Cherubs
He clears his throat before he speaks. “Are you…hurt?”
For a second time he renders me speechless. I'm not used to conversation. I don't think I ever will be. I miss the familiar programmed answers in a way. I knew what to say then. Clearly I'm hurt. Then that's not the answer he wants. I can't think of a worse person to be my handler. Someone unpredictable makes things harder. Someone unpredictable who seems harmless? I don't know how to handle that. I still haven't replied. Fuck.
“Minor injuries. They'll heal.”
He nods, chewing at his lip. His fingers brush against the bruises on my side. He's so gentle I'm almost unsure he actually touched me. I watch him. His eyes are tracking along my chest, and thin strands of blonde hair have fallen in front of his face. He could join me, there's room enough for it. I shut the thought down as quickly as it begins. It's bad enough to think of him like that. It's worse to think of my handler like that. It won't end well. I straighten, keeping my eyes on the wall ahead of me.
“I didn't expect, any of that.” His voice continues. A nervous reedy whisper. “They hadn't told me much about the madams. Bauer filled me in on the plane.”
A plane ride. Something to imagine in the place of the gaps in my memory.
“I don't know how much I can tell you. Or how much you know already but- they wanted you as an instructor for the girls. I'm here to make sure everything goes smoothly.” He pauses to search for some soap leaving me to ruminate on everything he's said so far.
An instructor. A teacher. Slowly the memories are piecing themselves together. They're widows. Training widows. Assassins. Spies. As deadly as their moniker. The questions the doctor kept asking me began making more sense. Names and titles and protocols and lessons. Lessons to teach to them. Long term transport. A year, or more. What's Steve doing with me? Handler? It sounds like it. Something about it doesn't sit right with me. It may just be wishful thinking, me not wanting to ruin these little moments of calm with him.
He continues eventually. “I suppose they didn't want them knowing all your secrets. Uhm- none of the guys could decide who got to go. All of them want a night with the- with the girls you know? But none of them want to be here long term. There's apparently someone here that you already know. He's gonna do most of the uh, handling. I'm just the help.”
“Who?” The words come out rougher than I intend. Almost a growl.
“Pierce- that's all Bauer told me about him-” came Steve’s stammered reply.
Pierce was a bastard. The thought brought spots in my vision and searing pain. Pierce was my handler. Again. It made more sense than Steve. It was always someone more senior. Someone who'd helped the doctor, sculpted me in some way to better suit them. Pierce was a bastard. He'd been my handler before. The years were lost on me but I remember the feeling he stirred in me. Like I was standing above a bottomless pit, moments from falling. Matthias reminded me of Pierce. Both could leave me shaking in a few words, tears rolling down my face. Pierce was my handler. What the fuck was he doing here?
At least it wasn't Steve.
All the thoughts I'd been carefully repressing or shoving aside hit me again in full force. Knowing he wasn't my handler had melted away the careful barriers I’d built. Knowing he wasn't my handler left me imagining him stripping down to join me. I cleared my throat, suddenly hyperaware of his hands on my chest. Thin delicate hands, brushing against me far too often as he cleaned along my chest. Both too much and not enough.
“Don't you need to get cleaned up too Rogers?”
“I will! Soon.”
I grinned, stretching out my arms. Attempting to ignore my metal arm on display, attemtping to ignore the bruises and stiff spots. Attempting to focus on the pleasant feeling and the way his eyes watched me. The way they tracked over my body hadn‘t changed. The effect on him was the same as the other morning. The way he licked his lips would‘ve embarrassed a prostitute.
“Pervert.” I mumbled it under my breath but he heard it. The way he burst into embarrassed stammering confirmed it.
“I never said it was a bad thing Rogers.”
“I am not- I’m just-” The deep red spreading across his cheeks made my lips twitch into a grin. He’s too easy to rile up. He’s no longer watching me. Instead his eyes are drilling into the floor, his hair hanging in front of his face again. My head throbs. For a moment I saw something else. Someone else. A hazy figure from my memories. They’re crying. Because of me? I want to wipe the tears away.
I swallow, forcing my mind away from it. “Your turn.” My voice comes out too roughly. all harsh sounds and jagged edges.
“Huh?”
“Your turn to clean off. I’m done.” I splash some water over my face. Focusing on the feeling. On the bath, on the hot water and the cold air, on the aches that are slowly calming. On everything but that hazy figure. I stand, slowly. The water tracks patterns down my chest, down my legs. I stretch again, ignoring the heavy weight of my eyelids. I just need a moment to rest my eyes, rest my body. Someone once told me ants sleep for over four hours each day, but they do it in hundreds of minute long naps. They’ve got the right idea.
“Ivanova isn‘t back yet. There‘s no clothes for you-”
“I’m fine Rogers.” My hand brushes against the wall as I steady myself. My back still feels tender and raw. Leaning against the wall won’t be as restful as I hoped.
“James?”
I tilt my head towards him. His eyes are still fixed on the ground in front of him, and he hasn‘t stopped blushing. His lips open, as if he has something to say, before he shakes his head. Eventually he whispers something.
“Thank you.”
The words ‘you’re welcome’ feel fake. It’s a bath. Thanking me at all for it is riduclous. Everything Steve does is ridiculous. I nod in reply. Unspoken words hang heavy inbetween us. Fuck knows what he was going to say. Not my problem now.
My feet shift. The floor is cold under my feet. A familiar chill, and one that helps stave off the weariness. A weird sense of nostalgia fills me. Familiar is safe. Nothing here is familiar. The doctor is familiar. The rooms I’m shuffled between are familiar. The guards are familiar. Bastards mainly. Home is familiar, built off memories and routine. Not memories that I were given and taught. Not like here. Here is new and dangerous. Pierce is here. For a moment I miss home. Home doesn’t feel like the right word. I don’t know anything else to describe it. The mix of emotions and thoughts turns my stomach. It doesn’t matter if something is familiar or safe. I don’t get homseick. All that matters is the mission. And I will not fail over some flaws in my programming,
I drag my attention back to Steve. His fingers dance across his chest as he unbuttons his shirt. It swamps him. A large part of me is curious as to how he looks under it. His eyes flick up to mine. Deer in headlights. “Need me to look away? I thought it was only fair.”
The words fall out of my mouth before I have time to think. To bite my tongue. I’ve always been a slow learner. Steve licks his lips again. That image feels seared into my mind, something I won’t forget.
I won’t forget the way it makes my dick stir either.
“It’s- it’s fine James.” He pulls the shirt off before whirling aroun to reach the shower. Standing up on his tiptoes to drape it over the shower door. He’s pale. Small moles are dotted across his back. Dainty. He’s as thin as I thought. Tiptoeing the line between unwell and slender. He glances over his shoulder, blonde hair framing his eyes. His slender body and his long thin arms remind me of a bird. Maybe he was sick a lot as a kid. Maybe it’s genetic.
He‘s handsome. As handsome as I‘d thought he‘d be. I can feel my dick throb. This was a mistake. A stupid fucking mistake. Steve turns away again, stripping off his pants. I shouldn’t look. This is bad enough. I’m still debating what to do when I hear a soft splash. He’s slid into the water, a sigh escaping his lips. He’s still blushing. Soft pink cheeks. Like a fucking cherub. Guilt rises in me. Guilt and shame. I crack my knuckles, fixated on the bruises and cuts that cover my body. On the scars that disfigure my shoulder. On my rough voice, and my animalistic sounds. On how monstrous I am. Compared to anyone. Compared to him especially.
The door opens, my eyes darting to it. Ivanova. She‘s holding a pile of neatly folded clothes. She‘s also staring at me. It makes my face burn with shame. I can feel her eyes tracking the mess of scar tissue along my shoulder, following the smooth metal of my arm. Eventually she clears her throat. “When you‘re dressed meet me in the hallway. I‘ll take you to your rooms.” This time she’s speaking Russian. She has an accent, I either didn’t notice before or she hid it better. It tinges her words, shaping the syllables.
Steve’s voice is a nervous attempt to sound confident. His tongue stumbles over the Russian words as he clumsily acknowledges her instructions. I wouldn’t have guessed he spoke Russian. Not well, but he speaks it.
“I can take our clothes ma’am.” Tension fills me as I speak. A familiar grating feeling in my chest. I don’t know her, and I don’t know the rules here. All I know is that, for now, I defer to her. That makes her dangerous.
She passes them to me before walking out silently. Not a conversationalist. I pick out my clothes and begin pulling them on. Easy enough to tell between Steve’s tiny clothes and mine. Thin black long sleeves and long black pants. The fabris is thin but soft. I can’t pretend I don’t like how it feels against my skin. Steve’s got a uniform. His normal uniform. He’s gonna stick out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of girls in black.
“Do you want yours?”
“Yes please.” He stands to hop out, and I catch a glimpse of all of him. He has the body of a ballerina. At least this time I have pants on. My dick strains against the fabric, an embarrassing reaction. A reaction I do my best to ignore. I clear my throat as I pass him his pile.
“I didn’t know you spoke Russian."
“I can understand it. I’m not great at the actual speaking part.”
“I wasn’t going to comment on that but now that you mention it..”
He grins, rolling his eyes as he tightens his belt. I don’t think this could get anymore awkward. Stepping out into the blinding light of the hallway comes as a relief. Outside of the cramped washroom I’m able to force what happened aside. Focus on where we’re going. On if I’ll get a chance to finally rest. Focus on praying Pierce isn’t waiting to greet me.