Once upon a time, the Red Room never broke into the North Institute and never stole the formula for chemical mind control.
Because, ultimately, they hadn’t needed to: HYDRA was willing to share, pooling resources for the technology in exchange for running operations together. Because the iron fist of HYDRA was an efficient weapon, but sometimes you needed a more delicate touch: the silk steel, the careful spycraft, the thin blade rather than the wrecking ball. Their asset could barrel into a firefight and emerge with a dozen dead, or penetrate a guarded location to assassinate one target… but he was less effective at subtly extracting intel, at stealing information from right under the Americans’ noses, at infiltrating society without everyone instantly knowing something was awfully, dreadfully wrong with the haggard-looking man with those haunted blue eyes.
For all of that, he needed a partner.
So they pair him with one of Dreykov’s best and most chameleonic operatives, for a long-term mission. The Russian spies have an anonymous house on the outskirts of DC, close enough to the capital and to government employees. A small starter home, with enough room to expand for children (if it were even possible for them, which of course it isn’t).
Walk-in closets with hidden panels bristling with weaponry. A loose floorboard beneath the bed, filled with cash and extra ammunition. An alcove behind the washing machine with fake IDs. They came prepared.
And the Winter Soldier has started loosening up, ever so slightly, with the more time they spend on American soil and the longer he’s away from his reconditioning. His original name had been stolen from him long ago, so he wore a different one now: Matthew and his wife Joan, entirely anonymous, average, everyday.
Partner was another word for wife. They were both supposed to trust each other enough to work well together, but also to secretly report on each other to their respective organisations, to measure disloyalty, to go scurrying back if any behaviour seemed questionable — after so long spent by each others’ side and sleeping in the same bed, however, Matthew found that he cared less and less. HYDRA was far away but she was here daily, in the trenches with him.
Today, he’s coming back from a solo mission. It was a late night, and it had not gone well. There’s the sound of the front door, a click, the thump of his duffel bag hitting the floor, and then he pads through the house towards the kitchen — where he pauses and leans his weight against the doorway as he watches her, favouring his side. She’d been cooking dinner, and for one disorienting second, he wonders what their lives would be like if there wasn’t a bullet in his shoulder and he had nothing else to do but sit down and enjoy a home-cooked meal from his pretty blonde wife.
He watches her for a bit too long, his gaze lingering (he still has a tendency to stare), even as he feels the warm blood matting the material of his shirt. When she finally looks at him—
“Joan,” he says, his voice rough. “I need your help.”
Life in America has not been easy for Joan. She’s adopted a new, charismatic personality and she’s done well enough with befriending the people she’s supposed to keep an eye on, but sometimes it feels like the only person she can truly rely on is herself. This is not something she would ever complain about. She would be too afraid what the others back home would think of her and what the consequences would be for Matthew.
Yes, Joan has come to care about her partner, something she scolds herself for frequently. It’s why she’s on edge tonight, slicing the roast chicken very deliberately as she waits for him. She hears the door and then the duffel bag but then… Nothing. No greeting, no update. It concerns Joan. She becomes suspicious that it is not her husband who has walked through that door. As she hears footsteps approach the kitchen, she whips around and throws her carving knife at the intruder. It barely misses Matthew and buries itself in the wall behind him.
Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of him and hears what he says. “Matthew!” She helps him to a seated position on the floor. “What the hell—Nevermind, I’ll get the kit. You can tell me later.” Hurrying down the hall and into the basement, Joan retrieves a giant box with a handle and towels. She hurries back to Matthew’s side just as fast. Pressing a rolled up towel to his wound, she looks him in the eyes.
“Start at the beginning, and tell me, do you need painkillers?”
Normally his bland American voice would’ve just led to a hello, but this time, balanced on hair-trigger nerves as she is, Joan reacts on the fly. Even while injured, his reflexes are quick enough that he jerks to the side, dodging the knife as it slams into the wood. They leave it quivering in the wall as he settles on the floor, head tipped back against one of the kitchen cabinets. Eyes closed, Matthew listens to the sound of his wife’s footsteps rushing through the house, gathering supplies. Her quick, brusque pace. The familiar basement step which creaks when you put weight on it.
Her voice. Joan had had an accent when they’d first started their immersion training; it’s smoothed out over time, though, and by the time they were sent to DC, it was perfect.
“No,” Matthew says, a kneejerk reply to her question, because his handlers had never bothered letting him have painkillers. And it was something of a waste, considering how much heavy-duty medication he needed to even make a dent in his serum-enhanced metabolism. But then, thinking of the burn of antiseptic and stitches, he hesitates. Reconsiders. Then: “Yes. It’s minor, though. Bullet to the shoulder. Target’s dead. Our cover’s fine.”
A beat, before he adds dryly, “Car interior will need cleaning.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
all of these chains weighing down on me.
Because, ultimately, they hadn’t needed to: HYDRA was willing to share, pooling resources for the technology in exchange for running operations together. Because the iron fist of HYDRA was an efficient weapon, but sometimes you needed a more delicate touch: the silk steel, the careful spycraft, the thin blade rather than the wrecking ball. Their asset could barrel into a firefight and emerge with a dozen dead, or penetrate a guarded location to assassinate one target… but he was less effective at subtly extracting intel, at stealing information from right under the Americans’ noses, at infiltrating society without everyone instantly knowing something was awfully, dreadfully wrong with the haggard-looking man with those haunted blue eyes.
For all of that, he needed a partner.
So they pair him with one of Dreykov’s best and most chameleonic operatives, for a long-term mission. The Russian spies have an anonymous house on the outskirts of DC, close enough to the capital and to government employees. A small starter home, with enough room to expand for children (if it were even possible for them, which of course it isn’t).
Walk-in closets with hidden panels bristling with weaponry. A loose floorboard beneath the bed, filled with cash and extra ammunition. An alcove behind the washing machine with fake IDs. They came prepared.
And the Winter Soldier has started loosening up, ever so slightly, with the more time they spend on American soil and the longer he’s away from his reconditioning. His original name had been stolen from him long ago, so he wore a different one now: Matthew and his wife Joan, entirely anonymous, average, everyday.
Partner was another word for wife. They were both supposed to trust each other enough to work well together, but also to secretly report on each other to their respective organisations, to measure disloyalty, to go scurrying back if any behaviour seemed questionable — after so long spent by each others’ side and sleeping in the same bed, however, Matthew found that he cared less and less. HYDRA was far away but she was here daily, in the trenches with him.
Today, he’s coming back from a solo mission. It was a late night, and it had not gone well. There’s the sound of the front door, a click, the thump of his duffel bag hitting the floor, and then he pads through the house towards the kitchen — where he pauses and leans his weight against the doorway as he watches her, favouring his side. She’d been cooking dinner, and for one disorienting second, he wonders what their lives would be like if there wasn’t a bullet in his shoulder and he had nothing else to do but sit down and enjoy a home-cooked meal from his pretty blonde wife.
He watches her for a bit too long, his gaze lingering (he still has a tendency to stare), even as he feels the warm blood matting the material of his shirt. When she finally looks at him—
“Joan,” he says, his voice rough. “I need your help.”
no subject
Yes, Joan has come to care about her partner, something she scolds herself for frequently. It’s why she’s on edge tonight, slicing the roast chicken very deliberately as she waits for him. She hears the door and then the duffel bag but then… Nothing. No greeting, no update. It concerns Joan. She becomes suspicious that it is not her husband who has walked through that door. As she hears footsteps approach the kitchen, she whips around and throws her carving knife at the intruder. It barely misses Matthew and buries itself in the wall behind him.
Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of him and hears what he says. “Matthew!” She helps him to a seated position on the floor. “What the hell—Nevermind, I’ll get the kit. You can tell me later.” Hurrying down the hall and into the basement, Joan retrieves a giant box with a handle and towels. She hurries back to Matthew’s side just as fast. Pressing a rolled up towel to his wound, she looks him in the eyes.
“Start at the beginning, and tell me, do you need painkillers?”
no subject
Her voice. Joan had had an accent when they’d first started their immersion training; it’s smoothed out over time, though, and by the time they were sent to DC, it was perfect.
“No,” Matthew says, a kneejerk reply to her question, because his handlers had never bothered letting him have painkillers. And it was something of a waste, considering how much heavy-duty medication he needed to even make a dent in his serum-enhanced metabolism. But then, thinking of the burn of antiseptic and stitches, he hesitates. Reconsiders. Then: “Yes. It’s minor, though. Bullet to the shoulder. Target’s dead. Our cover’s fine.”
A beat, before he adds dryly, “Car interior will need cleaning.”