Since it's waaaay back on page two (I doubt anyone's still hanging out there) and no it isn't actually abandoned I've got the next part of the Ruined asshole rape aftercare saga! Wahoo!! Sorry, this isn't really refined but I figured my fellow trashies would want an update more than beautifully flowing prose. There's one more installment after this- I need to write some transitions- and then a cheesy recovery follow up which will be posted on AO3 along with an edited and completed fill... if I can come up with a title.
~~~
"Gɐtə pIk ju ʌp, kɛi?"

He nods, still not knowing what he's agreeing too. Maybe if he's lucky he'll be held?

The crackly not-cloth is rearranged around him, carefully wrapped around his bottom as if to protect him from prying, lustful eyes. He's lifted from the neither bed nor table springy thing into the man's arms. He clutches the not-cloth tight in hand.

The man kicks at what must be a door making something creak. Sunlight blinds his eyes, and he can't help burying his face once more into the navy blue chest. It does little to mitigate the light induced pain. Air so cold it reminds him of the moments before blissful cryo bites at his face and toes while something crunches beneath their combined weight.

The man carrying him like a bride ready to be devoured makes soothing sounds in his throat, adjusting his arms so he can curl his face into the dark cloth just a little more. In the distance, he can hear a dull roar. It gets louder, echoing in the oppressive silence of the outdoors. Something large crunches whatever is beneath them.

He steals a look and sees an aircraft.

A woman exits. The woman who has bright red hair, and a feminine jawline echoing the one he sees whenever he looks into a mirror. She moves with the confidence of a killer, and suddenly he knows the last little asset, the one he'd shot, survived.

He quickly turns to the side, vomiting onto the snow beneath him. Some of the bile dribbles down onto the blue cloth of Captain America's suit.

She says something to the Captain, who replies quietly, adjusting him in his arms.

She nods, and looks to him. "You are safe now, comrade." She says in Russian untainted with a foreign tongue.

He understands the words, but not the concept. Safe? Safe is cryo, and numbness. Safe is not knowing or caring what happens to his body. He is not safe whilst awake and aware.

Safe is not in an area unknown, handled by unknown not-handlers and not-scientists.
He's grateful that he's covered in the not-blanket, naked but clothed so that his shame can't be seen. He knows he's shaking. Fear Adrenaline is pumping through his system faster than he can run, faster than the rapid-fire of an automatic weapon. He might not have any bruises, but he's covered in scars and memories of failure and surely they're going to take him back and continue shoving things inside him and electrocuting him and starving him and abandoning him-

And suddenly he's inside the aircraft, revving it's engines as it lifts from the frozen tundra.

He's in what might be a chair, but it's softer and more comfortable than anything he's ever sat in before. The first half hour he's alert, waiting for something to change but eventually he's lulled into a sense of security as they fly over clouds and the scenery below cycles between water, cloud and land. He doesn't remember the last time he was in an aircraft.

He'd fought Captain America, Steve, on what was probably an aircraft, but that crashed. (He'd almost killed the same man who had rescued recovered and treated him. He doesn't know what that means.)

The blue of what must be an ocean gives way to a grey shoreline filled with high rises and aircraft maneuvers to a towering rooftop to land.

Captain America, Steve lifts him from the comfortable chair into his arms. A metallic whoosh sounds and they step out of the aircraft. The air smells different but familiar, and the faint sound of honking, sirens and city drift up from below.
He closes his eyes again.

"ʋɞd ju laik ɛni hɛlp?" The woman in black asks.

Captain America Steve shakes his head. "ail kal ju If ai nid ɛniðIŋ."

The woman in black must answer non-verbally, because he hears her footsteps clicking away.

It's darker now- probably indoors, so he opens his eyes.

They pass through several different rooms before Steve places him on the floor unwraps the metallic, crackly not-blanket exposing him to not cold and not hot air. In front of him is a strange elevated basin, and directly behind him is a wall. To either side is a door, and a sink. If he were capable of defending himself he's sure he'd appreciate this vantage point all the more. Right now though, it only gives him a clear view of what's happening.

Steve steps around him, boots padding softly on powder blue tile.

He reaches into the basin, which strangely has what appear to be paws carved into it's base, and turns a brass handle to the right of a facet, then the opposite one to the left. The sound of rushing water reverberates the tiled room. He puts a hand under the stream, then adjusts the handles and repeats this process several times. To what end, he doesn't know (he'd never seen anything like this in his time with hydra). When whatever he's checking is to his liking, Steve leans into the large basin, doing something which makes the slightly hollow sound of draining water cease.

"Stay hir, bək, ail be right back."

Not knowing what else to do he leans back into the also blue tiled wall, ceramic cool against his back and not insulated by the not-blanket. The cadence of the water echoing in the tub gradually increases in pitch when the door to his right opens.

Steve returns without the suit, chest bare and hair damp. He's not wearing any pants, just boxers, but he doesn't see any hint of arousal; no flushed skin, partial erection, dilated eyes; in fact, his eyes are malfunctioning too. Maybe watering eyes aren't a malfunction for actual real people?

In his arms are folded blue fluffy textiles which match the tiles. He places the fluffy blue fabrics on the fluffy blue covered toilet, before turning to him. He doesn't speak this time, just reaches and gathers him in his arms.

The floor lifts away from him as Steve picks him up and walks over to the strange basin. He looks down and sees it's filled with water. He doesn't like water. When it's not being pumped into him, or leaking from his malfunctioning eyes it burns or freezes; not that it matters, he'd heal anyway.

He's descending, and before he can panic he's in the strange basin. The water, like the air is neither hot nor cold. It is.. pleasant. He sinks into it, surprised to find it only deep enough to reach his navel. (Hydra had never drowned him. Not on purpose, anyway. Forced him into water until his lungs burned with the need for air, sure, but never actually drowned him.) The arm behind him pushes him back on a slanted also not-cold surface and he's grateful because he knows he's too weak to hold himself upright.