Mad Dogs and Englishmen

via http://ift.tt/2dU1p8S:
In which Steve loses the serum, and is maybe not as upset as he should be.

This part has tw for abuse and starvation.

Established Steve/Tony.

The kick hits him in the back, without so much muscle there, it hurts, dull and black and swallowing. Steve closes his eyes, fight to stay conscious.

Pathetic-

Useless-

Not so big now, are you-

Steve lets the words slide over him, float him up. The floor wavers, not really there anymore if not for the cold.

The cold.

Steve takes a breath, another, another. The cold sinks into his lungs, saps whatever heat he has left inside him.

He holds his breath, waits until the air in his lungs is hot and stale. It burns his lungs as he lets it out.

Another breath, another. He holds every third. Steve opens his eyes, he’s alone. The cell door is closed. He keeps the breath, and pushes himself over to his stomach.

The concrete is wet, slips like wet steel under him. Steve digs his fingers in, grits his teeth. Pulls, over and over, inch by inch across the freezing stone.

His fingers hit the faint irregulaties in the worn concrete that tell him he’s made it. He wonders, as he has over and over for the last however long- so long- he has been here, what made them. Too small for a dog, too spindley for a cat.

A bird maybe, Steve thinks dreamily. He curls up on the wet, cold stone, staring at him and for a moment he can almost see it. A blackbird, glossy feathers and bright yellow legs. The bright little eyes blink and dart to him. The wings billow out and Steve holds out his hand to stop it- stay, he almost begs, stay with me.

The bird flaps away, he can almost feel the beat of air from its wings. It soars off into the empty bright blue sky around them. Steve can feel the heat of the sun, small grass and warmth and fresh air-

The he blinks. His hand in resting on those long-gone marks. Everything is grey walls. Grey ceiling. Grey floor.

Steve moans, he wants to close his eyes and just- go to sleep. Follow the blackbird into whatever bright sweet world it had gone to. Sleep. Not wake up.

Steve rolls onto his side instead. His ribs dig straight through the thin cotton of his prison shirt, bang against the concrete. He throws out one arm and it catches on the side of his bunk. Steve groans, and heaves himself up enough to get both elbows on. He pauses a moment. His heart is hammering in his ears, his breath is so short and sharp that the cold hits his lungs like icicles.

He hangs there, suspended, his head hits the bunk, the thin sparseness of the mattress and the worn wool of his blanket. Almost.

It’s getting harder every time. He’s no longer entirely sure how he does it. Fingers clawing at the blankets and sheets, legs scrabbling for purchase. His weight finally tips and he rolls onto his bunk. He pulls the blanket over himself, kicks it over his legs and fumbles to tuck it around his aching, wasted body.

Apparently, AIM’s attempts to remove the serum have succeeded spectacularly.

The knowledge floats above him. He looks at it dispassionately. It spins, laughing in the guard’s voices. Their words.

Not Captain America now-

God look at him-

Wonder if he’s going to cry-

He lets the guard’s words from earlier flow out of him and join the cloud above. Part of him, but apart. There’s no space for them in his body at the moment.

Maybe when he gets out, they’ll come back and hurt. He should probably be upset by them, but he just hasn’t got the energy. When he gets out, he can deal with them. When he gets out.

He’s getting out. He is he is he is.

Steve closes his eyes, then opens them again, out of reflex. He’s forced himself awake so often he no longer knows if he can sleep. He looks at the door, the bars. They moved him here when it became clear he couldn’t break them any more. When he became worthless, someone- something- to let die and no bother with.

He’s not going to die. He’s going to get out. The others are going to come for him. He’ll get out, he will he will he will. He’ll be in hospital. Then back to the Tower. There’ll be Thor smiling, and Hulk grinning his huge white teeth, there’ll be Sam and Clint and Natasha and Tony oh god there’ll be Tony. He’ll see Tony again he will he will he will-

Say it three times and it’ll come true. Steve looks up at the cloud he’s pretty sure isn’t real and the thought- what will Tony think of me like this- drifts out of his mind and joins it.

Steve closes his eyes. His eyelids pull, but he can’t quite open his eyes.

He’ll survive this. He will he will he will.

The cloud is bigger now, fogging out the world around him. Sometimes he can see, as long as he’s looking hard, the mist only around the edges of his eyes. Then sometimes he can’t, and the world just- disappears.

No one comes in any more, or not that Steve sees. Food is left every now and again. Thin porridge and water he forces down like a machine, but no one seems to be leaving it. Maybe they’ve decided he isn’t any fun any more.

He wonders why they’re bothering to feed him at all.

He plans the three paces to the door like a mission. He maps every motion of his wasting body, economises with every vital motion, shaves off every pointless twitch. He gathers each failing resource for disaster.

The cloud is thundering today. Steve pries himself up, swings his legs over and can only sit there, the faded cloud blotted out with black blotches, running into each other like wet ink.

There’s boom somewhere above, and Steve looks up. It’s raining black spots, flecking down to his hands. Steve looks dumbly at them, thin skin stretched over brittle little bones. He thinks of Tony’s hands, spotted with engine oil. Look, we match.

The words float away, the cloud grows dimmer, the black dots a little larger. Steve stares at the door, isn’t really sure if there is anything there, he can’t seem to think- like every thought he has drifted away to join the cloud.

Another crash of thunder, the floor shakes under his feet. Steve closes his eyes and lies back down. He should think. The thoughts in the cloud need to come back in but he’s a sealed, empty box. He stares up, listens to the screams, bangs. The thought is trying to come back in but it can’t.

The world shakes again, dusts streams down and loses itself among the swelling darkness. Steve tries to hold a hand up and catch it, feel if it’s real, but his arms are limp twigs at his sides.

A flash of blue, and the world goes black. Steve opens his eyes, closes. Lets them stay closed. A crack above, another flash, and he sees nothing more.