Steve presses his cheek against the table and squeezes his eyes shut. He can still hear the next Hydra guard step up behind him and unzip his pants. How many men are left now—two? Three? He should be able to remember. If he can’t keep a clear enough head to keep track of his enemies, he won’t be able to complete the mission, and all this will have been pointless. He’ll have let this happen to Bucky’s body for nothing.

Rumlow steps up to the side of the table, grabs him by the jaw, and snaps, “Look at me.” Steve opens his eyes to Rumlow’s satisfied grin. Why shouldn’t he be satisfied? He’d just fucked Steve and made him come. The soldier is performing as expected. That means the mission is going well. “That’s it. Keep those eyes open. I want to see you take it.”

The man behind Steve pushes in: a single long, slick slide through the mess of Rumlow’s come. There’s still a raw pain at the invasion, but the man doesn’t have to expend much effort to penetrate Steve; he’s been fucked wide open. Steve keeps his eyes on Rumlow, gritting his teeth hard to keep from giving away any hint of how much he wants to choke the life out of him.

“Breathe, kitten.”

Steve gulps in air, realizing at he does that he’d been holding his breath while the man pushed into him, bracing himself like he does for a hit in the field. The rise of his chest as he takes in air brings him back into his body—Bucky’s body—makes him feel every ache and stretch.

“I know you’re excited, but you gotta keep breathing.” Rumlow pets a hand through Steve’s hair, the long strands damp with sweat. “You’re doing good. See, it all comes back pretty easy. Just like you were never gone.” He leans down a bit to whisper in Steve’s ear. “Don’t think this makes us even for everything you fucked up. You’ve got a lot more coming to you.”

“Sir.” One of the other Hydra soldiers—yes, that’s clearly an M4 he’s carrying, now that Steve can see it better—steps up behind Rumlow, holding a walkie. “Bravo Two is on the horn.”

“Fine.” Rumlow straightens up and gives Steve’s hair one last pat. “Harder, Bryant” he says to the man fucking Steve before he turns away, grabs the walkie, and steps out into the hallway.

The door swings shut behind Rumlow, and Bryant resumes thrusting into him with renewed vigor. Steve could fight them off now. The men left in the room aren’t paying him as much attention as they were before. The one in the corner who’d had his hand on his weapon is stroking his dick instead. He could break Bryant’s neck, take his sidearm, and shoot the others. Bryant is grunting heavily with each thrust, slamming hard into Steve and holding on tight to his hips. He’s distracted. If Steve kills him, he’ll never be able to touch anyone like this ever again.

That’s not helpful. Steve can’t kill these men, not yet, because he has a mission to finish. It’s almost over. There’s nothing personal in this: a man he didn’t even get a good look at pumping away inside him, a man whose face he wouldn’t be able to pick out of a crowd. Almost all of them have used him by now, anyway. Soon this phase of the mission will be over, and then Steve can drop this act. He can fight again. Just not yet.

The door slams open, bouncing against the wall as Rumlow storms back in. “Get him up,” he snaps.

Bryant pulls out with a squelch, then someone else grabs Steve by the hair and pulls him up to standing. He stumbles, overbalancing with more weight on his left side than he’s used to. Bryant grabs him by the arm and holds him upright while Rumlow stalks up to them.

“You stupid little shit.” Rumlow backhands Steve. It stings, but it wouldn’t have slowed him down. It’s not the way you attack an enemy you respect. “You’re supposed to be a competent soldier, a fucking ghost, and you don’t even know when you’re being tailed. You—“ Rumlow bites off whatever he was going to say and points his finger in Steve’s face. “Later, you are going to make this up to me.”

“Is everything all right, sir?” Bryant asks.

“Yeah, fine. This isn’t going to make a difference, anyway.” Rumlow scrubs a hand through his hair, and then his expression shifts, breaking into a smile. “You know what? It might even be fun.” He regards Steve for a moment, raking his eyes up and down his body, then nods. “Park, Bryant. Take him to the obs room and keep him quiet.” Park starts to tug him away, but Rumlow grabs Steve by the jaw and makes him look at him. “Hey, soldier. You get fresh with my men, I’ll take it out on our new prisoner, yeah? Be good.”

He shoves Steve away and turns his back on him, as if there’s no danger of retaliation. As if Steve could never be any kind of a threat. Steve curls his hands into fists, feeling the power humming in the metal arm. This body is strong and fast and can fight through almost any pain. The only thing holding him back from violence is his will. Used to be all he had was his will. Now he has all this strength and can’t let himself use it.

“Move,” Bryant growls and prods at Steve’s shoulder with the butt of his gun. Steve moves.

Bare feet cold on the concrete floor, Steve follows the men through the door on the opposite wall. The room beyond is nearly empty, save for some recording equipment stacked along one wall. The air is dry and still, as if the room hasn’t been used in a while. When the door slides shut behind them, the sound of Rumlow talking to the other soldiers cuts off entirely. Steve can still see them talking through the two-way mirror as they stream out into the corridor, but there’s hardly any sound bleed.

“Now that we’ve got you alone, why don’t you--”

Steve sees movement out of the corner of his eye and reflexively brings his arm up to block the trajectory of the weapon. The baton bounces off his metal arm, and Steve steps back, watching his opponent stumble and then steady himself.

“Did he just try to hit back?” Bryant asked. “Shouldn’t have done that.”

Park plants his feet and glares at Steve. The high-pitched whir of the baton powering up its tazer setting pierces the stillness of the room. “Is that allowed, soldier?”

Steve’s eyes dark between Park’s furious expression and the stun baton in his hand. He clenches his hands at his side and makes himself relax out of his fighting posture. Standing there defenseless in front of an armed enemy sets all his instincts screaming, but he tries to breathe, like Rumlow told him, and brace for whatever comes. He lowers his eyes and looks at the floor. “No, sir.”

“That’s better,” Park says, and for a moment Steve thinks he might have escaped punishment. Then Park darts forward, slamming the baton against Steve’s left arm. Electricity sizzles and pops through the metal plates. Steve hadn’t thought the arm could feel pain, but agony lances through his nerves, down his spine, through his muscles and into his brain like a knife. The pain is white-hot, all-consuming, and inescapable.

He’s curled on his side on the floor, gasping, when Park kicks him in the stomach. That pain feels distant compared to the still-sparking arm. When Steve tries to move it, it won’t respond. It must have been temporarily disabled by the shock, like a higher-voltage of the Widow’s Bite, notes the tactical part of Steve’s mind that’s still able to function through the pain.

“Stay down,” Park snaps. He jabs the baton against Steve’s shoulder and holds it there as he writhes. Electricity screams through every part of Steve, and he can’t tell where metal and circuitry end and flesh begins, or if they’re so intertwined that there’s no way to separate them, one agony feeding off another. He can’t move: not the arm, not any part of himself, as if all of him is bound up into that damn arm somehow, not just an accessory, but a controlling interest, something the rest of him can’t function without.

The shock stops as Bryant tugs Park away. “The commander said keep him quiet, for fuck’s sake.”

Steve must have been screaming. His throat feels as raw as the rest of him, so it’s possible. He tries to curl in on himself, but the body is only minimally responsive. If Park comes at him again, he may have to defend himself, or risk endangering the rest of the mission. Except his arm still won’t move, and he’s not sure he could stand. With the arm disabled, would he even be able to beat these two nobodies? Steve’s heart thuds in his chest as he realizes he doesn’t know this body and its capabilities well enough to stop what’s happening, if it needs to be stopped. He remembers Bucky’s face on the Helicarrier, trapped under a metal beam, certain Steve was coming to kill him: the desperate helplessness of someone who knows his body's capabilities exactly and is trapped up against the limits of what he is capable of.

“Get up.” Bryant prods Steve in the back with his boot, and Park steps back, letting the baton hang at his side. After two tries, Steve pushes to his feet. His balance is shot, and he falls heavily against the glass.

“Fucking useless.” Park manhandles him into place, kicking his ankles apart so he’s bent over, right arm braced against the glass as his left hangs limp and unresponsive, still twitching with the aftershocks of the jolt. Steve makes himself breathe. It doesn’t matter that he can’t fight back. He wasn’t going to, anyway. He looks through the glass at the room he’d been in: the table with its leather straps still swinging slightly, the wall whose every detail he’d catalogued. This is familiar. They’re just going to go back to fucking him, and then he’ll be done.

Something cold and solid prods against his ass, and Steve tenses for another shock. “Go on,” Park says. The baton settles again Steve’s already-sore hole. “Come on, push back. Take it.”

Steve grits his teeth. As long as these two are toying with him and trying to humiliate him, they’re not jeopardizing the mission by inflicting serious injury, so this is a better choice than fighting back and letting himself get shocked again. It’s not what he expected, but it’s within mission parameters. Everything’s still on track. He closes his eyes and pushes back, letting the weighty tip of the baton breach him.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Now move.”

Steve rocks back and forth, wincing as his already abused muscles protest. The baton is bigger than a cock, and unyielding. They’ve used toys together before, he and Bucky, but this is not like that: playful, teasing, and a little bit of a challenge as Bucky plays into Steve’s competitive streak. Park could do serious damage. Steve knows Bucky can function through a great deal of pain, but then again, Bucky knows this body and its limits. Steve doesn’t want to cause any more harm if he can avoid it.

“You listening to me?” Park levers up on the baton, forcing Steve up onto his tiptoes. “You want me to turn this on? I said move.”

Steve braces his feet more firmly against the floor and takes a breath. The metal arm is just starting to respond again. Steve can’t risk another shock. He moves: short, painful thrusts backwards to take more of the baton. With a chuckle, Park plants a hand on Steve’s back and starts moving the baton, forcing more of it into Steve.

“That’s it, you worthless cunt. Take it. This is all you’re good for.”

Steve tucks his face against his shoulder and squeezes his eyes closed. The pain pulses through him, spiraling upwards with every thrust, but it’s tempered by cold rage. They’d spoken to Bucky like this. Regarded him as their punching bag, their toy. Not only violated his body, but humiliated him, treated him as less than human. Even these two, who couldn’t be very far up in the hierarchy, didn’t see him as someone to be feared, an incredibly competent soldier and assassin. He isn't just a weapon to them, he’s a thing. They'd treated Bucky like this for years. Decades.

“Look at him,” Bryant sneers. He has his cock back out and it stroking himself roughly. “Not even an hour back in the fold, and he remembers exactly what he’s for.”

“Tell me you like it,” Park says, twisting the baton inside Steve.

“I like it.” Steve’s voice sounds properly flat and dull.

“Tell me you need it.”

“I need it.”

“That’s right.” Park stabs the baton further into Steve, slamming him against the glass. He doesn't struggle. Objects don't struggle. “You’re nothing without orders. Remember that next time you think about fighting back.”

“Move over.” Bryan shoulders Park out of the way. “I wanna finish.”

“Commander’s coming back.” Park wipes the baton off against Steve’s hip and shoves it back in his holster. “Hurry up.”

Bryant grabs Steve by the hair and holds him still. He finishes with a groan, shooting stripes of come over Steve’s face even as Steve presses his lips together and his eyes shut. “Now that’s a good look for him.”

When Bryant steps back to zip up his pants, Steve scrubs ineffectually at his face, only managing to smear the mess. That's another one down. He's making progress. The mission is proceeding as planned. He's not injured; the arm seems to be functioning again. Everything is still going well.

“They’re back,” Park says. He flips a switch by the door, and sound from the other room filters in through speakers mounted near the ceiling.

The door to the corridor swings open, and Steve’s heart sinks as another squad of soldiers pours into the room. Heavily armed and armored, there must be a dozen at least. Steve’s breath speeds up, and his fingers curl against the glass. If Rumlow expects him to service all these men, he’s not sure he can hold out. He swallows hard and clenches his jaw. He has to. There's no one else.

Then Rumlow himself returns flanked by two guards who are holding between them a bound and struggling Captain America.