Villain!Steve (III)
Sometimes sleeping is not bad for him. If he worked hard, exhausted himself fully and received some type of critical injury, he’d fall asleep quickly and wouldn’t dream because of the medication they’d pumped through his veins. He liked when that happened.
So he allowed himself to become a target during operations, though he knew it may be fatal one day, just so his handlers would make the dreams go away with the bitter taste of liquid morphine. It was much better than being put under completely, which occurred when he did a good job and he could be returned immediately to training or storage. It didn’t exactly lead to dreams but the forced drowsiness from stasis stuck persistently to him until he’d sunk his shield into the spine of a body, be it friend or foe.
Most of the time, all the time, falling asleep without drugs was horrible.
When he was tired, feeling the aches of a practice that had been just on the wrong side of too hard, he dreamt of cold wind rushing through hair that’s a couple inches longer and freezing water that lapped at his thighs even though he thought he was in a plane. Could feel memories that can’t be his tugging at his grey matter, trying to make him understand as laughter followed him stomping through dream-imagined pine forests. Saw weapons in his hands that were decommissioned long, long ago, while wearing a different uniform and there’s a warm smile directed at him from a pair of blood-red lips that aren’t the Widow’s. Looked into a pair of wide and shocked brown eyes that belong to a ghost that seems so familiar that it aches.
These dreams cause something like a fist-sized lump to press hard on his chest, enough to make his eyes burn. He made sure not to mention these dreams to those in charge because it only leads to broken wrists and solitary confinement. Once, when he was young and still fought after missions, he yelled about a war that was never going to end, which resulted in him having to fight against the Winter Soldier in the weekly evaluations instead of joining him in thinning out the operatives. It was easier to keep his dreams to himself when he was sane enough to remember.
When he is exhausted and collapses where he stands, he feels the knives digging into him as the scientists checked to see how quickly a literal pound of flesh would be regenerated. Could feel the phantom pain of fingers inside his chest touching the wrong side of his ribs, the back of a latex-covered hand brushing up against his lungs uncomfortably. Remembered, again, how he was commanded to stay awake, with nothing to dull the pain, but he did it because he was trained to follow orders and he was good. Could taste the bile burning at his throat as one doctor, a mousy man from Switzerland, squeezed his stomach with bare hands mere moments after the skin had been pulled back.
He still marveled that his body had somehow repaired the deep “T” incision that scraped against his collarbone and split down the length of his body to end, barely, above his pelvis. Of course, the scarring was still faint, but that was to be expected with how many times they reopened it, ‘Just to check’, as one nurse had happily commented in reply to the gasped out 'why?’ the first time they had ripped out the stitches and started cutting, sawing, murmuring to each other as he screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed-
The lights turned on and he wakes up instantly, eyes opening abruptly to stare at the blank ceiling of the simple room given to him after Rumlow’s body had been quartered and removed from the facility.
“Ah, I knew you were the cause of the trouble the minute I was given the report.”
He didn’t move. He’s not supposed to move until he’s given the order, but he has to fight the urge to rip out the other man’s throat. He has been waiting for the man who smelt of strong coffee and newspaper ink to come find him. The man that always came when he’d been uncooperative. When he didn’t follow orders. When he started thinking thoughts and questioning. It was just a matter of time.
“I didn’t expect you to kill Brock, but he must have said something quite uncouth to set you off.” A sigh, a rustle of a suit jacket being slipped off and settled on the chair nearby. “Of course, he always did rush into things when given too much rein.” The cot dipped, causing his body to roll onto its side and against the older man’s back, eyes now trained on the closed door and trying to smother the reaction of his body to the sudden contact.
“He always had a greater fondness for the Soldier, unfortunate for you, which might have been why he was so...confrontational when you made it back here. I apologize.” Alexander Pierce leaned back, shoulders brushing the wall, forcing him to shift his legs slightly so the older man was cradled against his stomach and thighs like a recliner.
He suddenly thought of jackknifing his knee into the man's side, a twitch that could be chalked up to excitement if investigated later. Just enough to snap a rib, to hear the gasp of pain as it punctured a lung and to relish in the feeling of taking down another. It would be quick. It probably wouldn’t be painless. And he could escape again, and it would be so easy to run past all the guards who now called him Commander, but things were so difficult in this new world. He needed to find shelter, to find a network, to find people, people who would let him command, people who did not have such low expectations as HYDRA for the world, who wanted to make the world better, and the thoughts are spinning but Pierce is talking, still talking, always talking, and he needs to pay attention-
Pierce’s hand ran through his short military cut, blunt fingers scratching against the slightly raised scar from another modification at the base of his skull and rubbing along the hairline in a pantomime of a father comforting his child. “I should have expected something like this to happen sooner. You’ve been under for too long, must be causing some faults,” the voice mused, hand making another pass through short hair before removing itself to suddenly clap onto his shoulder, like how one would slap a horse’s neck when it won the Kentucky Derby. “You made it here, though, unscathed, so that has to be worth something.
“You remembered the most important rule: always return to us. You can’t be like the Widow, who abandoned us, and the Soldier, who was stolen and had his brain scrambled to mistrust us.” The man gave a soft chuckle, “The circumstances were different for them. The Widow was born into this and, much like a child, she abandoned her parents when she discovered something new and exciting. The Soldier, of course, needed to be broken. Multiple times. You remember this, how he fought, and fought, and you remembered it all no matter how long you were under. No matter how many times we drugged you, and kept you under, you always remembered him.”
A thumb traced his pale eyebrow fondly, “You remember so much. You learn from it. You have the strength of the Soldier, but the easy grace of the Widow when you need it. You can do so much, and you can do some much more now that they’re out of the picture. Step out of their shadow and follow our orders.
“It helps that you’re such a good, good boy.” The trigger phrase was whispered softly into his ear, causing his body to freeze mid-flinch as the voice that was getting stronger, the voice that told him to kill Brock and demanded to be called Rogers, was shunted to the back for a moment.
He relaxed as deep-rooted training took over, the American stepping forward eager, if not pleased, to be commanded. The circuitry embedded deep inside his skin and bones locked all his muscles as Pierce stood, the disappearance of support causing his upper body to roll forward and smother half his face into a thin pillow. The decisions he made yesterday suddenly seem so stupid, but they are buried quickly as his slate is wiped clean from the nanobots infused on his medial temporal lobe and everything narrowed down to breathing and listening. There is the fleeting, barely there thought of wanting more and-
-there is a click, more like a sharp crack inside his skull, and Commander Rogers moved forward again, no longer content and given enough time to heal and gain a foothold, firmly nudging the American to the side while whispering words of fake it fake it. make him believe. information. he has a use. keep him for now-
“Now, you’re very lucky. I have a mission for you.” Pierce is facing away, plucking his jacket from the chair to artfully drape over an arm, so he doesn’t see the struggle for control or the feral grin that is forcefully manipulated into a bland smile. “I’ve decided that you are going to take back the helm of Captain America. It is your right,” he says, turning back to see his asset sitting up and following him placidly with his pale eyes.
A shiver snaked up his spine when he realized that Pierce didn’t know, he didn’t know, and as the other man continued to talk of a plan involving the White House and cover stories, and being discovered in ice by SHIELD, but in reality being planted there by operatives already in the secret government agency, he soaked up the feeling of being a step ahead of his torturer.
Commander Rogers sat calmly in place of the American, easily assuming the mannerisms of the asset controlled by HYDRA for over seventy years, taking in the details freely given to him and planned his own strategy to either take HYDRA in hand and raise it to prior glory or destroy it completely when it did not meet his expectations.
Pierce would need to be removed, of course, but that would be quickly completed once he secured his own position inside of SHIELD. One could not rush destroying an entire agency from the inside, no matter how easy it would be.