Chapter Text
All of me
Why not take all of me?
Can’t you see
I’m just a mess without you.
Take my lips
I want to lose them
Take my arms
I’ll never use them.
Your goodbyes left me with eyes that cry
How can I
Go on, dear, without you?
You took the part
That once was my heart,
So why not take all of me?
Steve Rogers sighs.
He sips his overpriced coffee cautiously, the searing heat having burnt him once already on the surface of his tongue and in the cavity of his throat. That’s what I get from being in a hurry, he thinks. The pain does not overwhelm him. He knows it will heal quickly, faster than the pain he feels in the rest of his body, courtesy of Tony Stark. But it all amounts to nothing compared to the emptiness he carries in his heart.
Physical pain can heal—eventually. It’s the other kind he’s not so sure about.
On the surface of his skin, the bruises have started to fade—not that it matters. Almost three weeks have passed since Siberia and, given his healing factor, those marks should be gone by now. But they’re not. He sighs yet again and turns his attention back down to the sheet of paper on the tiny bistro table. It remains blank but for two words that say, “Dear Tony.” He swallows and reminds himself this letter is long overdue. But he just can’t seem to get past the first line.
He’s gotten used to feeling completely alone in the world, the deep, profound solitude so familiar he’s come to welcome it like an old friend. But this time around, it’s different. This time, it’s as if he’s lost Bucky all over again. And now, he’s lost Tony, too, not to mention the Avengers, the only family he’s known since his days with the Howlers.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow.
The door to the café opens and he automatically glances up. He can’t help himself, it’s an involuntary response. It’s the serum and all his years living as a soldier; it’s as if he can never be unaware of his surroundings. Perhaps he should have stayed in his room to write the letter since he’s so distracted, but for some reason, his heart sought to escape those walls.
A curvy brunette, her hair cascading in waves, catches his eye. She enters the café, her creamy skin contrasting with the cheerful ebony faces of Birnin Zana. She seems happy at first, but as soon as her eyes meet his, she frowns. Steve’s never gotten used to all the female attention his new body seems to attract, especially in the bold social climate of the 21st century. But this girl--this woman--looks at him with loathing, not desire, and it reminds him of the way dames used to look at him in the old days before the serum back when he had been the one seeking their attention in the dance halls of Brooklyn. They dismissed him then just as he will dismiss her now. He has done nothing to warrant her scowl.
He glances down at the sheet again and its blankness stares right back at him. It’s like his life—open and empty. He doesn’t know what’s coming. There’s no horizon ahead, no future to look forward to, nothing to dream about. He feels like one big blank. An empty space.
Without Bucky, he is truly alone.
Sure, he still has his team and he needs to do something about them. Sam, Wanda, Clint, and the new guy Scott—he hasn’t forgotten them. They’re there, floating in that hellhole called the Raft, and he won’t abandon them. T’Challa will find a way to help, he tells himself, though he knows it’s complicated. T’Challa’s done so much already by agreeing to put Bucky in cryo and guard him for God knows how long. For once, his best friend will finally be safe. If Wakanda can’t protect him, then no one can. Steve saw the fortress where Bucky sleeps in the ice and he seriously doubts there is any facility in the world more secure than that. They are guarding Bucky the way they guard their vibranium. He’s a treasure without a price tag.
A sweet scent tugs gently at his attention. It hovers in the air, calling to him, but Steve refuses to lift his eyes from the paper. Nevertheless, it seeps through the heavy coffee bean aroma of the café and piques some reptilian portion of his brain. It seems strangely familiar--enticing, arousing, and positively delectable. It calls to him like a siren. A poignant ache thrums in his heart but everything seems to make his heart ache nowadays so he dismisses it. He needs to write this letter. He needs to start his life over again.
Someone pulls up a chair directly across from him and sits down, uninvited. Steve is usually very polite, but he doesn’t have it in him today. He’s been through too much. Brusqueness takes the place of his usual good manners. “What?” he murmurs and glances up, surprised to see the brunette who just walked through the door. She glares at him, her expression even grouchier than before. It vaguely occurs to him that she is beautiful, though it doesn’t matter. Her face is soft and round, indigo eyes with a hallowed shape that might remind him of some pre-Raphaelite painting, perhaps, were she not narrowing them in anger.
She frowns and holds his gaze before she speaks in a flat, accusatory voice. “What are you?”
Steve blinks in surprise. “What?” he repeats. It’s all he can manage. He tenses up without even thinking about it since the woman’s attitude suggests a threat and every fibre in his body responds to it. But he’s confused. Her scent comes stronger now that she is near him, unmasked by the coffee bean aroma that otherwise dominates the room, and it takes his breath away. His heart flutters and he feels an astonishing sexual jolt that is positively electric. I always did like brunettes, but this is ridiculous.
“You’re Hydra, aren’t you?” she whispers menacingly before she rolls her eyes in exasperation. “What the hell are you doing in Wakanda? How did you even get here?”
Steve tries to answer her, but can’t. He finds himself frozen to the spot and can’t summon his voice, can’t even move a finger. The woman’s frown deepens and she places her hands upon his forearm, fingers trembling. A thrill runs up and down his spine at her touch. He shivers and she notices.
Who is she? How is she doing this to me? It makes no sense, but this woman excites him. Tremendously.
“Damnit,” she whispers softly and releases his arm so abruptly he wonders if his skin burnt her fingers. “And I was having such a good day.” She stares at him though her eyes seem distant and Steve notices she seems to be thinking to herself. He waits because he can’t do anything else. He watches the movement of her eyes, her mouth and, against his own will, imagines brushing his thumb over those pink lips.
“Get up.”
Steve finds himself rising from his chair, pen and paper abandoned on the table.
“Walk,” the woman commands in the same flat voice.
Steve finds his limbs moving on their own and it’s all very awkward. His legs propel him forward with irregular steps that feel wholly unlike his natural gait, but no one notices. He doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to leave. He's being moved against his will and can’t even glance back at the piece of paper left upon the bistro table. His pen is with it and, in all likelihood, he will never see it again.
The woman marches behind him where he can’t see her and he finds himself opening the door to the café. No one notices them, not the barista or the customers squatting at their tables, faces planted on their cellphones. Like a gentleman though he has no say in the matter, he holds the door open for her as she walks out, giving him a chance to take stock. His eyes, the only parts of his body that seem to be under his control, look her up and down, note her ample curves, her angry but beautiful eyes, and the rich, wavy brown hair that drapes down her back and swishes back and forth, long and luscious. He imagines stroking it and wonders if those locks would feel like silk between his fingers.
She walks in front of him now and he follows, savoring the view in spite of himself. A little bit of panic enters his heart since he has never lost control like this before. Steve’s body has always belonged to him, obeyed his will to the most intricate extent after the serum except, perhaps, for that one time with Private Lorraine long ago. It betrayed him then, left him helpless in the wake of her amorous overtures, and it feels something like that now. He realizes he is being kidnapped and, though he really couldn’t imagine a more attractive kidnapper, he knows beautiful bodies can be just as cruel as ugly ones. Madame Hydra showed him that.
Nevertheless, her body hypnotizes him. He can’t tear his eyes from the wavy hair that sways just over the curve of her buttocks and his mind wanders, imagining the way her thighs rub together beneath her tight pencil skirt. It tugs at him, transports his mind to a whole other place, deep into his body and its longings. Focus, he admonishes himself, and he manages to devote some attention to their surroundings. He’s being taken prisoner, after all.
They’re on a busy street in Birnin Zana, the capital of Wakanda. Crowds pass them by, bodies mill all around them in every direction, some even cross between the two of them but his feet never falter as he follows her, step by step. Could Wanda do something like this? he wonders. His mind races and he starts assessing, evaluating, studying her to gather information. He attempts to draw connections with all the knowledge he’s accumulated in the years since he woke from the ice. Enhanced individuals are everywhere these days, but there’s no visual indication of anything happening to him, no telltale red energy signature like Wanda’s. All he has to go on is his experience inside his own body as it is being moved against his will.
So far, he notes that his mind continues to be his own so he knows she’s not controlling that. This is no dream. And if she is using telekinesis to move his body, he’d have to concede this woman’s skills are far more sophisticated than Wanda’s. The scarlet energy Wanda wields can certainly move bodies from point A to point B, even make them fly, but not with this degree of control. Someone is doing the walking for him, pinning his arms to his sides, his head facing forward at all times. There are too many details happening here, too many muscle groups being manipulated at once. If this woman is responsible for it, and he’s certain she is, then she is indeed much more experienced than Wanda, if not more powerful. And that would make her far more dangerous.
Steve almost shudders, but then he reminds himself of her words. She thought I was Hydra. That means she must be their enemy. And any enemy of Hydra’s is a friend of mine . . .
“Hey, girl!” a jovial voice hovers over them, stopping them short on the busy street.
The woman backs up until she nearly steps on his toes. He feels the swell of her buttocks collide briefly with his thigh and it sets him on fire. What’s this? She just bumps into me and I’m all hot to trot? She may be a peach, but this is above my pay grade.
“Dasha,” the woman says in a friendly voice he hasn’t heard from her yet. How Steve loves the way it sounds. Soft and sonorous, it’s like music to his ears. “Are you done for the day?”
Steve manages to move his eyes and they take in a young, virile, and somewhat effeminate looking man with chocolate skin and a sparkling gaze. He’s wearing form-fitting clothes of the stretchy sort that show off the lines of his muscular physique. Some kind of dancer, Steve guesses.
Not in the least bit shy, the lithe young man chuckles and clicks his tongue, looking Steve up and down. “You going to introduce me to your friend?” he teases.
“Dasha, this is . . . this is Brad,” the woman finally says with great reluctance, wincing at the name. Steve notices.
“Oh!” Dasha squeals in high-pitched delight, paying no attention to her exasperated tone. He has eyes only for Steve and grins at him enviously. “Must be your boyfriend, no?”
“Yeah,” the woman grabs onto the idea and moves closer to Steve, seizing hold of his arm in a custodial manner as if she’s supporting a toddler or a senior citizen. Once again, her fingers feel electric upon his bare skin. Her hip grazes against his thigh for a moment and he feels that same rush again. “He’s, uh, sort of the strong, silent type.”
“No kidding!” her friend chuckles, not missing a beat. “But you don’t need him to say much, do you girl?”
“Quiet, you,” the woman giggles in spite of herself. “Don’t you have rehearsal?”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Dasha admits begrudgingly. “Don’t keep no secrets from me, eh?”
“My life is an open book,” she grins while her brow rises with incredulity. Steve detects it out the corner of his eye.
“Alright, dearie. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he nods and gives Steve a wink.
To his surprise, Steve manages to wink back.
Dasha laughs louder.
The woman frowns. “Let’s go, Muffinhead,” she tugs at Steve’s arm bitterly, the wink not escaping her notice. They walk again. I’ll have to keep him on a tight leash. He’s resisting me any way he can. After a few moments, she lets go of his arm. “We’re getting out of here.” They pick up the pace and turn into a small, deserted alley—perhaps the only spot in the busy city not plagued by crowds. “What the hell are you?” the woman murmurs and Steve feels his back pressing up against a stucco wall.
He is helpless and, strangely enough, he is ok with that. No one knows where he is and if this woman wants to kill him, there is not a damn thing he can do about it. An odd sense of peace comes over him. He can’t call for help, can’t see a way out of the situation. He is completely at her mercy and somehow, inexplicably, he almost feels as if he likes it.
She still seems angry but he doesn’t detect any cruelty in her eyes. Her distaste for Hydra puts his heart at ease--somewhat. But that scent, her scent, keeps penetrating his mind and distracting him. It seems so familiar, so beautiful. It beckons him and he would like to taste it, if he could, so if he’s going to die this way, it’s mostly alright by him—a tragedy caused by a little friendly fire, so to speak. His gut tells him she’s not a bad person, that there’s some mistake being made, and that he is bearing the brunt of it. So be it. Steve breathes as deeply as he can, given that he doesn’t really have any control over his body, and waits. It’s her move.
She runs her fingers up and down his forearm again and sighs with disappointment. An unwitting blush flushes in her cheeks from the skin contact, but she raises her hands up to his face and meets his eyes anyways. He gazes back at her with wonder and somehow, she can detect the edges of his sadness, the burden that he carries. And yet, his spirit feels lifted and the corners of his lips almost manage to curl up into a smile, but she’s controlling that, too, so the smile happens only in his eyes.
She starts in surprise and backs away. No man has ever looked at her quite that way before, especially not a man she’s taken prisoner. But then, I’ve never taken anyone prisoner before. “Crap,” she says, finally. She frowns and releases him. He gazes at her pouting lips and can’t stop himself from finding them cute. “And I was having such a good day.”
She reaches into her bag and, after a minute of frustrated digging, manages to exhume a cell phone from amongst all the paraphernalia she carries. A few moments of tapping and Steve can hear the tone of a ringer. "Kitty? Kitty. It’s me. Listen, I’m really up the creek. I, I’ve found somebody . . . No, not one of ours.”
One of ours? Steve can almost hear the voice on the other end of the line but it’s soft, softer than the tone of the ringer. The sounds of the city drown out the rest, so he decides to make do with the end of the conversation his ears can catch.
“He’s enhanced. Like, to crazy extremes. I can tell. And he’s real big, all muscly--like the jolly green giant or something. I’ve got him in a hold. If I let him go, he could kill me in two seconds flat with his baby finger.”
Steve doesn’t like the sound of that. He would never hurt her.
A few moments of silence as she listens to the voice on the other end of the line, then she glances at him. “Oh, yeah,” she confirms, nodding. “You should see the look in his eye. It’s mean. Totally mean. Absolutely vicious. I don’t wanna know what he’s done with strength like that. He’s gotta be some kind of killing machine.”
Killing machine? Steve tries to raise his eyebrows in shock, but can’t.
“Don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere. But I can’t read him,” she laments, frustrated. “At all. He’s got some kind of mental shield. I might be able to breach it with a level three, but it’s too dangerous.”
Another silence.
“No, I won’t. It might kill him. This is bad, Kitty. Very bad. And I didn’t even mention his telomeres. They’re completely out of whack, like he’s a hundred years old but doesn’t look a day over thirty. His regenerative capacity is off the charts. I can’t figure it out. We’re in real trouble if Hydra or whatever it calls itself now is making these things and sending them all over the world. How the hell did he even get into Wakanda?”
Another silence.
“Yeah. I’m gonna tell him, but let me try again, okay? Just give me a chance. And, and don’t tell Storm. Not yet. Let me handle this on my own. Please?” Her eyes are pleading—Steve can’t miss it.
He swallows, surprised he can manage to do that much. His eyes never leave her though she refuses to meet his gaze.
“Talk to him? Are you kidding me?” she sounds incredulous. Disgusted. “What do you think he’ll say? I’ve heard it all before.” She actually does look at him now before laughing bitterly. “Cut off one head, two more shall take its place, blah-ditty-blah blah blah. If I have to hear it again, I’m gonna shove all those heads up their asses.”
Steve definitely wishes he could laugh out loud.
“Okay. I’ll call you back. I promise.” She sighs and hangs up her phone, staring at him in irritation.
He looks back at her innocently. Affectionately. He holds her gaze for a long while, his lips almost managing to crack a smile.
She huffs and stomps away from him, annoyed. He follows her, helpless. But this time, he allows his eyes to travel up and down her body and linger there in appreciation until he decides that he likes it.
He likes being her prisoner.