Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

[trashmod]

Okay, kids, you know the drill. Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because hydratrashmeme is about as far from a safe space as you can get. Garbage we like: noncon, whump, aftermath, violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves. Garbage you should find a different trashcan for: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, OOC evil!good guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves, rotting leftovers dressed up as a romantic gourmet meal. Nothing wrong with 'em, but this isn't the crowd you should be pitching to if you're trying to sell Brock Rumlow as anything but a human dumpster fire.

Link your fills on the fill post, post unprompted fills as replies to a header comment so the wall o' text is collapsible, and let me know if you're interested in helping out with the Pinboard archive.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 4 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

All prompts or fills that contain Infinity War spoilers must go on the Infinity War spoiler post until May 26th. Spoilers in the main dumpsters will be deleted.

Round 4 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 5.

Comments

FILL: Daybreak part 9a Re: Identity Porn in captivity

[(Anonymous)]

It would have been easier if they’d told him to kill Rogers. He could do that, ironically, as easy as breathing. It didn’t require any thought. He would have done it already, dispassionate and brutal, just like he fucked. It would have been over, and the dam would have held, and he wouldn’t feel this way. He wouldn’t feel at all.

But they hadn’t, and this was rapidly spiraling out of his control. He told himself constantly that Rogers needed sense beaten into him to maintain the shaky status quo, that it had to be him, that he’d do it this next time, and every time he pulled back. Every time he failed to do what needed to be done. It did neither of them any favors. If he didn’t do it, someone else would.

Rogers had planted so many thoughts, though. So many ideas were taking root in the long-barren ground of his mind, of his conscience, and it ached, stung, overwhelmed him. Why were the other prisoners being held? What had they done? Were they really so dangerous? If he’d been so wrong about Rogers deserving this fate, maybe he was wrong about the others, too. Maybe even the people he killed on his missions. How did he know they deserved the Winter Soldier’s violence?

He couldn’t. He was never provided with that information, and now was entirely the wrong time to start asking those sorts of questions. To question anything. He was so far off the path.

He kept his reports matter-of-fact, emphasizing Rogers’ humiliation and discomfort, how he spoke less and less of escape and, at times, spoke little at all. How sometimes he’d drift and seem lost in his head. He didn’t tell them that when that happened, the Soldier would carefully draw him back out with questions of the outside world, theories about books he’d described, anything to wake his soul.

He wasn’t sleeping much. The Soldier had told him that he should at least try to sleep while the lights were out, but Rogers didn’t seem ready to make himself even more vulnerable around him just yet, even if he didn’t come out and say it. Maybe it was just for the control. He couldn’t control when they knocked him out or his predicament when he woke up, but as long as he was awake, he wanted to be aware of what was happening. Only nothing was happening. There was no stimulation aside from his conversations with Call Me Jimmy.

The Soldier was lost in his own thoughts, considering his options while he worked, when Rogers abruptly slumped in his chains, head lolling forward. The Soldier paused. His brow wrinkled as he reached over Rogers’ shoulder to feel his pulse; Rogers gave no reaction to the Soldier’s hand on his throat. He quickly circled around to his front. Rogers was taking shallow breaths, but the Soldier suspected he’d lost consciousness. He cast a furtive glance toward the door, but his hand was already moving.

He undid the closure across his throat and carefully peeled the hood up past his mouth and nose. He waited with his hand in front of Rogers’ face, barely feeling the air move. Thought about pressing his mouth to Rogers’ and forcing a few breaths into him. But giving him some breathing room, unobstructed by the dense hood, seemed to have done the trick. His breathing improved quickly.

The Soldier got back to work, keeping an eye out for Rogers regaining consciousness. When he started to come around, not long before the Soldier finished, he adjusted the hood back into place before Rogers could even think to make a sound.

Rogers’ razor-sharp hipbones bit into his palms under his clenched hands as he came.

-

He could have passed out for any number of reasons. The Soldier chose one to address. Rogers would get confused sometimes, not enough to exploit for information, but enough to be notable. Between the deprivation and the pain, it was understandable, but the Soldier hoped that it was nutritional and not neurological. He’d seen it before, and he shuddered remembering it.

He snuck one of his nutritional sludge drinks out of the lab. It wasn’t hard to palm up into his sleeve, and the techs had grown so used to his presence that they no longer checked his tray. It was thick, gray, and tasteless, but it would keep Rogers alive if he could get it into him.

He couldn’t risk giving it to Rogers outright. Not now, with the officers so mistrustful and Rogers still hatching plans. It might even engender suspicion in Rogers. Maybe later, if there was a later, but definitely not now.

He’d stashed it with the lube for safekeeping, and as he stepped into the room, he realized what he had to do. He opened the tube first. Rogers was conscious and thrashing when he pulled the hood up past his mouth, feral beyond words now that he had his chance. Once he’d grabbed his face and tipped his head back, he made quick work of pouring the concoction down his throat. With his nose pinched shut, Rogers had no choice but to swallow. The Soldier rushed to wipe away all traces of whatever had spilled, yanking his hand back when Rogers tried to bite and slapping him instead, and briskly pulled the hood back into place.

Satisfied, he tucked the drained tube back into his gear and opened his pants.

What would Rogers have wanted to say to him, anyway, if he hadn’t been blinded by rage and fear?

-

It wasn’t enough. It probably helped, but he couldn’t rely on that method. It was inefficient, and he probably wouldn’t get away with it for long. He had to appeal again. But he thought he could make a better case this time.

“He’s passing out while I work,” he said, staring straight ahead. “How can I teach him obedience if he’s unconscious? He needs to understand. I’ll get what you need, but he needs to feel what I do.”

What we need, Soldier. We share a common goal, don’t we?

“Of course. And I’ll break him.”

And what do you propose we do?

He swallowed carefully. Kept his face blank, his body loose. Unthreatening. Unchallenging. They were mocking him, but they didn’t expect him to notice, so he might as well proceed as if they were genuine. “Increase his caloric intake. Just enough to keep him alert. I’ll take care of the rest.”

-

Rogers’ jaw was black and blue the following morning where the Soldier had gripped him. A lurid mark painted his cheek where the Soldier had struck him. He was alert, though. Irritable, but alert.

Perversely, he ignored the tray when it came. The Soldier’s lips pinched together. So they were back to this. The nutritional goo packed much greater value than what the tray held, but that wasn’t the point. He had to eat. Maybe before he’d been in too much pain to be able to, but this was purely willful.

Ironically, after sacrificing part of his regimen for Rogers’ sake, he’d now have to take some of it back just to convince Rogers to knock this off.

“Hungry?” he asked. He kept his voice casual, but inside he was all white-hot pinpricks. The other shoe would drop any day now, the consequences would emerge to likely swallow them both, and in the meantime, he had to keep Rogers alive. He had to prove that he was in control of the situation yet still subordinate to the organization. And it would only work if Rogers would stop playing games. He had no idea what was on the line.

“Not really.”

“I am,” he lied. “Give me a hand?”

Rogers lugged himself closer, stormy thoughts rolling across his face like a projector screen, and sat heavily beside him. When he leaned over to hook a corner of the tray and tug it closer, the Soldier finally glanced at the rations, not expecting much.

They’d nearly doubled.

He almost choked on his own spit. He’d done it. They’d backed down and provided what he needed, and Rogers’ situation might be half a percent less dire.

There was no way this was without consequence, though. Maybe there would be no punishment, but there would be compromise. This was a loan he was taking out, and they would want collateral.

He contemplated what retribution they might take while Rogers fed him, and as he’d suspected, Rogers didn’t make it more awkward than it had to be by abstaining. He split the food evenly, pausing at first to stare at it.

“Looks like more, huh,” he said. He tried to sound pleased yet surprised, but it came out distracted.

Slowly, suspiciously, Rogers replied, “Yeah. Looks like.” But he ate, and that was the important thing.

When he returned to the lab, his cot had been replaced. They’d left him a thin bedroll on the concrete floor. If that was all they did, he’d be lucky. Still, he deflated slightly. The spare lubricant was still hidden in the frame. Now it was gone. He would run out soon if he wasn’t careful.

One step forward, two steps back.

-

The Winter Soldier could withstand great pain, but he wasn’t in the habit of letting himself be stabbed.

The wound barely fazed him, but it troubled him how sloppy he’d gotten. He’d been distracted, wondering if this target was who the agent said he was, if he’d done what they were saying he had. When the knife flashed in his peripheral, he’d barely noticed.

How long could he keep going like this? He’d eliminated the target, but it would be noticed soon that his injury reports had increased.

The pain in his side when they strapped him into the jacket was intense. He’d had worse, of course. Regardless, he tried to land on his back instead this time when they knocked him to the floor. It still stuttered his breath in his throat and lanced fire up his trunk.

He found his equilibrium before he slid back to the wall. He’d been stabbed before. Had it hurt this much? He didn’t remember the pain so acutely, didn’t think he’d noticed it this much then. He was feeling more than he had in years, and he suspected it all came down to Rogers. And it was frightening.

“You’re hurt,” Rogers said, and it was pointless every time he announced that, but especially frustrating that day.