He doesn't come nearly as much as you'd like him to. And when he does, he smokes all over your lab and rips through the white sheet of pristine lies and pharmaceutical stolen youths that go beneath Vought Tower. He stalled the elevator trip there, yet the team had been up on his ass about this for months, so he decided to just take the bullet — at least you made a good talk and did clean, precise cuts that closed in a second.

The laboratory where they first shot him up with V smelled about the same as it did when he was sixteen, like something wicked and squeaky clean, uncanny. His shield propped against the side of your desk, the door locked hermetically due to the type of subjects that you typically dealt with, none barked a laugh like Soldier Boy did, sat on the examination table, ripping off the little bandage you put on the inside of his elbow almost as soon as you placed it there.

He stared off the medicine trolley with dread, an amount of vials that he already knew he'd be filling up for the remaining of the hour and a good half of the next with all the fluids you asked of him.

“How fucking long do you plan on keepin’ me here pumping this shit for you, doc?” He asked — grumbled – as he looked up at you and down the charts in your hand, your gaze everything but apologetic, this was his fault.