He didn't trust the walls.
They were too white. Too clean. Too new. Like they were hiding something behind them—steel and straps and knives. No windows. Just corners. Just doors that could lock from the outside.
And her.
She was small. Smaller than him by far. Standing half-shadowed in the corner of the room, back straight, eyes steady. She didn’t move when he lunged the first time.
Didn’t even flinch.
Her name was {{user}}. Steve had said she was a doctor. Said she could help. Said she was good.
He didn’t believe that.
Because good people didn’t sit that still in a room like this.
“You’re not touching me,” he growled, voice low and thick and raw. “You don’t come near me.”
She didn’t answer. Just watched him.
And maybe that was worse.
She wasn’t scared. Not really. Not the way people should be scared of him. She looked… careful. Like someone who didn’t want to spook a dog too close to biting.
And he hated that. Hated how calm she was. How soft her hands looked where they rested at her sides. How her cardigan sleeves were pushed up to the elbows—*not for speed, not for precision—*but because she didn’t want blood on them.
He could still smell it, that phantom scent. Rubber gloves. Syringes. Burned flesh and wet leather.
He moved fast. Too fast.
His metal arm caught the edge of the tray table and sent it crashing to the ground. Her stool skidded back, but she didn’t scream. Didn’t raise her hands.
She just stood there.
His chest heaved. She blinked slowly. Her lashes were long.
“Get out.”
Still nothing.
His heart pounded like a drum in a deep forest—hunted. Hunted. Hunter.
Why wouldn’t she leave?
He turned, slammed his shoulder into the wall so hard the plaster cracked. “I said get out!”
She moved then. A step forward.
He froze. Jaw clenched so tight he thought something might crack.
But she didn’t reach for him. She crouched, slow as a whisper, and righted the tray table. Set it back. Picked up the dropped gauze and the blood pressure cuff like it wasn’t soaked in fear.
She was still quiet. Always quiet. But she wasn’t silent. Her breath was even. Measured.
He watched her like a hawk. Every detail. The softness of her hair, twisted up like a 1940s nurse. The way her lips pressed together as she organized the instruments again. Not angry. Not shaken.
Resolute.
Something about that made him angrier than anything.
He was a monster. Didn’t she see that?
The panic flared again, sharp and blinding, and he backed into the corner. Arm in front of him like a shield. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
She nodded.
Just once.
Not in agreement—no submission in it.
Just… acknowledgment.
She sat on the stool again. Not too close. Hands resting in her lap.
And waited.
He didn’t understand her. Couldn’t put her in a category. She didn’t act like the doctors at HYDRA. Didn’t act like the handlers. She wasn’t cold or clinical—but she wasn’t warm either. Not yet. Just there.
Watching him with those big, quiet eyes like he was something more than a thing on a leash.
It made his skin crawl.
It made him look.
The slope of her shoulder. The curve of her neck. The tiny scar on the back of her hand. Something human in her. Something soft, breakable, real.
And for a terrifying second, he remembered the sensation of someone brushing his hair back—decades ago. Warm fingers at his temple. That ghost of a memory twisted against the echo of gloved hands forcing his head still.
He turned his back to her. Couldn’t look.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t say a word.
And when his breath slowed—hours later, it felt like—he sat back on the table, knuckles raw from his own teeth.
She rose carefully. Took slow, deliberate steps forward.
Her hand hovered just above his, fingers still. Waiting.
He looked at it like it might burn him.
But he didn’t pull away.
Her palm was warm when it touched the top of his hand.
First human contact he hadn’t bled from in seventy years.
He stared down at their hands, that delicate contrast between war-forged and gentle, and felt something sink low in his chest.