Chapter Text
“What are you doing?” Steve’s father asked in abject horror, dropping to his knees by Steve. “We can’t give him to the Russians! They’ll kill him–at best. At worst, they’ll–”
“Like you care.” His mother said, rolling her eyes, as she took another sip of her wine, as if she hadn’t just poisoned her son. As if she was merely chatting with another socialite at a garden party.
“He’s my son.” His father replied, with the most emotion Steve had–in his nineteen long years of life–ever heard from the man expressed in that last word.
“He’s my son too.” Maria shot back, brandishing her wine glass like a weapon at her husband. A little wine spilled out and fell on the floor, staining the carpet next to Steve. Neither of his parents seemed to notice. “And you don’t see me getting all worked up about this. Turning him over to the Russians is the best option for us. If it also happens to be the worst for Steven, so be it.”
“You’re a psychopath.” His father said in shock, like he was just realizing it after decades of marriage. He stood up, rising to his full height, all six foot four inches of it.
“Oh please, as if you are so much better. You wanted to turn him over to a government, just the same as me. Who cares which one it is in the end?” Maria said, pouring a little more wine from the bottle–that probably cost more than most people’s car–into her glass.
“I do. Care.” Steve’s father replied, glancing down at Steve’s limp and unmoving form on the ground. “He’s still my flesh and blood. I’m not just going to throw him to the wolves.”
“Oh? You aren’t?” Maria answered, raising a hand to her chest and feigning shock. “They’ll be here any minute to get him, so what do you think you’re going to–”
But her question was cut off by a fist to the face. Not a slap, not a shove, a fist. A punch that his father put everything he had into.
And that was all it took.
Maria Harrington was not a sturdy woman. She was thin and delicate. Steve–much to his father’s chagrin–was built much more like her than Danny Harrington, which was probably why he continued to lose every fight he ended up in.
And that was also why Maria Harrington, née d'Acerbi fell, and she did not get up again. Her glass of wine shattered leaving a red mark streaked across the dining room wall.
His father stood over her for a moment, maybe taking in what he’d done, maybe just making sure she didn’t get up, but then he turned back to his son.
“Alright Steven.” His father said crouching down next to his son once more. “Let’s get out of here.”
And with that Danny Harrington–who had not picked Steve up since he was probably two years old–tossed Steve over his shoulder as though he weighed nothing.
Steve wasn’t aware of much after that as he was shoved into the passenger seat of his father’s Mercedes. There were just a lot of jostling and unresponsive limbs, and then they were moving.
“Lucky I’d already packed the car. I threw in a few things for you too. You still like the New York Giants, right? I put that sweatshirt in that you were wearing the other night. I’m not sure if they’ll have things for you already or not. They probably will I suppose. Dr. Owens is nothing if not prepared, but a couple of your old things might make the transition easier. Isn’t that what they say about change? Remove some of the friction?”
His father was rambling. Looking in the rearview mirror every few seconds as they sped along, as if checking to see if someone was on their tail, which was probably indeed what he was doing.
“It won’t be that bad, Steven. Dr. Owens is a good man. He’ll take care of you, better than your mother and I ever could that’s for sure. Better than we ever have. It’ll probably be like camp. Maybe they’ll be other kids your age there in . . . similar circumstances.”
A flash of panic coursed through Steve, or a heightened flash since he was already in full panic mode. Robin’s face appeared in his mind. What if they found out about her, and brought her to wherever his father was taking him? Or worse, what if the Russians got to her?
No. Not Robin. Oh god. Please no.
“–see. They’ll get you the care you need, son.” His father continued, possibly he had never stopped talking, and Steve was only just tuning back in. “Dr. Owens has all sorts of accolades. He’ll know how to handle whatever the hell has happened to you. He’ll . . . ”
But Steve never did get to hear what Dr. Owens would do because it was at that point that he lost his grasp on his father’s words and on reality. But Danny Harrington was still talking–still justifying his actions–when Steve lost consciousness.
Steve regained awareness just in time to be abruptly lifted from his father’s car only to be manhandled onto a stretcher.
He blinked.
He could do that much, but when he tried to move his limbs, they still failed him. His arms and legs still remained stubbornly beyond his control, but–unfortunately–his brain was coming back to life.
“–happened to him? He was supposed to come in willingly. I thought you convinced him that seeing a doctor was for his own good.” A voice–a vaguely familiar one–asked. “I told you how important it would be for him to be comfortable coming in.”
“His mother is what happened to him. She drugged him. Was going to turn him over to the Russians. Lucky she didn’t drug me too.” He knew that voice right away–it was his father’s.
“And where is she now?” The familiar voice asked again.
“Handled. Less work for you I suspect. Just one new identity needed now.” His father answered without elaborating, and Steve was finally able to focus his vision enough to see his father standing tall next to an older, shorter, grey-haired man, the source of the other voice, and one that Steve was now able to place.
“Not really, as your new identities were set up as a married couple, but . . . we’ll make it work. You can go with Private Connolly. I’ll take over Steven’s care from here.” Dr. Owens said, dismissing his father.
Danny Harrington, a man not known for showing much emotion, did not stray from that trait now. He glanced down at his son. His nineteen-year-old boy who his own wife and mother of said boy had drugged and would have essentially left for dead. His teenage son who was currently strapped to a gurney in some government facility god knows where.
Did that make his father better than his mother–the fact that at least he was turning his son over to the American government? Did that mean he really did care for Steve in some twisted sort of way? Did it even matter?
A less shitty person was still a shit person.
But as scared as he was to be in the position he was in, Steve thought that it probably did mean his father cared about him at least a little bit, at least enough not to turn him over to the people that had tortured him once already, and some part of Steve clung to that knowledge that his father cared, even if just the smallest of amounts, and, as pathetic as it was, Steve knew that whatever happened next, he would continue to cling to that knowledge.
But still, it didn’t hurt any less when his father patted his lifeless shoulder and in some last-ditch fatherly effort said, “Well, guess this is goodbye then. Be good, Steven. Listen to Dr. Owens.”
And then his father was gone, and it was Dr. Owens' face that stared down at him.
“Hey, kiddo.” Dr. Owens said with a small sad smile on his face, as if Steve was a child that had scraped his knee and not some soon to be science experiment. The man gave his arm a short squeeze that was probably meant to be comforting, but instead only served to send a new wave of fear through his body at the muted rush of emotions–he couldn’t quite make out in his altered state–shoved into him without his consent. “Sorry things went down this way. I know this is all really scary, and it really wasn’t supposed to be. But it will get better soon. This is the best possible outcome for you. You’ll see. Just trust me, you’ll be fine.”
After that, Steve let the darkness take him once more.