Open post for 1940s Steve

[preshielding]

Comments

[sinistral]

★ | ★ | ★ | ★

Civil War AU

[disassembling]

The Raft was a top of the line prison built out at sea where the volatile nature of the storms was as brewing as the dislike in the prison cells. Of course, their guards were all very professional but also as hands off as possible. They were like the Soviets in that regard, cold and distant in their handling of the prisoners that were under their care and honestly, as far as he could tell, there weren't many. Mostly the people who had allied themselves with Steve.

They had positioned him and Steve rather particularly, completely out of sight of one another. He could hear Steve talking, loud and brash like the 40s, as if the small form seemed to inspire the need for verbal needling over the years of professionalism layered over rebellion and a sense of unyielding right and wrong. They hadn't known that Stark had developed an anti-serum, but it made sense honestly when he thought about it. Stark was a control freak and part of that sense of control came in manufacturing solutions to all potential problems, including allies.

Bucky had barely survived the final encountered, suspected that Stark had taken him for dead in all honesty. Part of the effects of cryo and Soviet technology, so the guy couldn't be faulted. The Winter Soldier was to survive at all costs, even if it meant slowing his heart to one beat every two minutes, only made real by being in a frozen environment. Thanks Siberia. But he had survived and Steve made small, dumped into the hands of Ross and instead of a cremation, he had come to and been outfitted like all the other prisoners.

A few had left, taken plea deals. Others remained, considered too dangerous to be released.

He was healing. The wheeze to his breath was easing from broken ribs; his blackened eyes were a sickly yellow with purple; the cuts on his face and body had scabbed over and were itchy. He no longer ached, but the burnt remnants of his left arm remained, covered in bandaging as if that would hide the sight of it. He masked his pain well, didn't let on that all the nerves remained raw and bare, but there was no pity for him. He was a murderer, a traitor, and a spy, and he had been told that he would be tried for his crimes as the information was picked through. Capital punishment on the traitor charge was all but certain.

But he waited, quiet and seemingly morose, accepting his fate. He decided to heal first and become accustomed to the guard rotations. The technology here was good, their prison outfits biometrically aware of their movements at every second, but even still, their cells needed to be cleaned at least once every week. None of them made a mess, but they were still obligated to the basic necessities of life under UN law.

A few weeks in of complete compliance was enough. Being out of his cell for cleaning was the only time he could potentially catch sight of Steve.

Taking out the guards was easy enough, breaking Steve out of his cell less so and overriding the security protocols even worse, but they had Wanda who put most resistance down when Steve could remove her collar. Locking the sleeping guards in their quarters limited the amount of serious damage they could do as they escaped to the hanger. Wanda and Wilson went on one helicopter into the volatile air around the Raft, he and Steve were to take the second with the expectation that they would find a way to meet up later.

While the timing was absolutely terrible, it was actually the first time that he had any opportunity to take stock of Steve standing there looking... so disconnectedly familiar. His memories before HYDRA could be askew. He knew smells and what he had heard better than he could recall what he saw. Sometimes most of his memories came from reading something over seeing it. So seeing Steve all five-foot nothing was like entering a dream state. Really seeing what was done to his best friend but understanding that the serum had never made the man, just enhanced him to be taken seriously in the minds of lesser men.

"You remember how to fly, don't you?" He looked to the helicopter. He could fly the stick, but all the buttons and stabilizing controls required a second hand which he was distinctly missing. "Unless you can't reach the controls in which case you can sit on my knees."

He was allowed to make a lame attempt at teasing. They hadn't had time, nor had the moment ever seemed right. Besides, he knew in some part of his mind that he had grown up with this small version, and his respect for Steve could never actually be crushed.