Preparations
For a split second I could see him as a worried mother, the way he inspected the clothes before folding them. Placing them in a duffle bag by his feet. It was a cute sight, something soft after a long day. Long night. Long week. “What should I do?” My voice felt raspy, almost embarrassing how it grates on my vocal chords. Steve didn't point it out, in fact he spun around looking more embarrassed than me somehow. For a second I thought he might faint, a swooning damsel in distress. “Sorry for digging through all your, all your stuff. Its just I was told to pack for you, to get all the stuff together.” He stammered nervously, waving a piece of paper in front of him in defense. “There's a list..” he continued.
It made me laugh to myself, it always did how he spoke to me. As if he was beneath me, needing to explain himself to me. As if I held authority over him. “I know, it's okay Rogers.” His hands faltered, the shirt he was folding neatly scrunching under his thin fingers. Apparently his name embarrassed him more than I recalled. Maybe it was in how I said it, maybe it was an off day for him. I couldn't have told you. All I did know was it made me want to see that pretty blush again, to have him whimpering under me. Beneath that something in me thrummed steadily. A desire I refused to acknowledge in any way. The desire to simply hold his hand, to make him laugh. Useless things for a soldier to want. I blinked before focusing again. The chill was spreading, reaching my bones.
My clothes. That's what I was missing, that's what had Steve blushing, stammering, attempting to throttle the shirt he held. I could feel a faint flush of embarrassment spreading through me. It was ridiculous to have forgotten, and could have been dangerous if it wasn't Steve. Unwanted hands gripped me, ghosts of touches that made me feel sick. I took a deep breath, the touch of the cold doorway grounding me. “Are there clothes, for me to wear?” My eyes were glazing over, and the hazy memories threatened to cloud my vision. I could see them from the corner of my eyes, I could almost hear it all again. Like it was the very first time.
“James?” My head jerked up towards Steve, my neck cracking uncomfortably.
“Yes sir?” I replied, trying to steady my breathing. He paused, nervously gnawing on his lip.
“I was saying uhm, that I've got these for you. Sorry I hadn't, hadn't left them with you.” His eyes stayed averted, drilling into the floor beside me.
“Shy..” I mumbled, tasting the word on my tongue.
He held some clothes to his chest before awkwardly reaching them out towards me. I grabbed them slowly and relaxed at the feel of thick fabric. I nodded in apology before pulling the shirt over my head. Ignoring the spear of panic when I couldn't see my surroundings. I could hear Steve's soft footsteps as he walked away from me, continuing to pack my bag. I distantly wondered about how quickly he changed. Was it having me naked alone? Or did he stammer and shy away from me as he cleaned me? Did someone else do it, and my imagination had run away with me, with fantasies about an innocent man? Maybe it was because now there was no reason for me to remain undressed. Maybe it was simple guilt for not remembering sooner. Maybe, and far more likely, it was disgust. A bitter taste filled my mouth, and I forced my mind to focus on the boxers I pulled on, the long grey pants. Nice pants, well made and well fitting. Where was I going?
I watched Steve move around the room, fighting the old panic that held me. He was talking. Focus on that, focus on his words. Focus. “...all James? I've already had to pack my stuff, and I've heard…them joining us should be interesting…I've never….before.” His voice floated distantly in my mind, fragments sticking to me. I ran over what I could recall, before tensing, my body hard and unmoving. Who was joining us? I'd missed something important.
The familiar tightening in my chest began. It was a sickening sensation, one that left my hand shaking and my eyes unfocused. I moved mechanically, leaving my body to handle getting dressed as I tried regain my composure. The shirt was white, a stupid colour. It could mean a safe colour, nice clothes means they didn't want to ruin them. White means no blood. Shadowy images of my hands scrubbing a shirt filled my mind. Hunched over the sink. Red soapy bubbles overflowing. The pain that seared my chest was worse. The source of the red, staining the shirt an angry crimson. It used to be white. The strangled gasp I let out forced my mind back to the present. White means no blood. I'll be fine. I can handle a little pain. The words looped through my head as I stretched out my arms.
“Soldier?” Fuck. Something else I'd missed.
“Yes?” The gravelly rasp of my voice wasn't improving. My throat ached.
“Are you… almost ready?” Steve's voice was always so hesitant. It almost made me laugh. He didn't fit in here, a fact glaringly obvious to everyone but him it seemed.
“Do I have shoes?”
His brow furrowed and the list was pulled up to his face to be inspected. For a second his lips moved as he read, a trait that made the pounding in my head intensify. I couldn't begin to understand why. Already the half formed thoughts had melted away.
“You should, I'll check. They might be in the other room.”
I nodded, watching him as he darted out. The tight feeling in my chest hadn't vanished, but it was manageable. My fingers formed a tight fist before relaxing. A motion I couldn't summon up the courage to do in front of the guards despite how it steadied my hands. A first was too close to a threat. My hand had stopped trembling. I was fine.
“I couldn't see any socks but it also doesn't specify about them. So I don't know about those, but they're nice shoes aren't they?” His voice carried across the room. I imagine he was a good singer, he had the voice for it. Distantly I nodded, moving to take the shoes. He was right. They were nice shoes, genuine leather and they looked the right size. Where was I going dressed like this? My fingers deftly tied the laces. In the early days my metal arm used to get caught and snag on every other fabric. It was better now, another thing the doctor had done for me.
I could feel Steve's eyes on me. Blue eyes. Sometimes it felt like they could see right through me, on the rare occassions he managed to look me in the eyes. Waiting. I straightened, mentally confirming I was dressed and supposedly ready.
“They mentioned prepping your arm, I don't know what that entails.” His voice trailed off nervously.
“I can do it myself.”
“That's a relief- do you need any help or do I just wait here?”
Any other day I'd tease him, ask him to help me with something else. I suppose this aching exhaustion saved me from the regret I'd feel if I did it. I mumbled a reply as I stepped into the cold metallic room. The thought of him seeing my metal arm up close filled me with revulsion. I stripped my shirt off silently before tracing my fingers along the point where the arm connected to my shoulder. It was a mess of scar tissue, raised and red. Sometimes the heaviness of the arm would leave me fantasising about it falling off, tearing out of my arm as it gave in to gravity. A stupid train of thought. Slowly my fingers felt along the metal plates that composed it. Checking for irregularities. It was smoother than the old arm, and moved so fluidly. I know the pride the doctor had for it. This metal lump was one of his greatest achievements. Part of what made me so important to him.
The metal fingers flexed. I could check this in my sleep. The motions were muscle memory at this point. Bending my arm this way, moving it in a circle, checking my wrist rotation. Everything was working perfectly. No grains of sand or debris caught under anything. A bitter taste filled my mouth, bringing with it a sense of resentment I promptly squashed. If it wasn't working right I wouldn't have to prepare it for transport. I might have even missed whatever thing they needed me for. The punishment was worth it. I wouldn't need to shut it down. The doctor assured me it wouldn't hurt everytime. I was yet to experience anything but pain. My fingers moved aside the metal plates, straining to find the button. There were easier ways to reach it. I knew from each time the doctor shut it down. I had tried to remember it, but my mind refused. My fingers never made the same quick movements the doctor did.
I’d almost lost a finger once. I hadn't pulled my hand out fast enough, the metal plates had clipped it. Pinned it in between grinding metal. The soldier learns fast however. I hadn't made that mistake again, and I wouldn't this time.
The second the buttons pressed I can feel it. A hissed breath escapes me. Instantly heavier, tearing at my shoulder. Wrenching it apart as I pulled my fingers away. Dead weight. I could manoeuver it manually, pushing the metal to how I wanted it to rest with my arm. Useless hunk of metal. A guttural groan escaped my lips as I half fell into the wall. Trying to support myself, catch my breath. Stop my head spinning. I held the metal arm in my hand, a desperate attempt to remove the pressure on my shoulder. It didn't make much sense to me but I suppose it didn't had to. It ached dully when it was active, when I could move it how I wanted. The second I wasn't in command of it the pain flooded my mind. The heavy weight of the arm, the splitting headache it caused. My nerves screamed at me. A sensation I had to ignore.
My shirt. Was somewhere. In through my nose, steady breaths. My eyes tracked the room before I found the shirt. Unpleasant to put on with a dead arm but better than tearing it or getting it caught in my arm. It took too long to put it on, and I could feel the way it messed up my hair. The soft fabric now felt too tight on me. I could feel the way my brain fixated on it, on the new sensation enveloping me. A useless thing to be focused on. Instead I focused on my feet. One in front of the other, following the shitty floor to the doorway. Following the familiar pattern into my room. To in front of Steve. If the dead weight caught me by surprise, and back in the early days, I would topple over. Tilting and stumbling as I tried to balance myself. Practice makes perfect I suppose. “M ready.” My voice came out quieter than I intended. More strained.
Confusion spread across Steve's face. That was the moment where I dropped my gaze to the floor. It didn't help. I could feel his eyes on my arm. On the unnatural way it hung from me. The stiffness in my body was only intensified by my discomfort. My head pounded and my arm felt like it was tearing off me. The exhaustion hadn't faded. There was no point fighting it now, no point scrambling to remain present. Awareness was shit. I gave in. Letting my mind retreat into itself. Leaving my body behind, someone else's problem now. Steve's problem now. It was easier this way. Mindless emptiness.
“I don't know what happened. He's acting really strange.”
“The soldier always acts strange, it's nothing to worry about. He's more obedient like this, believe it or not.” Bauer, a medic, replied. “When he's lucid freaks me out. They've assured me he's under control but I don't trust it. At least in this state he behaves, you know he's not about to try kill you.”
“He used to be like this all the time. Gives less attitude this way.” Another voice. The guard from before.
Steve hummed vaguely in reply. A sound met with laughter from the other two.
“I know it's unsettling, but he always is. It's the travel that sets him off I think.” The guard was talking again. This time accompanied with distant pain, spreading throughout the soldier. A hit.
“He barely reacts to nothing like this, not unless you tell him to. Jump Soldat.”
The soldier jumped.
The guards laughter was loud, smothering Steve's awkward chuckle. Bauer was silent, preoccupied with something.
The soldier stood and waited.