeks, the heat seeping into your chest. 

On more than one occasion, you’d been—by your own consent—stripped bare in a room full of strangers. All of those times never left you as vulnerable as you feel now. 

He places a kiss on your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. Each sends a shock through you. Each makes you silently beg for him to make his way to your lips once more. When he finally does, you nearly melt from satisfaction. 

Everything falls away. 

When was the last time you kissed someone like this? Nothing but lips and tongues. Soft sounds. Hesitant caresses. Had you ever?

It doesn’t matter. This feels divine. 

James breaks the kiss, lips barely an inch from your own. “Is this what you wanted?” 

You nod. “Since that night. But I wasn’t sure if you-”

“I did.” He cuts you off. “I do.” He heaves a sigh, back straightening a bit. “Sorry. I-” He cuts himself off, eyes dropping to watch as his calloused fingers trace the cut of your collarbone. “I don’t know the… the rules.” 

You recognize that feeling. Aching to touch, to feel, to experience, and not knowing how people went about doing that. 

“Do you want rules?” You ask, tilting his face up. “Because, I can give you rules, James.”

Those beautiful steel blue eyes study you, looking for the trap that isn’t there, for the lie that would leave him shackled once more. Silently, you beg whatever hears the prayers of devils, for him to trust that you will not turn this against him, for him to trust you in this—in all things. 

Let me prove myself to him. Please.

After what feels like an eternity, he nods. “I think… I think I’d like that.” 

You smile broadly, excitement singing in your veins. “First rule: If you want something of me—anything at all—ask. I may not say yes but I want you to ask.” 

He looks baffled. “Why is that the first rule?”

“Because…” You search for the words. “When you’ve been made to feel like you’re nothing, it’s powerful to allow yourself to want anything.” 

James runs his metal fingers from the base of your ear down your shoulder causing you to shiver. “If…” He swallows hard. “And if I wanted to touch you?”

Your heart skips several beats. “How do you want to touch me, James?”

He considers, fingers flexing against your thighs once more. “I want to touch you in a way that feels good. For you. I want to make you feel good.”

A lesser man would have asked to have you on your knees or bent over the countertop. James Barnes wasn’t a lesser man. 

“Do you want me to show you how?” You ask, voice rough with desire. 

He nods. “Yes.”

You take his hands, moving them to your breasts. “Take my bra off.” As his deft fingers unhook the front of your sports bra, you wonder if he can feel the way your heart flutters against your ribcage. When he finishes, he slides the garment down your shoulders with such tenderness you feel a lump try to rise in your throat. 

“Good boy,” you purr, stroking the stubble on his cheek.

His eyes shoot to yours, a familiar spark lighting deep within the dark of his pupils. You recognize that just as you’d recognized his hunger and need for guidance. Familiar as looking into a mirror. 

“Kiss me.” It’s a gentle command but one he answers enthusiastically. 

You take his right hand and slide it beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. He breaks the kiss, lips hovering over yours as he sucks in a breath the moment he feels how soaked you are. 

“This is what you do to me.” With your guidance his fingers stroke you, barely grazing your clit as they explore. You don’t stop him as his touch dips lower, sliding his middle finger inside you. 

A small sound slips out as he covers your mouth with his. He trails his kisses down your throat across your chest, until he takes one nipple into his mouth, metal hand braced behind your back. 

You can’t help but grind against his touch. He might have asked to be shown but some part of him clearly understood how to touch a woman. Though some girlish romantic part of you wonders if he simply was made to touch you. 

“Does this feel good?” He asks, a cheeky grin on his face as he adds another finger. 

“Yes,” you gasp, lifting your hips for more. “Curl your fingers a bit- Oh god!” Your head falls back as he pulses strong fingers against your G-spot. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, doll,” he says, eyes searing you to your core. 

You dig your nails into flesh and metal, holding on as you feel your orgasm coming to a head. “James!” You cry out his name as you come hard, your pleasure soaking both his hand and your sweats. 

Panting, you let yourself fall forward, resting your forehead against his chest. 

Without a word, he takes hold of your trembling thighs, lifting you off the counter as your arms wind around his neck. 

A few hours later, you both lounge on the sofa. Half clothed, sweaty, and completely content to be eating unfrosted birthday cake from the pan. 

When he carried you to the sofa from the kitchen, he made quick work of removing your sweats and underwear. James still wears his pants—he made it clear he wasn’t comfortable being touched below the waist and you had no problem honoring that boundary—but now you were in nothing but his discarded t-shirt. And while everything the two of you had done was incredibly tame by your standards, good god was it fun. 

“Do you remember when you asked me why I enjoy BDSM?” You ask around a bite of truly divine chocolate cake. 

He blinks up at you from his place on the floor. “That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation.”

You roll your eyes. “Not to be vulgar, but you just caused me to soak this sofa to such a level we may just have to burn it. I think we’re past propriety, James.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “You said it made you feel human.”

You nod. “And after following my little rule of asking for what you want, how do you feel?”

“I feel…” He rubs your calf with his metal hand, taking a moment before continuing. “Warm. Content. And… Yeah, maybe a little more human.”

You twirl a lock of his dark hair around your finger. “When he—my father—let me leave for uni, I felt like a circus animal set free in the wild. I had all these tricks for a world I wasn’t in any longer.” A sardonic grin curves your lips. “Knowing how to kill a person with my bare hands wasn’t exactly useful when what I needed to know was how to talk to the person next to me in lecture.” 

James snorts a laugh. 

“People could tell.” You tangle your fingers with his. “They could sense something wasn’t quite right even if they couldn’t put their finger on it. I think that’s why he let me go.”

“Why he let you go to school on your own,” he clarifies. 

You nod. “Being human was something he couldn’t teach me.”

“So he cut you loose to make you figure it out for yourself.” You don’t miss the look of hatred on James’ face. 

“I don’t know how well it worked, mind you. If I ever did truly figure it out. But honestly, it’s the only kindness he ever did me, even if that wasn’t his intent. Because I did learn how to let myself want something more than just survival.” You sigh. “And I owe that to stumbling into the wrong club one night.” 

“You didn’t seek it out?” He asks. 

“No.” You smile at the memory. “It was kismet. I meant to meet a classmate—who I didn’t really like, but felt as if I should—at some insufferably posh nightclub. Went through the wrong black door and found myself watching in awe, as a beautiful woman in a bespoke suit paddled a man into blissful oblivion.”

His brows rise at that. “And that’s where you learned the rules.”

“It’s where I started.” You take a bite of cake, thinking. “That same woman I saw took me under her wing. Taught me about boundaries, about playing safely, mindfully. The balance between pleasure and pain. Submission and dominance.” You don’t think you imagine the spark of interest in his eyes. 

“Most importantly, she showed me a world where consent was honored in a way I’d never known possible.” James looks away at that, but you know he understands the significance. “And it was in those spaces I was able to take back some of what he took from me.”

You don’t rush him to respond and you don’t dare to ask if he would be interested in exploring this world further. Either felt utterly abhorrent. It seemed best to present him with your own truth and let him decide how to proceed. 

The silence that settles over you both feels easy if not exactly comfortable as James processes. 

“Can you tell me more?” He asks. 

“About what part?”

“All of it.”

You smile broadly. “I’d love to.”

—

James’ gloved hands flex hard enough on his tense thighs to hurt. 

He doesn’t know where to look. 

Catherine’s attention is heavy, the weight of it seeming to pin him to the wingback she’d placed him in to watch her play with Asher. She looks stunning. She always did. But right now, her knees slightly raised, lounging against the back of the Queening Chair—the low-slung chair with a U-shaped seat she’d explained was custom-made—in her sheer robe and a pair of dagger-sharp black stilettos, she’s the embodiment of desire. 

It feels impossible to look away from her as her lashes flutter and her cheeks flush. These silent signs are the only indication that Asher’s enthusiastic mouth was having any effect. Not that the poor man could see, laid flat on his back on the floor, wrists cuffed to the legs of the chair beside his head. 

James couldn’t be sure if the lack of reaction Asher was receiving was the worst part or the other thing that kept drawing his eye. The man’s swollen erection. Throughout the session, Catherine had brought Asher right to the edge of release only to pull back, leaving him leaking and desperate. 

It was a feeling James could relate to. The only difference was that no one was technically stopping him from the release he was aching for.. 

Catherine lifts one of those brutal heels, casually setting it on Asher’s slender chest. The man whimpers against her pussy and the wicked smile that summons… Good god. 

“You aren’t thinking of coming are you, pet?” She asks Asher. 

“No, Mistress,” he manages. 

“Good.” She taps the head of Asher’s cock with the tip of her pointed shoe. James can feel the man’s strangled groan in his bones. “Because I know you’d hate to disappoint me in front of company, wouldn’t you?.” 

“Yes, Mistress. I would.” 

Catherine takes the riding crop she had leaned against the chair in hand. “Such an obedient pet. No more words now.” Her breath hitches.

The only rule Catherine gave James for these ‘play dates’ as she called them was that he couldn’t leave the chair unless he needed to exit the room, which he was welcome to do at any point. But as Asher puts his mouth to other uses, hot envy flairs through his entire body. He wants to pick Catherine up out of that chair, bring her pussy to his mouth, and be the one who was making her come. 

What did she taste like? Why hadn’t he asked to find out? Why-

Asher cries out—something between pleasure and pain—as Catherine gently swats the area just below his balls with the crop. James feels his own anatomy seize even as his cock gives a truly painful pulse within the confines of his jeans. 

“I didn’t give you permission to stop, sweet pet,” Catherine coos. 

Her crop caresses Asher’s cock, as he continues to pleasure her. Each time it touches him James’ body reacts. 

The wood of the chair creaks, threatening to give way under his grip. Better the chair than his femur. 

Catherine’s eyes trap him once more, her breath stuttering. “That’s it, pet. You’re doing so good for me.” The praise is Asher’s. James knows that. But her attention is on him. And he drinks it in. 

Her orgasm is quieter than the times she’s come on James’ fingers, but he can tell by the way her shoulders dip and her eyes soften that it was good. The restraint is a part of the scene. 

This was the fifth time he’d played captive audience member to one of these scenes. Each time, Catherine explained her intention for the scene, what she knew of the person she was ‘playing’ with, how she wanted to make them feel. It helped James learn but also assured him that she wasn’t doing anything that was against the other person’s wishes. 

Sighing, Catherine stands. “That’s enough, pet,” she says, almost bored. Asher’s cock pulses hard in response. 

“Did I do well, Mistress?” James can’t blame the man for the desperate note in his voice. She doesn’t answer immediately and it seems like something in Asher snaps. “Please, I can do better. I- Mistress-” His hips buck as he tries to turn in his restraints, his leaking cock leaving moisture glistening on his thigh. 

“Shh, shh,” Catherine soothes. She undoes the soft wrist cuffs holding him to the chair, guiding him upright. “You did do well my pretty pet.” Her long nails drag through his shaggy golden brown curls. “I’m so proud of you.” Asher buries his face in her neck. 

James’ envy burns hotter. 

“Does my pretty pet want to come?” She asks, a teasing touch trailing down Asher’s back causing both men in the room to sit up straighter. 

Asher whimpers with relief. “Please, Mistress. Yes.”

“Yes, what?” Catherine purrs, tilting his chin up with the point of her nail.

“I’d like to come, Mistress. Please.”

“Of course, pet.” Catherine guides Asher, still on his knees, with gentle but strong hands, to face James’ dark corner. “Would you also like to give our shadowy guest a bit of a show?”

Asher’s brown eyes widen with delight. “I would.” 

James doesn’t know why this sends a thrill through him. He doesn’t know if he wishes he was Catherine, her hands sliding down Asher’s smooth chest, pausing to toy with his dark pink nipples, grinning at the way his body responds; or if he wants to take the place of this beautiful boy, kneeling by choice, his pleasure and suffering in the control of a fair but demanding mistress. 

As Catherine wraps her long delicate fingers around Asher’s cock, her emerald eyes on James, the wood frame under his hands finally gives way. The other man doesn’t seem to register the sound but Catherine does, a sly grin on her beautiful face. 

There is one thing he knows. He hates this. 

Hates Asher, reveling in the pleasure of Catherine’s hand stroking him to completion. 

Hates Catherine for inviting him to witness someone have what he can’t seem to allow himself to. 

Most of all he hates himself. Hates that he can’t shake these unseen shackles of shame and programming keeping him from release. 

Asher’s head falls back onto Catherine’s shoulder, mouth slack as he moans. Without taking her eyes off James, she kisses him, teeth pulling at his bottom lip with brutal force. Asher bucks into her hand meeting her pace. 

A desperate sound claws out of James’ core and up his throat. He couldn’t have held it back if he cared to. His cock hurts. If he just undid the zipper it would give him a bit of relief. He wants to do at least that. He wants to do so much more. 

“That’s it, pet,” she coaches Asher. “You’re so close. Show me how good it feels to be touched by me.” 

Asher’s low groan as he comes hard, his body practically convulsing with the intensity of it in Catherine’s sure hold, feels like salt in a wound. 

Unable to stand it a moment longer, James quietly rises and leaves.

—

When you return from seeing Asher out you find James leaning against the door frame to your room–gloves gone, long sleeves traded for a t-shirt, tree-trunk arms crossed over his chest. 

You’re glad you didn’t have to find him. After he left the room you worried tonight had been too much and that you’d possibly set him back. But him being here, even wearing an expression half stoic and half-starved, meant there was a chance things would go well. 

“Did you enjoy this evening’s show?” You ask, strolling past him. 

As you hoped he would, he grabs you before you get very far, pulling you in for a rough kiss. More than just about anything you want to melt into him, give yourself over to this. Let him touch you, let him explore your body. 

But that cannot happen. Not tonight. 

Tonight, you have a plan and it doesn’t involve James paying any attention to your body but rather to his own. 

James traces your jaw with a finger sending goose flesh across your body. “May I touch you?”

“No.” You give him a reassuring smile as you place a hand on his chest, pushing him away. 

“I’d like to ask you something.” You take a seat on the edge of the bed, looking up at him. 

“Anything.”

“Why don’t you touch yourself when you watch?” He makes a small sound of surprise. “I know you’re aware you can and it’s clear that you’ve enjoyed what you’re seeing but-”

“Not something I want to do with an audience.” 

“An audience can be quite fun,” you wink. 

“We can’t all be skilled performers like you.”

You shrug, “True.” Leaning back on your hand, you run the tip of your heel up his thigh. “Do you touch yourself when you’re alone then? Thinking of the evening’s exquisite performances?” 

He pushes your foot away. “Why are you asking this?” The defensive tone is answer enough. 

“Because, if you can’t trust yourself to give yourself the pleasure you desire, why should I or anyone else?” You consider. “Unless you don’t actually desire release.” It wasn’t something you’d thought to ask him when you’d discussed his boundaries before. “Which would be fine. There are those who don’t.” 

“I…” He paces away, running his fingers through his hair before turning back. “It’s not… I- I don’t- I mean. I do. I…” His shoulders slump. “I do want that… release. I just… I can’t.”

You stand, untangling his hands from his hair to let them drop by his side before pulling his broad back against you. “Can I ask you to trust me?”

“I do trust you.” He says without a moment of hesitation and your heart soars.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the shell of his ear. The muscles of his back ripple with tension. “Lay down,” you say gently, turning him toward the bed. 

“What?”

“Lay down,” you gesture to the bed. “Make yourself comfortable in whatever way suits you.”

He stares at you for so long you think he’s going to say no but finally he does as you ask, leaning against the plush pillows, not looking comfortable but one thing at a time. 

“Tell me your safeword.” You knew it but you always liked for your partners to give them before any kind of play. 

His brows fly up, “Catherine, I don’t think-”

“I won’t be touching you. I don’t even need to be here. I am only asking to establish that you have control here.” Silence hangs. “And if you don’t want to humor me, that is absolutely fine, just say no and we can move on with our evening.” 

The battle between his desires and his fears is written across his face. You wish you could make this choice for him. But he has to decide for himself.

James draws in a long deep breath, some of the tension seeming to leak out of him. “Brooklyn.” 

When he chose that word before the first time you had him watch, you wondered if he’d read more of his file or if the choice was something his subconscious spit out. It seemed wrong to ask.

“I will also honor red, yellow, green, no, and stop.” He nods, swallowing hard. 

“On the bedside table, there’s a small basket in it you’ll find lube and a towel.” You’re shocked his neck doesn’t break with how hard he snaps his head around. “And at the end of the bed, there is a blanket if you’d like to cover up.” His breathing picks up. 

You give him a moment before continuing. “As I said, I don’t have to be here. But, James, I want you to make yourself come.” You hate that he looks terrified. Still, you smile before saying, “Because you deserve to take your pleasure as you please.” 

He doesn’t speak, just stares at the basket for so long you decide to make the decision easier, “I will go to the-”

“No,” his voice is ragged. “I wanna see you.” You feel a flush work its way across your face. “I just…” 

“Take your time.” As he settles in, you retrieve the chair he’d used earlier–the arms now thoroughly brutalized–and move it to the end of the bed.

James closes his eyes, pulling in deep measured breaths. You take a seat, propping your feet on the edge of the bed.

God, he was gorgeous. In his dark denim, he looks like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. But, even if he asked you to right now you wouldn’t. As much as you want to, as much as you want to have him–or rather let him have you–you know he needs this. He needs to know what it is to take control of his pleasure, to find his way back to himself. 

You’d been so lost in your thoughts that when he abruptly sits up, tearing the shirt off, you jump a little. 

Those blue eyes of his burn as he studies you. His broad muscled chest heaves with a few more deep breaths. You practically salivate. 

Not taking his eyes off you, his right-hand settles between his thighs, rubbing where the denim swells.

How could that relatively tame action make your pussy throb with need? 

Something of your hunger must show because the corner of his mouth ticks up the slightest bit. He leans back into the pillows, still holding you in his sight, as he strokes harder, his breath a bit more ragged. 

Fuck. 

“Mind if I join you?” This hadn’t been your plan. But you also didn’t anticipate being this ravenous after already having spent several hours playing with Asher. You fling one leg over the arm of the chair, opening yourself up and hoping he understands what you mean. 

“Please, do,” he says, voice all gravel. 

When you trace your already soaked pussy he lets out a sigh that borders on a gasp. 

James undoes his jeans, sliding the zipper down slowly before surprising you by lifting his hips to work both them and his boxers down to almost his knees. 

God help you. Technically, you’d seen him nude before. But that had been a nightmare. This? This was a dream. He was allowing you to see him. And he was a work of art. Sinful decadent art. Those powerful thighs alone would have sent you spiraling but what was between them, rock solid and deliciously thick. You swallow hard. 

James Barnes was truly a sight to behold. 

You assumed that even if he wanted you to stay, he’d still cover himself, which would have been fine. But when he doesn’t reach for the blanket and goes straight for the lube you thank the patron saints of sex, whoever they may be, for this gift.  

When he hesitates, you leisurely begin stroking your pussy once more, hoping that maybe by taking your pleasure he’ll be more comfortable to do the same. The expression on his face is a muddle, his jaw tense, brows knit tight. 

“James,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Eyes on me.” 

The intensity of his gaze makes you shiver, your pussy clenching. His own hand begins to work. 

He’s tentative at first, moving slowly, almost mechanically at first. You sink deeper into the chair, knowing he has to find his own path to his pleasure and willing to stay here as long as that takes. 

This offers a unique moment for you to likewise take your time. Lately, if you were getting yourself off, you chose much more direct battery-powered options. Not that there was anything wrong with those, but you’d forgotten how nice it could be to feel your own body, unhurried, with no intention other than savoring the feeling. The fact that you were doing it under James’ eye made it even sweeter. 

In time, his pace quickens, along with his breath. He twists his hand, working it up and down his length. When the smallest sound claws it's way from between his clenched teeth, you notice his body tense, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip like doing so will hold any further expressions at bay. 

“Who are you being quiet for, James?” His lip slips from between his teeth, swollen and so kissable, you wet your lips, aching to taste him. “Because it isn’t me. I’d love to hear you.”

His head lolls back onto the padded headboard. A soft moan from him somehow pulls the breath from your lungs.  

James reaches for his balls with his left hand, his eyes now focused on his own body. The sight of the metal fingers glinting, cupping this sensitive part of him, toying with himself drives you wild. You slide a finger into your throbbing cunt imagining how those fingers would feel inside of you, stretching you wide for-

His hips buck up, a rumble of pleasure reverberating in your bones. You can’t stop the small gasp that draws from you. His eyes settle on you again, and you know he can see just how obscenely wet you are. 

The muscles in his thick thighs flex. “Ca- Catherine.” His voice, thick and heady, saying your name… It almost undoes you. “I… Oh god.” His head falls back. “Fuck,” he pants, looking down at his grip on his cock.

His gaze meets yours and you smile. “Come for me, James.”

Nothing could have prepared you for just how delicious this moment would be. Your hand stills as you watch his head fall back, that strong back bowing, hips thrusting into his grip. His body tenses as a roar–there was no other word for it–breaks out of his chest with such force you wonder if he’ll have a voice after this. 

When his body falls back limp onto the pillows–hand still loosely holding his cock, come glistening on his lower stomach, sweat sparkling on his skin, expression relaxed and practically beatific–you can’t help but think he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

After a few minutes, he looks at you through half hooded eyes. And smiles. Your heart flips in your chest. 

You don’t dare speak until he reaches for the small towel. “Thank you, for trusting me.” 

He huffs something like a laugh shaking his head, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, kicking off his jeans, leaving himself fully exposed. 

You can’t breathe. 

In two long strides, he’s in front of the chair, looking down at you. It takes every bit of your self control to not grab hold of those powerful thighs, to lick the small bit of moisture still at the tip of his half hard cock. Before your control slips he drops to his knees, eyes looking from your pussy, still on display, your hand hovering frozen where it had been when his orgasm had wiped everything else from your mind. 

“I should be thanking you,” he takes your hand, eyes holding yours to give you the chance to deny him before he sucks your moisture from them. His eyes close as if he’s savoring the taste. “Can I show you just how grateful I am?” 

“Yes,” you rasp. 

James smiles wide and you know the sun will never hold the same appeal again. 

Gripping your hips, he pulls your ass to the edge of the seat. He hooks your other knee over the arm of the chair so that you’re spread wide for him. His hands run gently down the inside of your thighs, followed by his mouth, littering kisses over the sensitive skin. 

When his mouth finally reaches your throbbing pussy you’re practically shaking with need. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was good, you would have come regardless given how wound up you were. But for all that was holy that mouth knew exactly what to do. 

He sucks your clit, explores you, clearly enjoying every moment until you come, hard. There isn’t even a moment of pause as he drinks you in, he just keeps going, sliding in one finger, pressing directly on your G spot. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him on. “More,” you groan. He slides in a second as he nips at your clit and you come so hard you begin to feel your hold on any kind of control slip. 

Still, he doesn’t stop. 

James removes his mouth, slowly lifting his head so you can release your grip. You whimper a bit until his thumb finds your clit, the cool metal of his left hand pressing down on your lower abdomen. 

“I wanna see that pretty face better,” he says, in a voice like honey. 

His fingers fuck you harder than he’d ever allowed himself before. Giving you what few others could take. 

The already damaged arms of the chair crack under your grip. “James,” you cry, his name like a hallelujah. 

“Come,” his voice a low growl. 

You lose every ounce of control you possess. Gushing over his hand, you barely make a sound, waves of pleasure crashing over you with an intensity you’ve never known. Tremors shake you, the aftershocks almost as delicious as the orgasm itself. 

When he removes his fingers you whimper but know it’s for the best. Much more of that you’d be tempted to abandon all reason, abandon society, and just live in the woods letting this man make you come until the end of days. 

Before you realize it’s happening, he scoops you into his arms, carrying you to the bed. With one hand he tears the duvet back and settles the both of you into the next of pillows. 

He settles you in his lap, your head tucked under his chin. The heat of his body burns through the sheer robe you wear and you’re all too aware of how close his cock is to your pussy. But you know this isn’t the time for that. 

“You, ok?” He asks. 

You nod. “Very. How are you?”

After a long pause, he says, so softly, “Human.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, refusing the burn of tears that one word summons. “Good.” 

“Can I just hold you?” He asks, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Yes,” you breathe, “please.” You bury your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in his clean spicy scent until sleep falls over you like a warm blanket.