Chapter Text

You were alone before it all fell apart. You thought that would make it easier. Maybe it does. Maybe that’s why you’re still alive. Barely.

The droughts came first, when the world was still overcrowded. The earth dried up and the sun beamed mercilessly down at those desperate for a single drop of rain. People fell where they stood and were left to rot in the heat, no one strong enough to move them or bury them.

That’s when the auditors began. They used scarcity to their whims. They hoarded supplies of water and took in only those they deemed valuable. Often, that value was passing.

The collective emerged as a counter to the auditors, those who wanted to help all not just the few. It devolved into violence, as things do when humanity is brought to the brink of desperation.

Then the rains came, the floods, and just as many drowned in the depths. High ground was not as easily hoarded and the want for water was sated and the opposite became the mantra of man. The former loyalties split and death continued to ravage those left behind.

You watched it all from the peripheral, waiting your turn, waiting for death. You wandered by in the shadows, easily forgotten, and waited. But it never came, even with the snow and that frigid, bitter, deadly cold.

The rains receded and those rivers left behind turned to ice as snow heaped higher than any head. It rarely stopped and you can never shake the lingering chill deep in your core. Warmth is the most fickle of commodities. It is not a bottle of water or a sixteenth story floor, it is intangible and seemingly unreachable.

But your turn has come. You feel it. You’re sick, you’re alone as you have been, even before, and there’s not much left to save you. The city, the world, has been picked bare by humans as much as the elements.

Still, there is the flicker of mortal will in you. That urge to live on. 

You mourn your neglect. At first, it was a shiver, that was usual, the a trickle from your nose and stuffiness behind your eyes. The fever came with a dwindling hunger and you know it’s time to do something.

You descend from your retreat in the old apartment tower, half eaten away by the once immeasurable tides. You go down the back stairwell, slowly, carefully. You still hear others now and then, you’re not the only one around, but the others travel in groups and that makes them dangerous. It’s dark, you can hide.

You’re out of breath at the bottom and lean heavily on the wall as your chest aches. You quake with the unshakeable chill and steady yourself. You push away from the brick and pull your scarf up over your face.

The pharmacy isn’t far, two blocks. The streets are barren but for the skeletons of civilization; cars, trees, people… You keep close to the walls and duck behind the post boxes somehow untouched by the chaos. 

Pharmacy is dark but you don’t dare bring out your flashlight. With its broken window, you would light up the whole place. You brush away the broken glass with your glove and hop over the ledge.

You listen intently. A pulsing moment before you dare to tread further. Behind the counter, bottles scatter from previous searches and the orderless lashing of overflowing waters. You cannot say how much remains.

Most of the bottles or empty are coated with dissolved pills, turned to powder and paste. You don’t need tylenol, it’s unlikely to do much now. Whatever you do find, is unlikely to work but it’s your only hope. Hope for what? What did you have to live for?

You tiptoe clumsily past the counter, the backroom is open already. It’s not a good sign. You see the mess on the floor, baskets and bottles tossed all over. You get to your knees between the shelves and grasp at the containers. 

You pull your scarf loose and drape it over your head. You bring a handful up, flashlight in the other hand, and blind yourself in the encased glow… empty. You move on your knees and continue your tedious search. You’re allergic to penicillin but it seems that is all gone anyhow.

A bottle rattles in promise and you bring it under your makeshift tent. Azithromycin. You were no doctor but you recall taking it for some bout as a teenager. You tuck it into the chest pocket of your coat and zip up quickly. You continue your search but find little else. You manage to scout out a few boxes of cold tables still sealed in their plastic jackets and go out the back.

You suppress a cough as the cold hits you like a wall. You struggle to breath and your hands shake. Better to take something now, the sooner it takes effect the better. You fumble and force down two of the large tablets on your raw throat.

You feel dizzy as you pass behind the buildings and edge down alleys, ears perked for any disturbance. You heard a man screaming two nights past, there was a reason for that and it was rarely anything but other people.

You get back to your building. You begin the treacherous climb up the escape as your body weakens with each step. You stop halfway and sit to catch your breath. You need to lay down.

You grab the railing and drag yourself up, stopping just outside the fire escape where you came out. You hear voices. Shit. They’ve found your hideout no doubt. Not the first time but definitely the worst. 

You listen as you peer back down the stairs. You have a kit on the eight floor. An old trick you learned in a book about New France, the Algonquin and Iroquois used to bury supplies for the winter in case they were stranded by snows. Hopefully they haven’t discovered that yet.

“Doesn’t look like a place for five,” a deep voice carries as you take your first step down, “pretty small… not much. You sure this is all yours?”

“What’s it to ya, buddy? We found it first so fuck off before we toss you out the window.”

A chuckle, deep and amused, is the only response.

“What’s so funny? Five of us, one of you. And I still haven’t clocked a gun on you so it seems like you shouldn’t be laughing.” A snarl rolls back.

“I don’t need a gun,” the other man says calmly.

Then, suddenly, swiftly, a scuffle sounds and your feet clatter away. Whatever it is you want none of it. Whoever wins, you lose.

You stop as you count the eight and climb through the window, the door is rusted shut and immoveable. You hear more noise, above, below. Gunshots and hollers. Fuck.

You go to apartment 806 and rip up the cushions of the dingy couch. You waver on your feet as you lift the canvas bag and try to shake away the stars in your eyes. Your teeth chatter even as your skins on fire. You can’t go back down the escape, someone likely heard you.

You stumble and catch yourself on the door frame. There’s a place on Walter Avenue, you’ve had it in mind for a while. You nod and take a breath. You can make it.

As you enter the hall, you hear an unsettling crunch from above, the crush and collapse of several floors. Plaster and slivers of wood dust over you, the door frame keeping you from the weight of the flights above. 

A man lands, broken and dead atop the pile of shrapnel. The whistle of another descent comes from above and you retreat as another figure appears, boots crashing down around his victim. You fall onto your ass and land on your bag with a gasp.

Your vision skews for a moment and you struggle to lift the weight as you get a knee below you. 

“Please,” you shield yourself with an arm as you get a foot flat but only stand and slip back down in a moment, shadow lurking closer, “I…”

You cough through your scratchy throat and clutch your head. You gape up at the man, a dark scarf at his neck beneath jis thick beard and overgrown locks, blue eyes catching the moonlight peeking in through the windows. He’s huge, terrifying, you’ve never seen anyone like him, though he seems vaguely familiar.

“Hmm,” he catches you before you can hit your ass again, “you don’t know them, do you?”

“Who are you?” You ask, senselessly.

He considers you as your lashes blur around your sight. He doesn’t answer as he pulls a glove off with his teeth and touches your forehead. He sighs as you shiver against his hot touch. 

“Shit,” he swears and lets you down, laying you against your pack, “you got any meds? You take anything?”

He reaches under his fleece-lined jacket and pulls out a canteen, “here, water. Fever’s gonna dehydrate you fast.”

“Two,” you hit the chest of your coat weakly and the pills rattle, “just two.”

He trickles water through your lips and you drink greedily. Your head is thrumming so bad and your limbs felt filled with sand. You cough again and spit up your mouthful. 

“Why?” You croak as you wave away the canteen.

“What?” He caps the container and hooks it back on the leather strap around his middle.

“Just kill me,” you groan, “like them.”

“You’re alone?” He ignores your plea.

You nod and close your eyes. “And sick. So…”

“Right,” he grabs your coat and pulls you up suddenly.

He holds you up with one hand and unhooks the bag from your arm. He hooks it over his shoulders, against the pack already there, and slips his other arm under your knees. He lifts you easily and walks over the musty carpet towards the metal escape.

“Door doesn’t open,” you eke out, “you should leave me. Please.”

“You’ll die,” he says as he approaches the door, “sorry about this.”

He kicks the door and it flies from its hinges and hits the railing outside. The motion jolts you and has you coughing again.

“Why?” Your head lolls as the pale winter stars twinkle down.

“Why not? You need help,” he says lithely as he heads down the steps, “we help those in need. We don’t help those who take.”

“We?” You blink, each time your eyelids get heavier.

“You’ll see,” he says as he turns onto the next flight of metal steps, “save your energy, doll. I got you.”

“No, I don’t wanna…” you cover your mouth and shudder against him in another fit, “go.”

He says something but you don’t hear him as you grasp the front of his jacket. Your head is spinning and the world won’t stop unless you keep your eyes closed. The air in your lungs licks like flame. 

Doesn’t matter, it’s your turn. You’ve waited long enough.

⌛

You wake in motion. Layers cocoon you but you’re still freezing. Metal rattles and you hear the rumble of an engine. There aren’t many vehicles still operational and you haven’t seen one since before the floods. You murmur through your haze as mutters rise around you.

“How long?” a voice you know asks as you fell a brush against the blankets thrown around you.

You blink at the metal roof of the truck, some sort of military machine. Your eyes focus as the man kneels beside you and you feel his calloused hand on your forehead. He gets an answer but you can’t make it out.

“Bruce’ll know what to do,” he says over his shoulder, his hands working to free his canteen again.

“You should’ve left her,” one of his companions says, a smooth female voice.

“She’s not one of them,” he insists as he touches the open mouth of the canteen to your lips. You drink and the lukewarm water soothes your ragged throat. “They were robbing her… she must’ve gone out for those meds.”

“They’re expired. Well past. More like, she was trying to put herself out of her misery,” the woman replies and you hear a thump on metal, “Buck, don’t take the main way. We’re not fucking around again. Those bandits aren’t worth my energy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” a man grumbles from further away as the one before you asks if you want any more water. You shake your head as you listen to the mumbling, “…no fucking around… don’t gotta tell me.”

“You should try to sleep,” the man in the scarf says, “we got a few hours.”

You nod again. You can’t even try to talk as your throat feels like broken glass. He adjusts your head atop a folded rag and fixes the blankets, nestling them under your chin.

“Goddamn, Rogers, you just can’t help yourself. How long has it been and you’re still on your hero shit,” the woman sneers.

“Sleep,” he pats the layers over your shoulder and stands, hunching beneath the low ceiling of the truck, “what’s the harm, huh? She’s one person. She needs help.”

“We’re not in the business of help, not anymore,” the woman replies.

“Nat,” the man, Rogers sighs, “you don’t gotta worry about her, alright?”

“That’s the thing,” she retorts, “you say that but I always end up worrying.”

Your eyes roll back and your head lolls as their argument continues. You can’t help but agree with the woman, Nat. With the way you feel, you’re better off dead. The thought of your inevitable end had almost been a relief. You slip back into the nether, the agony dulling with your descent.

⌛

The next time you awake, you’re still. You hear beeping, the hum of electricity, and you think it’s some twisted dream. You inhale, a little easier than before, but when you move your arm, there’s a tug. You open your eyes, propped up against the bed, angled to keep you bent. Your wrists are cuffed to the rails, a tube running from the back of your hand to a bag of clear liquid.

The walls are clear and look out onto a vast vaulted chamber, what could be a laboratory, or something more sinister. You feel like a mouse in a cage as you’re kept in the box to look in on. You feel warm for the first time in months but sleepy still. 

The cuffs ring against the metal rails and you test their resistance. You’re weak, it’s pathetic. You moan and press your dry tongue to the roof of your mouth. The machine chirps and you sense movement on the other side of the transparent walls. A man approaches, dark hair and stubble, and lets himself in as the door beeps and slides open.

“You’re awake,” he says as he approaches the single table and lifts the folder atop it.

You want to ask where you are but you cough instead.

“My name is Bruce Banner,” he nears you as he speaks dully as he reads, “and you are?”

You squint at him. You know that name. A name from before. You laugh and it devolves to another cough. It can’t be. You choke past your arid throat, several tries before you rasp out your name. He takes a pen out of his pocket and scribbles it down.

“Well,” he addresses you by name, “you had a nasty case of pneumonia, coupled with a viral infection. You also took some expired pills that didn’t do much for that. You’re lucky Steve found you.”

“Steve…” you echo and grasp at fragmented memories, “… Rogers?” your mind works to piece together the more distant thoughts, those times before the world fractured.

“The very one,” Bruce confirms, “you’re on the other end of it now. Your lungs are clearing out. I suggest you spit out anything that comes up.” He taps the metal dish by your leg with his pen, “You should stay in bed for a bit and not stress.”

He puts the pen away and takes out a key. He frees your right hand but not the other.

“Why…” you begin and swallow the dryness in your throat, “why?” You lift your hand so the other cuff clangs on the rail.

“You know the world we live in, it’s no different up there than down here,” he says flatly. “Water,” he points to the cup on the table you can just reach, “we’ll hold off on solid food for the time being.”

“Down here?” you prompt.

“You came pretty far,” he closes the folder and puts it back beside the tall cup, “a whole border away. Can’t say everyone’s happy about having a visitor, as rare as they are.”

“Oh?” you frown, “I… I…” your throat is itchy and torn, “…asked him… to leave… me.”

“Have some water,” he says, “and try not to agitate yourself.” He pulls open the single drawer in the table and pulls out a book, “Atwood… kinda fitting.” He tosses it into your lap, “but it’s what you get.”

“I— thanks,” you sniff.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he shrugs and backs away, “I’ll be back to check on you in a couple hours. Don’t forget, spit.”

He turns on his heel and you watch him go, the door shutting behind him and the unseen lock whirring into space. You put your head back and exhale. You’re used to being alone, it’s the idea of the company that unsettles you.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Locked in like an animal. You barely touch the tray Steve left on the table. Instead, you scour the room for any you can use to get out of there, the bathroom too. The bedroom won’t open and you find nothing more than cotton swabs and throwing the chair made no difference but to sap you of your energy.

You never trusted Steve. You aren’t that stupid, not then, not now. What this world makes of people, including you, is inhumane and soulless.

You end up on the floor, against the wall, arms bent over your knees, ready to doze off.

Peter’s words hang around and inspire a dozen more questions. What’s above? How many? Why? How? Why are the people down here like this? Why do they say you’re his?

You put your head back and blow out a long breath. Even if it made sense, it wouldn’t help. You are still stuck here. The one who truly robbed you that night was Steve; he took from you the only freedom left.

Those thoughts were normal. Funny how you could be out scavenging for food or water and that tiny murmur remains, longing for a final escape from misery. The human mind is a torturous contradiction and while you can resign yourself to the end it can’t extinguish those mortal moments of resilience.

When the door opens at last, you make no move. Steve enters and the metal whispers back into the frame behind him. A heavy breath puffs from him as he paces, nearing the tray on the table.

“You didn’t eat,” he states.

“Not hungry,” you say.

“It’s wasteful,” he sits and picks at the rubbery bacon, some manufactured strips that don’t quite taste right. He chews and twirls the meat lazily in his fingertips.

“You’re welcome to it,” you reply dryly and stare at the floor, “like you said, all that I owe you…”

“You’re mad?” He swallows and throws back the last of the strip.

“Aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?” He takes a gulp of water to wash down his mouthful.

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “You think I’m dumb.”

“You wouldn’t be here if I thought that,” he scoffs and takes the fork to poke at the greasy hash.

“So why are you acting like I’ll just forget what just happened? Why won’t you let me leave? If I’m wasteful, I’ll go,” you argue and lift your eyes to watch him.

He grits his teeth in agitation and sits back, forgetting the scraps left over.

“Why do you want to go back out there so bad? You know what it’s like and around here… well, you haven’t been here.”

“Where exactly are we? I’ll figure it out,” you insist.

“No, you’ll run into raiders and waste everything I’ve given you,” he snorts, “you think you’re tough because you lasted this long but your time was up. Now it’s my time.”

“Excuse me?” You stand slowly, using the wall to push yourself to your feet.

His jaw clenches and his cheek twinges. You can see him fighting to remain calm.

“You gave up your life so I took it. You know how things work. Like you said, you’re not stupid,” he drags his nails down his beard as he watches you, a pit sinking in your stomach.

“I…told you–”

“What you told me doesn’t matter,” he stands and you can’t help but wince, his size more obvious than ever, “what I did matters. It’s the reason you’re standing here arguing with me like a spoiled little brat.”

You blink and force the breath out of your lungs as they begin to ache.

“Let me go, Steve, you don’t have to give me anything. I’ll go with as much I came with. You’ll never see me again.”

“No,” he says shortly, “you’re not going. End of story.”

Your lip trembles and you sneer at him. You spent years alone, avoiding this, before, after, now. This was why you stayed away from people. They are dangerous and selfish and… monsters.

Your breath quakes from you as you ball your hands. You were ready to die alone, maybe it would be better to go out fighting.

You dash forward, head swirling from the effort but you keep on. You dodge Steve, barely, hitting your knees and rolling forward. He stumbles but rights himself as you rip the door off the electrical box, desperate to dislodge the entire thing from the wall.

You duck as you sense him behind you and his hand hits the wall where you just stood. You stagger and crawl away, getting your feet back under you as you move in a clumsy flurry.

You go to the table and grab the tray. You swing it back at him as you hear his pursuit. He knocks it away easily and it bends before spiraling away into the wall.

You shuffle away as he reaches for you and you fall across the low table. You shove off of it and wiggle underneath. You turn onto your back and kick the table up so it slams into his front. You scramble as he snarls and flings the table over the couch.

You grab the fork from the floor and kick yourself up to your knees. He grabs your ankle and hauls you backwards. You flip over and stomp against his thigh with your free leg. You curl up and aim the tines of the fork at his thick leg.

He releases you with a grunt as the fork sticks out of his thigh. You can’t get it out but it doesn’t matter, he’s distracted. You get up, breathless, dizzy, weak. You’re slower as you go back to the door and slam your fist into the console.

Open, open, open! You claw at it, trying to rip it off. You give up and beat on the door but only for a second before you’re dragged back with a startling force.

“You…” Steve growls as he spins you and grabs the front of your shirt, “are fucking stupid.”

You grasp his thick wrists as the vein in his forehead pulses. He pushes you back against the door, lifting you off your feet. You’re nothing, light as a feather as you kick helplessly.

“I should fucking break you,” he rasps, “but that wouldn’t be as much fun.”

He drops you and the landing jars your ankle and your legs fold so you land on your ass. You cough and it feels like nails in your chest. It was stupid but you have no other choice.

“Fucking Christ,” he tuts as he grabs the back of your collar and tears you away from the door, “shit.”

He forces you into the chair as he reaches to the belt at his waist. He unbuckles it and gruffly winds it around your wrists. Your hands thrum as the blood pulses in your fingertips and he stands.

“You fucking move and I’ll do worse than toss you around,” he limps slightly as he rips the fork out of his leg.

He goes into his bedroom with the scan of his fingertip. He emerges with a silver tin and pushes the table away from the couch. He falls on the cushion and sets down the box. He pokes his fingers along the hole and slips beneath the fabric, splitting it to reveal the blood red dots.

“You should kill me,” you huff as you lean your head back, “save yourself the trouble.”

“You don’t know what I should do. You don’t even know what you need,” a wrapper crinkles as you stare at the ceiling, “that much we both know. You were out there, wandering, with nothing. You couldn’t know, didn’t know, that there’s still something to want in this world. Can’t you see I’m trying to show you that?”

“Show me what?” You grumble.

He’s quiet and you hear the peel of a bandage. He exhales and his weight shifts.

“You wanna see what’s above? I’ll show you, then maybe you’ll understand.” He says, “thank me even.”

“Sure,” you close your eyes, “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Wha–”

You bend forward and vomit onto the floor between your feet. The eggy bile stains your tongue as bile scours your throat. You quiver and stay hanging over your knees.

“See,” Steve sighs, “not a single clue what’s good for you.”

⌛

You stayed in the room for a day. Steve came and went. He held onto his anger and you to yours. You think of the outside and the bitter cold with no promise of another meal or day. You prefer it, never expecting to long for it.

When he’s there, you try to ignore him. When he’s away, you think of nothing else. The walls are nothing, he’s the real prison.

Even Steve Rogers could not go untainted by the new world.

Your third night on his couch is just as restless as any other. You stare into the dim, the night tinted blue with the large digits of the ticking clock. You wonder about how those vibrant numbers stay alight, about the bins brought by Peter, about what’s above and all the things unsaid.

The auditors were never going to survive. They went extinct with all the rest of them. Their stockpile ran dry eventually and meant nothing when the floods came and drowned as many as they set astray. They never had the means to last, they only wanted to thrive while they were still alive.

The scavengers were better in the long run but their numbers dwindled with their loyalty. When it’s every man for himself, there can be no groups. The marauders were criminals, they only wanted quick delights. Then there was you and you always hoped there were others like you, alone, passing away time, watching.

Perhaps, complacency is most dangerous in this world.

You sit up and settle against the corner of the couch. That’s when you notice the shadow, standing still. Steve’s silhouette lurks in the doorway and he flinches.

He crosses the room, wordless, and disappears into the bathroom. How long was he there? What was he doing? What was he waiting for?

You lean sideways against the back of the couch, huddled up as you yawn. The door slides open with a brief flash of light before it’s black again. Steve’s footfalls are soft and almost untraceable.

“If you can’t sleep, you can watch something,” he says, “but you should try.”

You say nothing and pull the blanket up over your shoulders. You wince as you feel him behind you suddenly, just on the other side of the arm of the couch. He touches your neck lightly and you tense.

“Long day ahead,” he intones as his fingers dance along your shoulder.

You draw away from him and curl up on the other side of the couch. His breath carries with exasperation in the silence.

“This doesn’t have to be so difficult,” he reproaches, “don’t make this like it is out there.”

“Like you said, I should sleep,” you turn your back to him, “you too.”

“I’m trying, you know?” He offers gently, “I’m not mad anymore.”

“I am,” you reply tersely.

“Right,” he tisks, “well, I can wait.”

You grimace and close your eyes. He lingers for a moment and you listen to his steps recede back to the bedroom.

What a fucking jackass. Does he really expect some magical epiphany to overcome you?

You lay there, tired but listless. Your eyelids burn but you cannot urge yourself into the void. So your exasperation turns to dread and you mind wanders, evading any hope of rest.

The haze of the clock lightly glows on your eyelids and the low buzz of electricity radiates through the wall. The beating, static silence makes your ears itch.

A low groan rises and your heart skips. You’re not sure at first, perhaps a dream, perhaps just your mind playing tricks. Then another, longer that time, louder, the noise of skin and the soft shift of the bed frame. You pull the pillow over your head before you can hear more.

His door was open. It was always shut, why then was it open? The purposeful omission stokes your anxiety. You keep the pillow snug to your ear but you can still hear him. You squeeze your eyes tight and wait. As always, it’s all you can do.

⌛

You wake, if you can call it that and pull on the canvas jacket over your loose plaid shirt. You fold up the blankets and collapse the mattress back into the couch. Outside might be shit but you miss seeing it. The windowless walls add another layer of depression to an already grim world.

You pace back and forth and Steve appears shortly. He says good morning but not much else before disappearing into the bathroom for a shower. He has now shame as he comes out in only a towel and his door remains open again as he dresses. You listen the his clothing rustle as you watch the clock.

He comes out in the same gear you first saw him in. He is even more intimidating as he carries a dented shield on his back, thought it isn’t the stars and stripes you expect, the same scarf over his open fleece jacket, and leather strapped around shoulders, thighs, and waist.

He offers you the puffer jacket you’d sewn a wool blanket into and your gloves and hat. Still, no knife or heavy iron pipe, not that you expect them. You pull them all on, they’ve been cleaned, and you coil the ratty scarf around your neck.

“Should I put a leash on you?” He asks dryly as he considers your attire.

“Should you?” You challenge, “where are we going?”

“Got all those supplies, gotta go drop them,” he says,“ two birds, one stone. We get the job done and you get to see what you’re missing out on.”

“You know I’ll run the first chance I get,” you say.

“You’ll try,” his mouth slants, “we both know you don’t got it in you to get far and I’ll catch you. Maybe not right away but I will. So how do you wanna do this?”

“You asking? Really”

“Do you wanna stay here?” He counters.

“Both seem like tempting options,” you answer.

“‘Thank you, Captain, for asking. Oh and thank you for the coat. Oh, and putting your neck out for me, that’s real great,’” he taunts, “don’t act like I haven’t done anything for you, doll.”

“People dont just do things for each other, not anymore,” you zip up your coat, “we both know that.”

“Then it will make this a bit easier, won’t it.” He smirks and turns to press his hand to console, “oh, and if you do try to go for it, you better hope it’s me that catches up to you.” He waves you through the door as it opens, “Bucky does like a chase.”

Chapter Text

You come up under a grey sky, no different than the one you knew before. The snow is just as deep as the tires of the military vehicle crunch over it, a cavalcade of large trucks rolling behind. It’s you, Bucky, and Steve, as Nat and Sam have taken another van in the opposite direction.

You can see the city through the little slats along the side, no windows in the thick walls. You can guess the utilitarian purpose of the enclosed space. It makes you uneasy even if it promises protection. 

New York, the city of dreams, a nightmare of torn up buildings and the few fractured body parts of the great statue that once stood vigil over the urban sprawl. The walls crumbling as new ones mount in cold powder and lend a deathly hue to the world. It’s not the thriving yellow traffic of taxis or panoply of lights, it’s dead and dull like the rest of civilization. 

You back away and sit on the bench, Bucky’s at the wheel, a metal grate between him and the cargo stacked around you and Steve. You feel him watching you, like he always does. You want to ask where you’re going but you don’t see any reason his evasion should change.

“Told you, not so nice up here,” he remarks, “but you already know that.”

“I… didn’t realise it was so far,” you say quietly, more to yourself.

“It was hardly a home you had back there, besides borders don’t really mean shit anymore, do they?” He scoffs.

“Guess not,” you hug yourself as the cold seeps into the cabin.

“We got a few hours still,” Steve says, “might wanna catch up on some sleep, doll.”

You hold back a scowl and hook your leg over the other, “don’t call me that.”

He tilts his head and clicks his tongue, “it’s nothing… habit.”

“Didn’t hear you calling Nat doll, or Bucky,” you grumble.

“I think the arm helps,” Bucky intones  “one good slap…”

“Sure, the arm,” you mutter.

“Fine,” Steve huffs, “whatever you like… sweetie.”

“Whatever,” you close your eyes and let the side of the truck shake you.

The weight of his gaze presses past the crates and you try to ignore him. You might get a chance so you will need your energy.

⌛

The truck rumbles as it slows and you hear a loud grinding outside. You sit up and stand, off balance as you go to the grate and try to peek through the windshield. Steve stands and steadies himself with a hand on the ceiling as he hunches next to you.

“We’re here,” he says, a redundant declaration.

Large gates open ahead of the truck’s angled bumper and within, the air is still and startling. Apartment buildings, reinforced with bars on every window, uniformed when strolling with rifles on their shoulders and handguns on their hips. None but what appear to be soldiers, or guards, more like wardens. It isn’t a town anymore, it’s a prison.

You swallow dryly as you squint through the tiny holes. Being out there, alone, fighting every moment, that was terrifying, but this… you can hardly fathom it. 

A shiver, uninspired by the cold, crawls up your spine. Maybe he’ll leave you there in a cage with whoever else resides in that hell. You can’t say which you prefer. 

“Fury will be impatient,” Bucky says, “but he’ll be happy with the haul.”

“Hmm, yeah,” Steve sways and brushes against you.

“Less happy about your plus one,” Bucky stops and kills the engine as the gates close with a clang.

“Fury’s never happy,” Steve touches the small of your back as if to help keep you stable and you draw away. “I’ll be the one dealing with him while you head down Parker Row.”

“I got appointments to keep,” Bucky stands and pushes open the door, “besides, you got your doll.”

“Hey,” you utter as he hops out with a snicker.

“Ignore him,” Steve points you past the cargo, “let’s go. Fury won’t like being kept waiting any longer.”

“So, this is it? What you wanted me to see?”

“This is where you end up if you wanna go, that or the raiders get you,” he reaches around you as you near the door and lifts the heavy bar and lets it fall open, “you think you’ve seen it all, you haven’t.”

You say nothing and he steps around and jumps onto the ground. He turns back and you get down before he can help. He shakes his head and says nothing.

“Lungs hurt still? I used to get pneumonia all the time. When I was younger. Fucking killed and stuck around,” he says as he the men in fading black nod at him in passing as they start unloading the truck and those that followed.

“Mm,” you grunt as he guides you onward and angles you to a large red brick building with double doors and men standing on either side of the broad frame at the top of the concrete steps. You notice how they avert their eyes from your escort, almost as if they fear him.

They open the door without prompt and Steve ushers you inside with an order to lock the doors. A man sits by the spiraled end of a banister next to the wide staircase. A bow rests against his knee as he winds a strip around an arrow  biting down on a short cigar that’s long died. A rippled scar dims his left eye, his blond hair long and greasy in a shanked mohawk.

“Barton,” Steve greets, “thought you’d be on patrol.”

“Man’s gotta eat,” he replies, “on my way back out.”

“Fury?” Steve asks.

“Usual,” the answer comes bluntly with a lowered brow in your direction.

“With me,” you can’t tell if Steve means you’re with him or if he’s telling you to stay close.

He directs you up the steps, walking in step with you until you come to the top. He leads the way and a tall woman with bright blue eyes stands stoically at another door. Everything else about her is dull as her lips stay straight and her expression unaffected. 

“Hill,” Steve surpasses her without an answer and taps on the door.

“You’re late,” the woman crosses her arms as Steve turns the door knob. She narrows her eyes at you.

“With good reason. Thank me for the Wakandan liquor, huh?”

“I don’t drink,” she snorts.

“Still haven’t given in?” It’s half a joke before Steve pushes through and tugs on your sleeve to keep you moving.

“Rogers,” the cranky voice announces the man’s presence before you can peek around Steve, “about time.”

“Sure is,” Steve replies coolly.

“You have company?” The man, Fury, grimaces at you, “you know where new residents go.”

“Not for you,” Steve assures, “she wanted to see the place.”

“Doing tours now? You didn’t mention it,” the man sniffs.

“We’re late because we brought double, takes time to move it, yes?” Steve snaps, “you like whiskey, don’t you?”

“Got whiskey, we got a little distillery going at the Latchkey.”

“Well, it’s good to see you building this place,” Steve sucks his teeth, “I’ll leave you be then. Just thought I’d check in.”

“What does Stark think of that one?” Fury points at you sharply.

“Not his call,” Steve retorts.

“The others?”

“Since when did you care about anyone’s opinion?” He spits.

“Things get a bit boring around here,” Fury shrugs, “can’t blame me being curious.”

“We’re gonna do a walk through,” Steve steers you back to the door, “Bucky’s gonna be a while anyway.”

“The others?”

“Just us. Another party headed up to Wanda,” Steve trails you, “snow’ll slow them down.”

“Wish this shit would stop,” Fury grumbles and turns away as you come out in the hall.

“So,” you begin as you head down the stairs, thoughts whirring wildly, “does anyone get to come out or is it prison rules?”

“We’re doing these people a favour,” Steve insists, “give them somewhere to live out their time, in from the cold.”

“With bars and walls…”

“Safety, more than they deserve,” he opens the door and tails you down the steps, angling you away from the gates, “they are the past, they’re bound to die out soon. The future… we make sure that lives on.”

You peer around, lights from inside cast through the bars as movement flickers behind the windows. You chew your lip and think.

“There are children?” You wonder at his suggestion of a future. 

“Not here,” his lip curls, “these people, they aren’t fit to take care of them. They don’t even know how to take care of themselves. They’d rather fight each other like animals.”

You don’t ask. You’re not sure you wanna know but he answers.

“Nat and Sam, they’re headed to the kids’ community,” he explains, “anything born here, anything young, we send down there. We teach them how to survive, how to thrive. Without us, there wouldn’t be anything to build.”

“Just the kids? Their parents–”

“They stay here, it’s too late for them. The things they’ve done, well, you must know, you had to do the same thing we all did,” he sneers.

“So, I belong here then?”

“If that was the case, I’d have left you to die on the shit stained carpet,” he stops as guards walks up to a grey building and the doors open.

You watch as women emerge in shapeless clothing and take the crates from the stack building out front. Steve inches closer as he observes them and you stay where you are. He stands by the pile of bins and the women cower as they near to take from the top.

There’s another, holding the door. She’s pregnant and stares at him. She touches her stomach and her lips curve just a little. He doesn’t acknowledge her and drops her eyes to the ground. He turns back and crosses to you.

“You tryna teach me something? Should I avert my eyes?”

“You’re not them,” he assures you, “if I wanted you to be another set of organs, you’d be helping them as we speak.”

“You ever gonna tell me what you want? Why I can’t talk to anyone but you?” You say.

“We’re all a bit standoffish, doll,” you growl at the pet name and he smirks, “but I’m tired of these mares. I need something more.”

You take a step back, repulsed by what he hasn’t said. You look at the pregnant woman and shake your head.

“I’d rather be here,” you insist, “if that’s what all this is. A culling pit, some breeding den for you to rob–”

“If you were here, every man in black would have you on your back,” he snarls and lunges to grab you wrist, “you should be thanking me for not letting them stretch any part of you they can.”

“You’re disgusting. Do you really think you’re different than any of them? In here or out there?” You tug at your arm as he squeezes painfully.

“Don’t think you are either. You’re not special, you’re convenient,” he takes your other wrist and wrenches you against him, “I promise you, being mine is your best bet.”

“I’d rather die,” you rasp as you struggle with him, “I’d rather you left me here with all the rest than feed whatever demented idea you have of your own heroics–”

He lets go of your arm and you stagger as his hand snaps your head back. The slap puts the iron taste of blood on your tongue and shakes your skull. He clings to your other arm, keeping you from toppling. He yanks you away as several women try to hide their errant peeks.

He doesn’t say a word as he drags you back towards the truck. Your feet hit the ground clumsily as he rounds the rear and marches you inside. He pushes you onto the bench and leaves you just as quickly, the metal doors slamming together and locking from the outside.

You glance through one of the slender slats and watch his silhouette fade away. You sit forward and touch your beating cheek. You can’t shake the cold swirling in your core, it’s a bitter gale, an inescapable vortex. No winter storm was ever so frightening as that man.

⌛

You look down in the depths, mucky and cloudy, the open walls of the building crumbling into the water. Twenty floors up and a single mistake could be your last. If you can’t keep from being carried away by the tide, you’ll be swallowed and sunk. 

You have a system. You carry the board, a bridge as much as a raft, should you need it. You cross between buildings carefully, keeping your eyes up so the darkness can’t draw you in. Those who don’t make it float for a while before they go under, bloated and bobbing.

You line up the board and press a foot to it. You put your arms out and begin the slightly angled crossing. You get to the other side and slide the board in.

Suddenly, you fall backwards, arms around yours as you kick and flail. You land atop your attacker and plant your foot on the floor. You push and roll with them, their head knocking into yours. You grunt and hit the wall, throwing your head back deliberately.

They let you go and you scramble away. You barely avoid their next onslaught as you dive away from them. A board breaks against the rotting table and both clatter to the floor. You slip your fingers in your boot and tuck the shape up your sleeve.

You stand and dodge another hit. You spin and elbow the man, hairy, smelly and as damp as everything else. He grunts and charges you again, pushing you through a standing lamp so it collapses beneath you. The breath rushes out from your chest and chokes you.

You feel him pulling and grabbing at your jacket, his other hand forced between your legs as he tries to feel through your jeans. You snarl and fumble with on hand as you try to bat him away with your other.

“Come on, honey, it can be fast and I’ll let you go,” he continues to grope at you, ripping down your zipper.

The knife finally unfolds and you swing your arm at him. The blade catches his throat, not deep but enough to scare him. You kick him off of you, unthinking as you bowl him over with all your strength.

You end up atop him, screaming without realising, as you plunge the knife into his neck. Over and over, down his chest, his stomach, his arms, his face. You can’t stop until the blood makes the knife slip from your hand.

You push off of him, he’s just a mangled pile of flesh and bone from the waist. The knife is on the floor, it’s loose at the hing and the blade is chipped. Your hands are all cut up too and throb as tears trickle along your cheeks.

You sit up and take the knife. You can find a new blade. Somewhere. You search the man’s stained jacket as you sob, disgusted that your taking the few meagre rations in his pockets and the can opener.

You stand and wobble. You have nothing in your stomach to vomit up and gulp down the acidic bile. You walk over the scrap and the empty cans. The place smells rancid.

There’s a closet. You open it and slam it shut as soon as you look within. You turn and lean against it. You wretch and bend over, spitting up nothing but sour saliva.

The little girl… you stagger away and try not to think of it. What did he do?

You take the board and try to focus. Your hands tremble and you consider the welcoming ripples of the waters.

Your eyes snap open. Steve’s driving now and Bucky dozes across from you. Your lip quivers as you exhale the memory. Steve’s right, you’re all just animals.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

You see the world through a tunnel, the edges soft and hazed to pale hues, noises tickle your ears, distant and dull. The pain is a shadow in the background, there but you don’t mind as the drugs keep it from overwhelming you. And Steve, he lingers too, he’s there, then he’s not, just as you’re awake and then not.

Your eyes open through the weight of sedation and your head lolls as you sense the door open. Steve’s enters and something squeaks. You push yourself up wearily and bat your lashes at the wheelchair he pushes. You shake your head and slump forward, barely able to stay upright.

“Come on, doll, you’ve been in bed for days,” he says as he steps around the chair, “I know it hurts and it’s hard but we need to get you out and about.”

“Why…” you mutter, “why are you doing this?”

“Helping you?” He wonders, “you asked me to.”

“You know…what I mean,” you groan as he approaches and scoops you up. 

You cling to him as you leg throbs and you grunt at the pain. He sits you in the chair and carefully places your feet as you cry out. He takes a blanket and folds it over your lap.

“Where are you taking me?” You ask around your tepid tongue. 

“A nice walk, doll, I can’t have you lazing around all day,” he chides as he gets behind the chair and swings it around.

“Please,” you utter, “I’m tired.”

“Well, yes, you would be with all those pills you’ve been begging me for,” he hums, “you know, doll, you really should slow down. I know the pain is bad but you can’t be dependent on that shit.”

You don’t say anything. The chair rolls through the door and he continues past the couch and to the next, pushing his hand against the scanner. He wheels you into the hallway as you touch your forehead. 

You feel like nothing, like air. The days blurred since your return and yet were frighteningly clear. You are stuck here with this man, helpless and hopeless. Not much different before yet even more dire.

You shift and press your hands to the blanket as you hunch in the chair and Steve whistles as he ushers you along. This is another one of his games, another mocking display. You feel exactly how he wants you to, powerless.

“Is it worth it?” You ask suddenly.

“What?” He keeps on as you pass pale doors and watch the hexagonal tiles disappear below the chair. 

“Tony. I know he doesn’t want me here, no one does but you. Why?” You hiss.

“Tony hides away and thinks he can still have his way, I don’t give a shit what he wants. We all lost,” he sneers, “and the others. They mind their business, they got their own shit. Trust me doll, I’m not the worst of them.”

“So you say,” you croak, “you’d be better off at that prison. I saw how that woman looked at you.”

“Her? Who knows who knocked her up. It could be me or any man inside those gates,” he scoffs, “doll, let me tell you something, I chose you. I could have any woman over at the camp but I don’t. I’m over it, the passionless fuck, the pure instinct of just getting the tension out.

"I never wanted you to get hurt, doll. You made that happen. I feel awful what happened to your leg but you make your mistakes and learn from them, right? I’m willing to move on if you are,” he turns a corner and leans over you, “I’ve been taking care of you but I don’t have to, do I?”

“Oh, I know,” you breathe sourly.

“How do you feel, huh? The leg? Tell me it’s not as bad, right. You can handle it. You’re not whining like some kicked dog. Now that was kinda cute–”

“You’re horrible,” you cross your arms as another figure appears from around the next corner.

“I don’t have to be,” he touches your shoulder as he keeps pushing with his other hand, “that’s all on you.”

“Sup, cap?” Peter calls down the corridor, “holy balls, what happened to new girl?”

“Wrong step,” Steve says as Peter nears, “some people don’t watch where they’re going, do they?”

Peter grins and his brow arches as he eyes Steve. He ponders the venom in his voice and chuckles.

“Well, shit, sorry about that, those traps are for intruders,” Peter says, “which one, I’ll have to go reset it.”

“It’s broken,” Steve said, “we had to move her fast.”

“Well, new girl, I hope it’s not too bad. Looks like Bruce did a good job setting your leg,” he nibbles his lip as he considers you, “damn. I knew those things were a bad idea.”

“No, they do what they’re supposed to,” Steve insists, “shit happens, you been in this world long enough to know.”

“There are worse things,” you add bitterly, “you should try to make them more lethal.”

“Oh wow,” Peter takes a step back, “real badass over here.”

“Jesus,” you mutter.

“She’s cranky,” Steve says and slowly pushes onward, “leg and all.”

“That’ll do it,” Peter chimes.

“Oh, and in future,” Steve stops and stands straight as he glares back at Peter, “don’t talk to my girl, got it?”

“Whatever you say, cap,” Peter replies dryly and his departure echoes through the hall.

You shake your head but say nothing. Really, he was doing you a favour, saving you the energy of associating with the collective of assholes in this place.

Steve presses on and the light seems to brighten in the next walkway. A large window makes up much of the wall to your left as greenery peeks from within. He turns you to face it as he stop and you can’t help your surprise.

Rows and rows of leaves and hanging fruits, sprouting vegetables, and reaching branches. A greenhouses, endless and sprawling, on the other side of the glass, rich beyond anything you can fathom. You feel Steve as he looms over you, peering into the garden.

“We can’t survive on what’s left,” he says, “we have to build back what we lost.”

You can’t believe it. You remember how the beaming sun scalded the leaves to dust, how the floods oversaturated them and left them soggy and mulchy, how the snows buried what was left. Only the trees withstood the elements and barely.

“Come on,” he rolls you to the door at the end of the hall as you give no response. 

He takes you inside and steers you along the shades of emerald, peridot, and evergreen. You smell the fertile scent of soil and chlorophyll. The lush air hugs you, comforts you.

“I told you, better off here,” he intones and leaves shake from down the next row.

A head peeks out and Bruce reluctantly shows himself, a long neck sprayer in hand.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” Bruce says flatly, “something you need. We already harvested what’s ripe.”

“Just looking,” Steve assures, “thought you’d be at mess.”

“Hmmm,” Bruce says as he peeks at you. “How’s her leg?” He asks Steve, not you.

“Healing, I think,” he answers.

You rub your eyes and wince as your leg begins to itch and pulse. 

“You giving her the meds?” Bruce inquires.

“Lot of pain,” Steve says as he plays with the back of your collar.

“Try not to give her too much,” he warns, “it’s not good.”

“I got your notes. Nothing more than you suggested,” Steve confirms, “she’s been sleepy is all.”

“Keeping off it, I hope,” Bruce says, “I’ll have to have a look soon, make sure its setting well and evaluate the cast.”

“Mmm, yeah, you seem very concerned,” Steve challenges, “told you, I’m taking care of her.”

You close your eyes. Suddenly, overcome with fatigue and a touch of nausea.

“Well, sure,” Bruce says, “didn’t say otherwise… you asked for my help, remember?”

“She’s fine,” Steve insists, “should get her back down.”

“It’s alright, let her look at the flowers, they’re starting to bloom,” he points to the far corner, “the air is good for her.”

“Thanks, doc,” Steve pushes you past Bruce and the other man sighs.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters and walks away.

You open your eyes and inhale the pollen. You glance around, a curtain of detachment around you. It reminds you of before, of the park where you used to read under a tree, your mother’s overgrown garden, the school soccer field and the noise of laughter. You slouch and moan at the dull ache in your leg.

“So, doll, what’s your favourite? You like daisies?” Steve asks as he turns you down a shelf of petals, “you seem like a lily gal to me.”

“You don’t know me,” you say, “but I know you. What you are.”

“Let me tell you what we are, doll,” he leans down, breath hot against your scalp, “we are all fucked. I found that knife in your boot, I know it was there for a reason. I’ve seen you, seen how feral you get–” he stands straight and reaches to caress your neck, “you’re no better than me.”

You can’t say otherwise, you’ve done what you’ve had to to survive, but what he’s doing is so much worse. There’s no necessity in it, only cruelty. You shudder as he tickles your chin and tugs coyly at your collar. You sit rigidly and stare at the little purple pansies with yellow at their hearts, something so beautiful cannot possibly withstand this world.

⌛

As you get back to the room, your leg makes you squirm and groan, your head lolling as you tremble. Steve leaves you in the chair as he unfolds the couch and spreads out the blankets, taking pillows from the bedroom as he creates a little nest. He lifts you from the chair as you whimper and places you on the mattress.

“I’ll get you your next dose,” he says as he backs off, “some water too.”

“Maybe…” you gulp at air through the pain, “maybe Bruce is right, I should try to just… get through it.”

“Doll, you’re barely keeping it together,” Steve says as you hear the rattle of a bottle, “you need to relax. You kick around too much and you’ll fuck your leg even more.”

He approaches with a plastic bottle and two pills on his rough palm. You sigh. He’s right. You can’t make it through without. You can barely stay propped against the couch as all you want to do is curl up and cry. You take the tablets and the water and swallow them down.

As you chug back the water, Steve moves around. The television flashes on above his head as he searches the low stand beneath. He tuts as he searches the discs stacked below.

“You like Astaire?” he asks over his shoulder, “or I got the original King Kong… Bride of Frankenstein. All the classics. Take me back, you know?”

“I don’t care,” you put the bottle aside and sink against the pillows.

“Too bad, I was in ice when Audrey was big,” he says as you hear the whisper of the dvd tray, “Charade. It stands up.”

He backs away from the screen as promos play for other ‘Hollywood Classics’. He pulls his sweater over his head and reveals a ribbed tank beneath, grey and slightly tinged with perspiration. His thick arms are veiny and a few scars can be traced beneath the fine blond hair. He sits on the edge of the bed and unties his boots.

“1963,” he continues, “I would’ve been 45, thereabouts. Figure, I could’ve married…” he shimmies back to sit beside you, long legs before him, “instead, spent my life in the water. Woke up to shit and more shit. Now look where we are.”

You watch the technicolour, restored for digital, and your eyes start to glaze. His voice is irritating but you don’t have the energy to tell him to shut up. He reaches for a remote as the mattress shakes beneath his movement and the lights around you dim, the screen glowing in the shadows.

“Better,” he says as the Universal globe appears behind golden letters, “don’t you think?”

You mutter but it’s gibberish. You close your eyes as all you can think about is your leg. It never really stops, always there, twinging to remind you of the damage done, of the sentence you face with this man.

“You feeling okay, doll? Those pills kicking in already?” he asks and you feel his hand cover yours. He keeps you from wrenching it away.

“Tired,” you huff out weakly, “hurts.”

“Well, take it easy,” he says, “we got a movie going. Isn’t it like before, huh?”

“No,” you answer curtly as he forces his fingers between yours.

“It could be, if you tried,” he squeezes and leans against you, “it doesn’t have to be a fight. I want you to get better, I want you to heal so we can walk through the greenhouse and I can pick you flowers–”

“I don’t…” your voice trails off as you blink at the credits over opening scenes. You babble and your head rolls to the side.

“We can have a life down here together…” his voice distorts and drags out to a low tone as your lashes flutter and lock, “…try… you and I…”

You doze off as his words hang in your mind, a flicker of anger muted by your descent into your only escape. The drug-laced black tints with the colours of reality, the television just beyond your unconsciousness, mixing and muddling with your memories. You welcome the detachment from what is.

You fix the strap over your shoulder as you walk by the grey-haired man on the stoop, he’s always there when you come home. That day, you haven’t even a spare dollar to put in his cup. You apologise and offer him your uneaten granola bar from your work bag instead. He thanks you but you see his disappointment.

The crooked steps of your building creak under your ascent and you unlock all three latches on your door, splinters flaking away each time you open it. You put your bag on the low stool by the door and lean against the wall to step out of your flats. You kitchen greets you with empty cupboards.

All you ever wanted was better. A life where you weren’t scraping and scrounging. Well, look how far you’d come. There was a little less mold in this place than your mother’s and it didn’t smell like cat piss, only the stale ash of years of cigarettes burnt by the former resident. 

Monotone days spent at a cubicle with a headset, listening to the rambles of the senile or the rants of those disturbed by your auto-dial. You try to get through the script but inevitably the line dies or the answer is no. Your manager has another sit-down but won’t fire you; he can’t afford the recruitment process.

You sigh and take out a can of peaches long-forgotten. You’re hungry, you don’t care. You’ve eaten worse. You open it and eat with your fingers, slimy juices running down as you gobble up the sickly sweet fruit. 

Life. If that is living, then you don’t know why you even try. Is this as good as it gets? Earning pennies to rot away in a decrepit old slum. You thought your mother was the problem but maybe it was you. You didn’t deserve nice things. This is your lot.

You put down the empty can and rinse your hands. You stumble back as if someone’s yanked on you. You hit the counter with your back and the room falls away. You hesitate as you see the rows of cubicles before you. 

You look down, you no longer wear the second-hand dress pants and stuffy blouse. Instead, a loose shirt hangs over you and well-worn shorts. Your sweat and dirt stains the fabric.

The sun beams in through the office windows as you kick through the mess of papers and smashed electronics all over the carpet. You pass your old spot, the chair turned over, and head to your manager’s office. He’s in there, dead and shriveled, but he didn’t die from the thirst. There’s a rope around his neck but he’s been taken down from the rafters. His legs have been picked clean, by animals or someone.

You shudder and close the door. Your jolted again and land on your back. Your leg hurts. Fuck. You blink and peek over at the snow all around you. Voices carry in the bitter wind.

“I just saw someone, I swear,” you stay still in your hiding spot, hoping they won’t go so far into the hills of powder.

“Probably another stray,” the answer comes, “we don’t need the trouble.”

“Looked like a girl, maybe.” The other insists.

“What, your hand isn’t good enough?” his companion snickers.

“Whatever,” the snarl rumbles and their feet crunch away.

You stand and slip on the ice buried beneath the blanket of snow. You cry out and your eyes snap open.

Your chest fills with dread as you feel a weight over you. Your body jerks on the mattress as you’re surrounded with warmth, damp breath glossing against your cheek. You can’t see past the shadow over you as a fullness lurches between your legs, sprawled around a thick figure. 

You’re awake. Truly awake. This isn’t a dream. Your heart hammers as you realise what’s happening. Steve’s inside you, rocking against you, sweaty skin rubbing together, your shirt rolled up over your chest and your pants dangling over your cast. He fucks you as he groans into your neck, the score of the film drones in your ears.

“Get off,” you rasp as you bring your hands up against his chest, your vision skewed as you try to see him through the dim, “get off of me.”

“Shh, doll, you feel that,” he coos against your temple, “feels good, hmm, you’re so wet.”

He’s gentle but deliberate in his thrusts. You sink your nails into his firm muscle and grit your teeth. It doesn’t matter, it’s wrong, you hate it. You want him off of you. You want him away. The horror chokes you as you sputter and scratch at his shoulders.

“Get–”

He hushes you again and covers your mouth with his large hand. You murmur into his palm and grasp at his wrist. He thrusts into you harder and you squeak. Your leg bounces and the pain ripples through every inch of you. Not just from the break but his intrusion. Your stomach roils as a repulsive heat suffocates you.

Your fingertips brush his thick bear and you groan as he ruts deeper. You try to bite his hand but its too heavy over your lips. Your fingers crawl higher and you push against his head. Your frail and futile efforts only make him growl.

Your thumb traces the line of his nose as panic swells and spots in your vision. You push against his socket and turn your face away from his hand. You holler as you jab your thumb into his eye. You hear and feel the sickening squish.

Suddenly, the world is lighter. His grunts turn to a frightening wail and he pushes off of you, shoving away your hand as he cups his eye. He falls back as the pathetic noises rise from him and he rolls off the end of the mattress. He sounds like a dying animal as you raise your hand and see your bloody thumb.

You smile to yourself as you listen to him suffer. That is life now. That is what you are. You know it doesn’t end well but you don’t give a fuck.

Chapter Text

Steve’s agonized voice continues to peak as your head spins. You murmur and grab the arm of the couch, forcing yourself up shakily. You garble some nonsense as you move slowly. You feel as if you’re fighting through wet sand. 

You clumsily turn your legs over the edge of the mattress. You try to stand but your left leg gives out. Your knees hit the floor as you pant and puff with the effort. The pain makes you squeak as you drag yourself further, crawling weakly over the carpet.

Rings circle your vision and make it hard to see clearly. You near the door, the whining underlined with angry snarls as you hear the bed jostle. You slap your hand against the white barrier, reaching up desperately to the console. Deep down, you know you can’t get out but your body won’t listen to your mind.

You bend your fingers against the edge and try to pry open the door, gritting through your teeth as you cry out. You hear him, he’s getting closer, on his feet now, unsteady but coming for you. You hit your fist against the door, beat on it desperately.

The room shifts suddenly as a vice closes on the back of your neck. Steve grabs your chin with his other hand and tilts your head to look up at him. You laugh as you see his mangled eye and the torment that constricts his face. 

“You stupid bitch,” he grips you firmly and slams your head against the door.

Your nose cracks and he lets go of you as you recoil. You sprawl over the floor and sputter, still laughing. He growls and kneels over you.

“What the fuck is so funny?” he snarls.

“Fucking ugly bastard,” you croak, “do it already.”

He sneers and grasps your jaw. He lifts you and crashes your head down again. The world goes black as your heart beat hammers loudly, slowly petering off to  a soft tap until it just ends. Nothing.

⌛

It’s the pain that wakes you. Just like every time you open your eyes. The room is as you remember it. Dread underlines the fervent pulsing in your shin and the thrumming in your head, radiating from your nose. You groan and stare at the white ceiling.

Alive. You’re painfully and needlessly alive. 

You blow out between your lips as shudder. You glance down at your naked body. You close your eyes again and shake your head. Your hands are tied above your head, together, restrained as the straps looped down around the bed frame. Your legs are loose but the left is useless anyway.

Futility sets in and feels you with restless despair. All you can do is wait. That’s what you’ll do until you’re dead. One day, it will end. Just not that day.

The door is open but you hear the other beyond. You don’t look as Steve enters, you don’t need to. You know it’s him. He assures with a rocky snicker as he paces the bottom of the bed.

“I tried to make this easy, doll,” he says, “but really, I don’t mind the hard way.”

His soles creep up towards you and he stops just beside your head. He bends over you and grabs your face. He makes you look at him, a leather patch over his right eye, a few marks from your nails down his cheek.

“No relief for this,” he release you and stands, rubbing his hands together, “not this time. You’re coming down, probably there already. No buffer between you and reality.”

He rounds the bed and raps his knuckle against the cast so you murmur.

“I…” you gasp, “there are others… why–”

“Shhhh,” he puts a finger to his lips, “I would love to crush that throat but I wanna hear you moan. Hear you scream.” 

He reaches down and peels off his shirt. His arms flex and his chest strains as he faces you. He sticks out the tip of his tongue as he pauses to push of each boot. He trails his hand along the bed around your body.

“All this work I put in, we both know you’re close,” he taunts as he tosses away his socks and stands, shaking out his arms, “I’m impressed it’s taken so long but you will break.”

He unbuckles his belt and lets it hang open as he works at unzipping his pants, sure to rub his crotch as he does. 

“I’ll admit, I kinda spoiled our first time,” he says and you tug on the strap above your head. You whimper as the pain from your leg ripples up and gnash your teeth, “I got a bit impatient but doll, you overreacted.”

“Fuck you,” you spit as you turn your head away.

“I can make that happen,” he chuckles as the fabric of his pants rustles and his weigh shifts, “but that mouth, well that’s been our biggest challenge, hasn’t it?”

The bed dips as he climbs up. He slaps your cast so you exclaim again and wheeze as your back arches with agony. He gropes your thighs and pushes them together. He moves to straddle you, further and further until he’s on your stomach. 

He frames your chin and presses his thumb to your lip. He turns you to face him and hums.

“Now, I already know you’re in a hell of a lot of pain, in fact, I don’t know how you’re even awake, but I’m not complaining,” he rubs your lower lip, “let me tell you, broken jaws are much worse,” he squeezes, just a little and you groan, “so, we can keep counting the broken bones or you can be good and keep those teeth to yourself.”

He strokes himself with his other hand and you refuse to look lower than his face. The strap digs into your wrists and you clamp your eyes shut as another pang stabs at your leg. You pout and try to breathe out the pain.

“Doll?” he urges as he pinches your lips until they pucker.

You unclench your jaw and he relents. You let your mouth open and keeps your eyes shut. A shiver of repulsion shakes your body as he purrs in content. You cling to the dark curtain behind your eyes, longing to fall back into the abyss. You’re not there, this isn’t your body, nothing is happening.

He move so that his knees press under your arms. He leans over you, you feel the heat of him, smell his sweat as his shadow looms on your eyelids. He rubs his tip against your lips and they twitch. You resist the thought of chomping down and slacken your jaw.

“That’s it, doll, relax,” he eases inside and you exhale through your nose.

He dips lower and you tense as he meets the back of your throat. He prods and pokes, rocking in and out until he slips deeper. You gag around him as he pulls his hand back to rub your throat with his wide thumb. Your eyes sting as tears bead along your lashes.

He moves his hips slowly and groans, inching to him limit. You can hardly get any air as you quiver and your chest swells.

“I can feel it,” he runs his thumb up and down your throat as he feels himself thrusting in and out, “shit.”

Your twitch and kick your leg as you choke on him. Your voice is stifled as you send another horrid jolt through your fractured bone. He groans and speeds up, encouraged by your muted mewls. The slick noise of his intrusion make you wince.

“Not so proud now, huh? You gonna fuck with my eye, I’m gonna fuck your mouth every fucking day and night,” he snarls as he fucks your face, “and man, I’m gonna enjoy it.”

You ball your hands above the strap and your body contorts as he pounds into you. You swallow back bile as it rise in your throat but he keeps going. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. He only stops when you fall limp, your head spotty from lack of air.

He sighs and reluctantly lifts himself on his knees and slips out of you. Your eyes flutters and glimpse his cock, dripping with your saliva as you cough. You hungrily gulp down breaths as he backs off of you.

“Are you crying, doll?” he mocks.

You shake your head and bat your lashes at the trickle from the corner of your eye. Your swollen lips hang open as your chest clamours. He settles between your legs and lifts your uninjured one. He pushes two fingers along your cunt and angles his hips down.

He catches his tip between his knuckles and inches into you. You grunt through your teeth as he stretches you, stopping until you’re quiet, only to sink deeper. He drapes your leg around him as his fingers dance up your stomach. He spreads his hand over your chest and pins you as he impales you completely.

You cry out at the force of it. He slides his other hand under your ass and raises your pelvis. He tilts into you, each thrust harder than the last. Your leg bounces with his motion and your head lolls in the storm of stimulation, both painful and pleasant. Shame sears your skin and curdles your voice.

“Mmm, doll, I like this better,” he purrs, “the way you squeeze me. The way you… squirm. Look at you trying so hard. We both feel how much you like it.”

He pounds harder, faster, and your spine curls backwards as you puff wildly. Every part of you feels as if it will shatter then suddenly he stops. He buries himself deep and lowers you back to the mattress. He slides out, inch by inch, and you exhale.

“Dollll,” he drawls cruelly, “you don’t think I’m done, do you?”

He grabs your hip and flips you as he moves over your legs and once more kneels between them. He lifts your as and forces both your knees beneath you. A steady drone slips form your lip as the pressure on your injured leg swells through your body.

He grips your hip firmly and guides his tip between your cheeks. You shake your head and push it up. He catches it and shoves it back down. He stretches his hand over the back of your neck and leans on you heavily.

He presses against your tight hole and pushes past it. You quiver as he forces through the resistance and your voice rises as the fiery invasion singes your core. You grit your teeth and he eases back only to dip back in, just his tip.

Every muscle in you coils and tightens. He rocks methodically, each time he gets a little deeper. The pressure and pain drown you and you cannot hold back your voice. You whine as he meets his limit and he groans in delight.

He slides back slowly, tauntingly, and slams back in all at once. You scream and he does it again. Your wails fill the room as your eyes roll back. Flesh slaps, harder and harder, and your tears stream onto the sheets. You hardly notice your leg as he batters your insides.

“Mmm,” he moans as draws his hand away from your neck and frames your waist with both hands, “that’s it. My little doll, huh? To play with however I–like. Shit, you’re so fucking tight–”

You hide your face as you weep, body wracked with the agony of his violation, as he doesn’t miss a beat. He bends over your, pelvis snapping meanly against your ass. He hangs his head next to yours and his hot breath strangles you.

“Say it,” he hisses as you feel his body tense.

“Wh–” you gasp and choke on your question.

“Say your mine,” he growls as his wet lips brush your cheek.

“I…”

“Say it,” he demands as your legs slide out and he has you flush beneath his body.

“I’m yours,” you eke out and a sob escapes you.

He grunts and jerks into you, several long uneven strokes before he still. He stays inside of you as he wiggles his hips and lets his weight rest atop yours. Your heart races and your blood courses wildly. 

Slowly, the pulsing dulls and the room dims. You only hear his breath, ragged and hot against your flesh. There’s a ringing in your ears as the room shines a blinding white. Still, you hear his breath, his grizzly growl, “my little doll.”

⌛

The wheels roll beneath you and you realise you’re no longer in the room. You blink and glance around as the bright walls of the corridors pass you by. You glance down at yourself then up at the man pushing you. Steve’s thick beard is just above you as he whistles.

He seems happy. You don’t know why. You only ever see him ravenous and raging. You recognise the large chamber he turns you into, the large double doors opening at the scan of his hand. Bruce is there, standing at a table littered with papers and odd gadgets.

“Doc,” Steve greets as he stops you just a few feet away from the other man.

“You know, I was never that type of doctor,” Bruce said, “not til all this.”

“Well, I appreciate you adding to your expertise,” Steve chimes, “as you requested, your patient has come for her check-up.”

“Cast is due to come off,” Bruce pulls up a stool, “gonna take a while, then we got a brace that needs to go on. Rogers,” Bruce sits and rolls around to a white chest, “you might wanna hit up mess before all the good stuff is gone.”

“I can wait,” Steve insists.

“Well, I need to focus and I don’t need you hovering over me,” Bruce comes back with a fabric bundle, you can see the top of metal tools peeking through.

“How long?” Steve exhales.

“An hour. Maybe a bit longer.” Bruce unrolls the row of medical utensils, “take as much time as we need. Make sure all is well.”

“Right,” Steve touches your shoulder, “doll, you want me to bring you back something?”

You shrug and say nothing. You stare at the metal tools. Steve backs away and you listen to the door opens and close for a second time. Bruce tilts his head and draws your gaze. He looks concerned as he puts two fingers under your chin and peers into your eyes.

“You alright?” he asks.

No answer. You have none to give him.

He nods and stands up. He washes his hands and you watch the tools. As you reach to touch one, he returns and gently takes your hand and puts it back on your lap. He sits across from you and takes a pair of oddly looking shears.

“We’ll cut the cast off, hopefully all is as expected,” he begins.

He adjusts the chair to prop up your leg. He removes the outer layer of the cast then starts to cut away the plaster, a little at a time. You lean your head back. You’re always tired. You try to sleep as much as you can so you don’t think.

“Steve shouldn’t have brought you here,” he says quietly and you lower your chin to look at him, “we all told him. We all… know what this world does to people. Including us.” He speaks as he furrows his brow at his work. 

“There’s no excuse,” he speaks delicately, “but there’s an explanation.”

You swallow and shakily rub your chin. “Can you just… end this? Please?”

“I know I should but I’m selfish. We all are here.”

“Coward,” you huff.

“I have no loyalty to you,” he says flatly, “me and everyone down here, we know exactly who we are. We know each other. Better the devil you know, right?” he says as he hunches over your legs.

“You aren’t the only ones who suffered. What gives you the right to collect others, to keep them locked up–”

“We do it to protect them, just as much to protect us,” he says sharply, “you want to know why you don’t see Tony?”

“I don’t really give a fuck–”

“His daughter. We all saw her. Each and every one of us. We searched and searched and it was Pepper who found her. Some outsider got in, put on a tech coat… there wasn’t a lot left, but enough to know it was her and what they did.” Bruce clears his throat as your cast cracks open completely, “they were hungry and thirsty and meat is meat to animals. And that’s what we’ve become.”

Your lips part at the thought. You saw it yourself, it wasn’t unheard of when the droughts turned to famine. But a little girl. A flash of the blond girl in the closet, bloodied, bruised, broken. Like the one he mentions yet what he describes is unimaginable.

“Tony made sure we all saw what happened to his little girl so we all knew what needed to be done,” he examines the incisions along your calf, the scars from the trap, “we keep what’s outside, out. Not just that, we keep it under control. We keep the kids safe because they are what’s left of humanity. The rest of us are just waiting to die off.”

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask quietly.

“Well, you’re one of us now,” he wheels away and grabs a sanitizing wipe, peeling away the wrapper before he wipes your leg, “you belong to Steve so you belong here.”

“I don’t want to belong here,” you whisper.

“None of us want any of this,” he says as he sits up and crumples the wipe, “but you really don’t have a choice. Leg’s healed but you won’t walk on your own again.”

“Right,” you slump back, “I figured.”

“So you wouldn’t last out there, you know that.” He gets up again and goes to a tall cupboard, “I’m trying to give you advice and you won’t get that from anyone else.”

“Which is?” you wonder.

“Take what you can get,” he sits with a brace and unstraps the velcro around the hard shell, “treat Steve as an ally and that’s what he’ll be.”

“He’s a monster,” you utter.

“But not the worst one out there,” he says as he opens the brace and careful places it around your legs, “and I’m sure, not even in here.”

He closes the brace and pulls tight a strap. You sit there and wait for him to finish. You chew on your lip and mull your thoughts. You might hate what he’s said but you can’t disagree. You’re fucked.

You stare at your leg and he lowers it to hang with the other.

“Stick with the chair for now, we’ll get you on crutches soon,” he says as he rolls up the tools, “you’re gonna need help so don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

You lean your chin in your hand as he packs up. He’s just a shadow as the unavoidable truth sets in. You will never be free of Steve. He’s already won, so why are you fighting it? You were complacent before, what was the rest of your life? You can only hope there’s not very much left and hope it hard to find in this world.