
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5617648.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe
  Relationship:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Steve_Rogers, James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Alexander_Pierce,
      Peggy_Carter/Sam_Wilson, Clint_Barton/Natasha_Romanov, Pepper_Potts/Tony
      Stark, Peter_Parker/Wade_Wilson
  Character:
      James_"Bucky"_Barnes, Steve_Rogers, Natasha_Romanov, Clint_Barton, Peggy
      Carter, Alexander_Pierce, Aleksander_Lukin, Brock_Rumlow, Sam_Wilson_
      (Marvel), Tony_Stark, Pepper_Potts, Bruce_Banner, Thor_(Marvel), Wade
      Wilson, Sharon_Carter_(Marvel), Peter_Parker
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Child_Abuse, Stockholm_Syndrome, Gilded_AU, Canon-Typical_Violence,
      Steve's_bad_decision_making, Kidnapping, Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-03 Updated: 2016-03-12 Chapters: 8/? Words: 16741
****** Gilded ******
by boopboop
Summary
     As far as Steve's plans go this one is admittedly not his best. It's
     sort of a last resort, if a last resort can take months of careful,
     painstaking planning and a disgusting amount of playing nice with the
     worst kind of people. Now it is just a simple matter of conducting a
     little harmless kidnapping and in the process hopefully averting a
     large-scale humanitarian disaster.
     When the highest levels of international politics are settled with
     the trade and barter of highly exclusive Gilded, Steve plans to avert
     a war involve removing a very important piece of leverage - which
     would be less of a problem if the leverage involved didn't insist on
     making everything so much more complicated.
Notes
     So here is the Gilded AU that nobody asked for. Yay! Happy New Year.
     Please keep in mind that there will be some rather dark content
     ahead.
     That's probably why you are here, isn't it?
     Anyway, this verse is one I am very much in the middle of playing
     around with and I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts as we
     go along! It somewhat spans from the world established in in_this
     oneshot. (Also drop by the gilded_tag on tumblr for some very shiny
     pictures!) Chapters will be shorter and much more frequent than other
     projects, I promise!
***** Chapter 1 *****
Steve has never actually met a Gilded before, but he has seen one. This one,
actually, at a party almost exactly a year ago to the day. King Alexander of
Stoavania has always been famous for the elaborate celebrations he likes to
throw and that one, held in a towering palace made out of silk and silver and
attended by only the very wealthiest of the world's population...well, it holds
a special place in Steve's memory. So much beauty, so much opulence...so much
grotesque, unearned wealth, stolen over more than a thousand years. A hundred
Gilded must have attended, each one adorned with diamonds and sapphires and
rubies and the wealth of whole countries draped over their flawless skin. None
more so than King Alexander's, who stands out as exceptional even in a room
full of the most beautiful people alive. Then, it had only been a glimpse up
into the heavens of the tent, his eyes just one pair in a hundred fixed upon
wide strands of cobalt silk and the man contorting himself into astounding
positions, only his own strength and skill saving him from a fall that would
unquestionably kill him.
Alexander's Gilded is almost more famous than his Master. He has his own
Instagram. Last Steve checked - and he does, it's part of his job - more than
fifteen million people follow StoavaniasGilded. He's seen in magazines and on
the Internet, in photoshoots and at events and parties, always at his Master's
side, dressed in couture designs and never less than a million dollar's worth
of fine jewelry. His whims turn the tides of fashion and YouTube bloggers
dedicate hours to recreating some of his more elaborate makeups and adornments.
Steve's generation has probably seen more of the Gilded than any before and
still they want more. They want to look into the far removed world the Gilded
inhabit; where a title and blue blood brings with it more than just inherited
land and wealth.
The Gilded have been a cultural phenomenon from their conception almost
seventeen hundred years ago, and now the most famous of them is draped across
Steve's lap.
This isn’t his crowd. He’s not got the money or the status to rub shoulders
with these people on any other day of the week. He’s certainly not got the kind
of ancestry that would allow him to even look at a Gilded in person, let alone
touch one. He might have an invitation for tonight but he hadn't exactly been
at Alexander's last party legally.
He’s worked hard, been useful to the right people, and then made a deal with
the Devil and now he is here, the ink on his invitation signed by King
Alexander himself.
This is his reward, given by a man who considers materialistic gain the lowest
possible remuneration. This is how King Alexander keeps lesser mortals ensnared
in his web. A night in the presence of a Gilded. A night of smokey gray-blue
eyes and diamond draped limbs, of skin that glitters with crushed pearls and a
body that’s traded only on the very highest of levels. He’s been told to
understand that. This Gilded is going to Switzerland tomorrow; an essential
part of furiously dangerous negotiations. Back in the day, wars started and
ended with exquisite beauty and the spread of a Gilded’s thighs. Now it’s
mostly business. Steve is not allowed to taint the royal bartering system.
But a kiss. He’s allowed a kiss.
He’d want one too if he weren’t being looked at like he makes the sun rise and
fall in the sky. The Gilded that sits in his lap looks as if he is in love with
Steve. They met twenty minutes ago. They haven’t even spoken. It can’t possibly
be love, which means it is being faked. And if that is being faked, the rest of
it probably is as well. The illusion is not as foolproof as Steve has expected
it to be. Somehow it takes the shine off the whole encounter. 
This is the first time he's met a Gilded, and it's the first time he's been
close enough to see the elaborate gold marks that they are so famous for in all
of their glory.
There is a piece from the sixties, now famous, in TIME magazine, where a Gilded
from Denmark was photographed from every angle and the details of their body
art dissected publically for the first time. Up until then, most were under the
impression that the gold lines were made by ink injected into the skin. Few had
realized how the decorative marks were actually made. There had been a
momentary outcry when the truth came out - shock and horror at the idea of
human flesh being cut open and filled with molten metal. The Council, in an
effort to regain the goodwill of the people, had allowed a documentary crew to
film the procedure being performed from a young Gilded seminary. The boy, who
couldn't have been more than fifteen, hadn't made a sound throughout the entire
thing.
Steve runs his fingers over the raised lines of gold and can't imagine a world
in which it can't have hurt to create them. They are beautiful, yes, but in a
truly macabre way. And there are so many of them. Thin, elegant lines etched
into skin in delicately twirling patterns. They are different for each Gilded.
On this one they flow like water and the silks he performs with.
And they must have been agonizing to create.
The Gilded aren’t people in the eyes of the law. They have no rights of any
kind. They belong only to those of Royal blood and birth. They cannot be bought
or sold. If Steve were to raise a hand to this one it would be treason and a
death sentence. If Alexander were to walk across the room and slit his Gilded's
throat now, he would pay a fine to the Council and a replacement would be
packaged up and shipped out tomorrow morning. The Gilded are not people. They
are not human beings. But this one, real in Steve’s arms, is not some
hypothetical aristocratic toy talked about around a table full of idealists and
antimonarchist. He’s warm and breathing and his heartbeat is steady under
Steve’s hand. There is color to his cheeks, visible even below the dusting of
pearl; there is a life in his eyes that is full of curiosity and expectation.
And then he speaks, and Steve's whole reason for being here slips from his
mind.
"Won't you kiss me?" He asks, in a voice that is rich and warm and without any
discernable accent.
“"Do you want me too?” Steve asks, naive perhaps, thinking that this Gilded,
this man, will confess to him any kind of desire when his owner is scarcely
three feet away. But Steve has to ask. He has to. He has a reason for being
here that doesn't extend to kissing, but no man in his right mind would turn a
Gilded down when offered. Steve doesn't have to try too hard to play the part.
"I won’t if... Only if you want me to.”
A voice laughs behind them. King Alexander has a crystal glass in his hand and
the contents alone are worth more than the homes of everyone Steve knows. "It
doesn’t have feelings," he laughs and the other guests laugh along with him.
They do so more from jealousy than amusement. They aren't the ones with a
Gilded in their laps. "You don’t have to coax it into taking off its panties.”
Steve bites back the urge to point out that the Gilded isn’t actually wearing
anything more substantial than the net worth of a small country in precious
stones. No panties. In public he wears only the highest fashion, but in private
events, clothing is clearly not the kind of accessory Alexander is wanting to
see.
“"If you want it,” Steve says again, his eyes focused on the Gilded's and
nowhere else.
And the Gilded, smiling at him now in a completely different way, leans in and
kisses Steve before he can ask again.
No wonder men kill for this, Steve thinks, lost in a dream. The lithe body in
his lap is strong with muscles dedicated to the art of beauty and the mouth
that moves against his own is softer and sweeter than any Steve has kissed
before.
He keeps his hands from wandering out of sheer, stubborn will alone, his shirt
collar suddenly far too tight and the air much hotter and heavier than it was
only a moment ago. He needs to breathe, to recover, but the Gilded merely
angles his head in another direction and draws Steve's tongue into his mouth.
It's better, somehow, and worse as well. Now Steve can't help himself and he
lets his hands sink into the dark curls that fall around the Gilded's face.
There's more finery there as well, tiny golden beads and clusters of clear
crystals woven in delicate patterns. He pulls too tightly, dislodging a diamond
the size of his thumb, and the sight of it falling to rest in the follow of the
Gilded's collarbone is the cold splash of reality he needs to stop him falling
down the rabbit hole and losing himself completely.
He pulls away and eases his fingers out of the Gilded's hair.
"Problem, Rogers?" King Alexander asks, laughing at his reluctance.
"I wouldn't say that, Your Majesty," Steve says, making a show of shuffling in
discomfort. 
As hoped, Alexander laughs again. He holds out a hand and coyly beckons his
Gilded over. Steve is forgotten about in a heartbeat as the Gilded returns
eagerly to his master, crawling on all fours like the pampered pet he is and
practically purring when Alexander strokes his cheek. "Still so beautiful after
all these years," he muses. It's almost impossible to tell how old the Gilded
is under the makeup he is wearing. His skin is clear and healthy, his eyes too,
but he has the benefit of the best diet and care possible. Some owners squander
their Gilded; Alexander does not. He gives him a playful pat on the ass. "Can't
have you getting poor Steven all hot and bothered now, can we?"
The Gilded casts his eyes down demurely and bites his bottom lip. "I'm sorry,
Master," he says, not sounding in the least bit honest.
"Of course you aren't, naughty boy. Why don't you dance for us while we get
down to some business?" The Gilded kisses the tops of his shoes without
prompting and rises gracefully to his feet.
Steve isn't sure how anyone is supposed to focus on business when there is a
someone dancing naked in the middle of the room, and for the first twenty
minutes no one really does. Eventually the sight of supple, naked limbs and
lamplight glittering on precious stones just becomes part of the background.
The Gilded dances without pause or fatigue as the men around him talk about the
thing they like talking about the most: money. Alexander doesn't involve
himself much. He is the kind of wealthy who considers it the height of
crassness to talk about such trivial things as income. It's a privilege even
only a fraction of this disgustingly rich party share. 
Steve is expected to talk a lot. He doesn't have money and everyone here knows
it. What he does have are smarts and a brain for finance. He knows how to take
a million dollars and turn it into a hundred million - or at least he knows how
to make it sound like he does. That's how he's gotten himself through the door
in the first place; with the promise to make rich people richer. The longer he
talks, the greedier everyone gets and the more he wants to throw up. 
It seems like hours before Alexander stands and they all break off their
conversation to rise to their feet as well. Steve almost thanks him.
"Gentlemen," he says, holding his arm out wide and welcoming. "You'll forgive
my early retirement I hope; I am not as young as I used to be."
They all murmur false platitudes, and denials, just as they are expected to.
Alexander waves the compliments off and says they are too generous, just as he
is expected to. It's all a steaming hot pile of bullshit. 
The Gilded follows him without instruction, three paces behind, his hips
swaying in a way that suggests he's more exhausted than he's letting on.
Steve's actually a little impressed he's lasted as long as he has.
He's also getting impatient. 
Without King Alexander to impress, or the Gilded to drool over, the rest of the
party have no reason to stay. He hopes they'll make their way home, and instead
he's forced to hang around for another hour while the rest of the wine is drunk
and the bragging in the room reaches new, outrageous heights. They mostly
ignore him now that they have no more reason not to, and that's fine. It lets
him fade into the background and take his position, hidden from sight as the
last of them finally leave. 
It must be close to three am by the time the household staff have come in and
cleared away the majority of the mess left behind. Alexander's security do a
precautionary sweep of the room, but they are too tired and bored to look as
closely as they should. This house isn't even their usual residence. It belongs
to Alexander, but it is rarely occupied. They don't often have cause to be in
New York. Gilded are not particularly popular with the American government.
Those rare times they do visit are spent here, in the penthouse worth more than
a hundred million dollars. Only the very best for them.
As Steve makes his way out of the main rooms and down towards the private
suites, he doubts whether anyone other than King Alexander, his Gilded or his
staff have ever been in this section of the residence. It is quiet and
peaceful. The walls and floor alike are crafted from marble and every spare
surface is covered with cherry wood furniture and gold fixtures. There are
several towering doors lining the side of one wall, each matched with a large
window opposite. Heavy drapes frame each of them, but it looks like they are
never drawn. They, like so many other things in this building, are for
decoration only.
With the night's darkness creating an inky canvas behind the windows, the open
doors and light streaming through them provide him with the perfect view into
the room at the end of the hall. Steve can even see his target reflected in the
glass, a white robe hanging from his shoulders as he moves around the room.
Steve slips inside and closes the door quietly behind him as soon as the Gilded
moves out of sight.
The suite he finds himself in is laid out exactly as Natasha promised. It's as
decadent and ostentatious as the rest of the building, but there's no personal
touches like there were in the main room. There are no signs of Alexander's
presence as an occupant, leaving Steve to conclude that her understanding of
his relationship with his Gilded is accurate. She'd said Alexander's rooms were
further down the hall and it looks like she is right. The King isn't in love
with his Gilded, despite remaining unmarried his whole life. The suite isn't
kept for sake of appearance. They belong only to his Gilded. That works best
for what Steve has in mind. He's worked hard to build this alias and he doesn't
want to burn it if he doesn't have to. It's better if he can catch the Gilded
alone.
They don't need Alexander to be in love for this to work. Ego is just as good a
motivator.
"If someone finds you here you're dead," Steve freezes, surprised at being
caught unaware. He turns around and sees the Gilded in the doorway to the
bathroom. His robe is unfastened, doing nothing to provide modesty. His skin is
clean, no longer pearl dusted and a little pink from being scrubbed. Without
the makeup he looks no older than Steve.
There are no sounds of running feet to indicate that the Gilded has triggered a
panic alarm, so Steve remains where he is standing. He doesn't have any
intention of hurting the Gilded and that might happen if things are to escalate
too quickly.
"I mean it," the Gilded says, casually leaning against the doorway. "Last time
my Master did the job himself. Have you ever seen a man skinned alive? It's an
unpleasantly longwinded way of dying."
"I don't plan on getting caught," Steve shrugs one shoulder, matching the
Gilded's calmness with his own. He can still make this work. "Or skinned, for
that matter."
"They never do," the Gilded says. "Somehow it always seems to happen anyway.
You're hardly the first to try." That isn't surprising. For as long as Gilded
have existed, people have tried to take them.
"Get kidnapped a lot, do you?" Steve finds himself asking, almost disarmed by
the smile he's pinned with.
Surprise flashes across the Gilded's face. "Kidnapped? You know I'm not worth
anything, right?" He actually laughs, as if the whole idea is preposterous.
Steve has to join in, though his laughter is much more bitter. "You think the
old man wouldn't pay a fortune to get you back?" He's still wearing a diamond
the size of a robin's egg which hangs in the hollow of his throat. That alone
could feed a small city for a few years. 
"I think he'd sooner drop a bomb on wherever you plan on holding me," he says
wryly. "It's much neater that way. The Council will send him a replacement for
me. So... unless dying is high on your to-do list, I suggest you leave now.
Take the servant's exit and I won't even tell anyone you were here."
That's Steve's cue. Beneath that calm exterior, he can see nerves fraying at
the edges. It's only a matter of time before the Gilded tries to either fight
or evade him. Steve doesn't really like either option. So he moves in first,
trying to radiate all the of the menace and danger he does in the field. It
must work, because the Gilded is pampered and spoiled and clearly has no idea
how to handle himself in a fight. He goes tense; a rabbit caught in the
headlights of a truck.
"I told you," he says, less of the casual calmness now and more of an edge of
fear, "He'll kill us both before he pays you for me."
"Maybe it's not his money I'm after? You know how much you'd fetch on the
underground market?" As soon as he says the words he regrets them. He has no
intention at all of doing something so cruel, but the Gilded doesn't know that
and history is rife with examples of what has happened to Gilded who have
fallen into 'common' hands. He hears the words and doesn't even wait for the
fear to fully sink in before he's racing towards the door. 
Steve moves as soon as he does. closing the gap between them. He's got a
syringe in his pocket loaded with a sedative strong enough to put the Gilded
out long enough to fly him halfway around the world. By the time he wakes up,
this will all be over. No real harm, very little foul. And maybe a lot of lives
made safer because of it.
"I really don't want to hurt you," Steve says, intercepting the Gilded before
he can reach the door and trying his best to convey how honest he is being. He
wraps his hand around the Gilded's wrist and jerks him to a stop before he can
reach the door.
Less than a second later, he's flat on his back with the wind knocked out of
him. "Heard that before," the Gilded says as he stands above Steve, his fists
clenched. "You don't have permission to touch me," he snarls, grabbing Steve by
the lapels of his suit and hauling him up off the floor. Steve has just enough
of his wits left rattling around inside his skull to break his fall as he is
thrown head first across the back of the chaise lounge. Stunned, he climbs
shakily to his feet and the lack of arriving security suddenly makes sense.
Back in the day, the Gilded were trained to fight, protecting their masters
from any threats that might make it past their bodyguards. There's hardly much
call for that kind of training in a less violent world, but the fact that they
hadn't considered it sits heavy on his chest.
He's not leaving here without completing his mission. Too many lives depend on
it. The Gilded might know a few moves, but Steve's been at war for over a
decade now and he hasn't spent most of his life sitting around being hand fed
grapes. You can't compare them. 
He takes off his jacket and unfastens the top button on his shirt, giving
himself a little more maneuverability. If he has to fight, so be it. 
 
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Drop by tumblr for the latest visuals! The mask is especially creepy.
As much as Steve doesn't want to hurt the Gilded, he somehow gets the
impression that the Gilded doesn't really want to hurt him either. Not in a
permanent way at least. That doesn't extend Steve much in the way of courtesy
when it comes to getting his ass kicked, but it does leave the impression that
if the Gilded wanted this over and him dead, Steve would very much be so.
Instead, he just finds himself once more on his back, this time with a pair of
ridiculously strong thighs wrapped around his neck. "I'm sorry," the Gilded
says mildly, "can't you breathe?" Steve chokes back a response and focuses
instead on trying to pry himself free. Aren't Gilded supposed to be the seen
and not heard, docile and submissive types? Apparently this one has never
received that memo. He's as fast as he is well trained, and the supple, slender
limbs hide a wealth of strength.
Steve tries another tactic. He goes limp. Seconds later, the pressure around
his throat eases, proving both that the Gilded really doesn't want to hurt him
and that he lacks any kind of killer instinct. Steve wants to tell him not to
ever let his guard down like that again but he's too focused on trying to
breathe.
As soon as he has a little more maneuverability, he twists himself around,
grabs a handful of the Gilded's impractically long hair, and with an inward
wince and internal apology, uses the hold to slam his head against the marble
floor.
He's not as ruthless as he might be with an enemy in the field and maybe that's
his own foolishness coming into play. It isn't rough enough to kill, or even
knock unconscious. It is enough to daze him though, and that's all the time
Steve needs to wriggle free and reverse their positions.
He's not even on his feet again before the doors are bursting open and the army
of a small country is pouring into the suite. They wrestle Steve to the ground
before he can make it even a single step, and he tastes blood as his lip
smashes against the hard floor. That's probably karma, he thinks. 
He spits out a mouthful of blood and it lands an inch from a pair of velvet
lounge slippers. As a hand fists his hair and jerks him upright, Steve gets an
up close and personal view of King Alexander's lined face. He's wrapped in a
robe and unflappably calm: he must have known about Steve's presence long
before he chose to make his entrance. What was he waiting for? Steve's hardly
about to send him an invitation.
He glances over Steve impassionately then turns his back on him to focus on the
Gilded. Steve suddenly has to struggle against the dozens of hands that wrestle
him into the main bedroom. It doesn't matter how many of them he shakes off,
there is always another two to take their place. Heavy manacles - gold, of
course they are fucking gold - fasten around his wrists and suddenly he's being
wrenched upwards and onto the tips of his toes. There's actually a set up in
the room for hanging chains. They must be designed for the Gilded, which
explains why everything is ornately decorated. He makes a mental note to
catalogue this as officially they most expensive bondage he's ever taken part
in. 
The fact that he's been restrained but not executed sits strangely in his gut.
The Gilded did say something about being skinned alive... He's standing on a
white rug shaped like a fleur de lis. Skinning him alive is going to ruin
it. Steve looks over at the Gilded for some kind of insight into whether he
should come outright and say so. He's on his knees, his face tilted up and a
look of adoring wonder focused wholly on his master. He's not going to be much
help.
Alexander raises his fingers to the bruise that is already blooming on the
Gilded's cheekbone and Steve's not convinced that the wince it produces is one
caused by pain. The Gilded hadn't given a single indication of discomfort
during their fight, but when Alexander catches him in the same spot with a
vicious backhanded slap, he whimper and raises wet eyes in supplication. "I'm
sorry, Master," he whispers, as if he is to blame for the injury Steve caused.
"Go clean yourself," Alexander says, his voice stripped of the warmth and
affection is has so far always held when addressing his Gilded. "Cover that up
or you'll have to wear the mask."
"Yes Master," the Gilded gasps, kissing the back of the hand that just struck
him.
Alexander snatches it away in disgust. "Go on," he orders. "I want to inspect
you before I go back to bed."
Steve can see the flash of panic that flares up at being given such an
undefined deadline. "Yes Master," he says again, rocking back on his heels and
rising to his feet gracefully. If he wants to run to the bathroom, he doesn't.
He walks calmly and carefully, then closes the door silently behind himself.
Without the attention of a third involved party, Steve has to resign himself to
being the centre of all of King Alexander's focus. "You are not Steven Rogers."
"No," Steve says, staying calm. "I am."
"Well I'm assuming you're not a financial analyst."
"No," Steve shakes his head, "I'm really not."
"You fooled my financial analysts. Apparently you've the brightest mind he's
ever seen." Alexander pauses in consideration, then turns to one of the
soldiers, "Have him brought here, then gouge out his eyes. Clearly he doesn't
use them properly." Steve manages not to cringe. "I heard my Gilded tell you
what I usually do to people who try take things from me. Is there anything
you'd like to say in your defence?" So he had heard the whole conversation. Who
was he setting up for a fall? Steve, or the Gilded? He can't see the point in
either.
"You're going to ruin the decor," Steve says.
"I can afford it."
"Why'd you make him watch?" He's stalling for time and not even in a smart way.
He doesn't pretend he's not struggling to break free of the chains either. And
even if he can, there's a room full of soldiers and a closed door between him
and the Gilded. And he's not leaving here without him. 
"He enjoys it."
"I doubt it."
"Fine, I enjoy watching him not enjoy it." Now that Steve can believe. 
"You're sick."
"I'm a King," Alexander corrects him. "And you're part of SHIELD."
"Never heard of it," Steve says, his heart rate rocketing. "What's shield?"
"Of course you haven't. And it's purely coincidence you coming here the day
before I close the Sokovia deal. He's right you know; I'd burn your entire
country to the ground before I allowed him to be taken from me. But. I make a
habit of not killing people until I know what they are worth. Somehow I think
you are worth something. You'll stay here for the night until I decide what to
do with you. You can keep my Gilded company. Remind him why we do so try and
avoid the common classes."
It's only minutes since the Gilded left them, but the bathroom door opens and
he steps out like he's about to take centre stage. Steve's not the only one who
looks at him, a snappy answer to Alexander dying on his tongue. Backlit by the
extra bright lights streaming in from the bathroom, the Gilded looks
otherworldly, inhuman.
Alexander flicks his wrist in a silent order and the man behind Steve pulls a
cloth gag between his teeth before he can do more than splutter in outrage. He
tries jerking in the chains once more, but he's got nothing to leverage himself
with and as soon as the gag is fastened, the soldier steps back and out of the
small circle in which Steve could damage him.
The Gilded hesitates when he sees Steve is still there, but Alexander's mood is
no better than it was before, and he is beckoned over with an impatient wave.
There isn't a sign of bruising on his cheeks at all. Everything has been
carefully covered up with makeup. His eyes are ringed with kohl and his long
lashes are speckled with the tiniest crystals. His hair is perfect again, loose
this time, and he looks to Steve as if he should be stepping into a catwalk.
But Alexander shakes his head and tuts sadly. "I'm disappointed in you, James,"
he says. He glances up at Steve, who's face must show his surprise. "What? You
don't give your pets names?" That doesn't fit with the way Alexander had called
the Gilded - James - 'it' earlier that night. You give pets names yes, but not
toys. "Lots of Gilded have names, don't they precious?" Alexander strokes his
hand over his Gilded's hair and James nuzzles against him, happy to be shown
affection again after being reprimanded. "Admittedly some are nicer than
others. James here is named after James Buchannan - another Gilded, not the
President. Rather a famous Gilded, back in the seventeenth century.
Exceptionally beautiful. Spoiled and adored by his Master," Alexander draws
James closer, until his head rests against the King's thigh. "Of course the
Gilded weren't all that popular in England back then and while his Master might
have had a superlative eye for beauty, he was quite atrocious at ruling a
country. Not particularly bright on the battlefield either, and when faced with
his own captivity, he fled, leaving his poor, heartbroken Gilded behind. I'm
sure you've heard the stories of what happened after that."
Steve's heard the stories. It looks like James has as well. It's a cruel name
he's been given, and it makes Steve's threat of selling him on the underground
much more vile in context. It also makes him look at Alexander in a different
light. They've always known him to be heartless, merciless and at times
vindictively severe, but the enjoyment he's taking from petting his own -
visibly frightened- Gilded and reminding him of his namesake - a boy so
savagely torn apart by his Master's enemies that there had been no body to bury
- it's sadistic. It's sick.
Alexander stops stroking James's hair and uses his thumb to tilt his face up
towards him. "Fetch me the mask," he says, not speaking to James but to one of
the attending soldiers. "You let him touch you," he says. "You'll wear it from
now until I have the time to finish him off properly and maybe you'll learn
from your mistakes."
The mask, it turns out, is something out of an opulent gothic horror story.
It's carried over to Alexander on a pillow of scarlet velvet and much like the
majority of the accessories James wears, it is made almost entirely out of
precious stones. This one looks to be made of diamonds. Thousands of them. But
it is less a mask and more of a hood, and it must weigh a ton as Alexander
positions it over James's head. The back is fastened by a dozen clips that
attach to one small lock and it circles around from under his chin all the way
to the nape of his neck. It's lined with something soft and dark, and though it
must leave a space for breathing, Steve can't see where. The diamonds just form
circle after circle of spiraling patterns. It's beautiful, but it turns James
into a faceless, glittering thing, and Steve can't look at him for long without
feeling the urge to shudder.
"Up you come," Alexander says once the lock is secured. He helps his Gilded
stand on shaking legs and guides him over to the bed. James can't see, Steve
realizes, and there's a special kind of evil in the mind of a man who blinds
someone to a threat that is currently chained up only a few feet away. "Get
some rest. I need you at your very best tomorrow." James is settled under silk
sheets and tucked in like an errant child.
And then Alexander leaves, only passing Steve a particularly cruel smirk on his
way out. The soldiers follow and take position outside the doors, and suddenly
Steve is alone with the Gilded again.
So much for his plan.
He's two, maybe three inches taller than James is, so he's actually able to get
his toes on the ground, which is a blessing. It allows him to take some of the
strain off his shoulders and arms, and then to test the chains themselves. They
aren't bolted directly to the ceiling, so Steve can't try and rip them down,
but they are designed for someone who weighs less than he does, so maybe, if he
pulls himself up, lets the chains take all of his weight, he can start to
loosen the two connecting hooks and free himself that way.
He tries it, pulling himself up like he would if he were doing a pull-up, then
tucking his knees up to his chest. The momentum lets him swing around towards
the pillar behind him, so he braces his heels against it and uses his own
weight to create a fulcrum.
The hooks don't even budge.
He keeps trying, doing everything he can to get free, and ignoring the man who
is huddled in the bed across from him, flinching every time the chains rattle.
He's let his own squeamishness get him into this mess. He's been unprepared to
face a Gilded who can defend himself, and equally unprepared to do whatever it
takes to complete the mission. Now he's not going to have to accept the fact
that he's failed, but witness it first hand. 
He can't accept that. He has to get free. He has to stop Alexander making that
deal.
And if that means crossing a line he has never thought himself capable of
crossing....
Exhausted, his arms give out on him. His shoulders scream as their take the
weight of his entire body. He feels like he's gone ten rounds against a tank
and he's not sure his legs could hold him up even if he could get them
underneath him.
And it's daylight outside. 
How long has he been struggling?
The sudden, careful brush of fingers against his jaw startles him. He jerks
back, hissing in pain, and James does the same, bracing himself with an
outstretched arm as he stumbles. Then he tries again. His hands feel around
Steve's throat and jaw, brushing across his mouth before they find the knot of
the gag and gently unfasten it, leaving it loose around Steve's neck. 
It's unnerving, staring into the formless face. Steve can see more of his own
self reflected back off the edge of a thousand jewels than he can of James's.
He doesn't know if he is smiling or frowning, if he's in pain or afraid. 
But he is, apparently, kind. He spills water down Steve's chest at first, but
is then able to hold a bottle up against his mouth, tipping it just enough for
the cool liquid to surge across his sore, parched tongue. His mouth is so dry
that at first it hurts. Swallowing is painful. But the more he drinks, the
easier it is, and James doesn't stop until there is nothing left in the
bottle. 
"Thank you," Steve says, surprised at the compassion he is being shown. James
shrugs his shoulders. He's not tried to speak but Steve doesn't know if that is
because he physically can't - the mask is tight and unyeilding - or because he
doesn't want to. "I wasn't going to sell you on the underground," Steve says
quickly. "I really wasn't. I don't...I didn't come here to hurt you. Your
master can't be allowed to make the Sokovian deal. Too many people will die if
he does."
James's hands trail lightly down his face until they reach the gag. He tilts
his head almost apologetically, but pushes the fabric back into Steve's mouth.
He doesn't fasten it tight, and Steve doesn't even try protesting. James is
devoted to his master. There's no point trying to win him over with arguments
he probably doesn't even understand. 
He watches James make his way slowly back over to the bed, and he is under the
sheets and feigning sleep when the doors to the suite open a few minutes later
and a group of stern-faced men and women march through them. Some of them
hesitate when they see the mask, looking towards a tall, gray-skinned man for
direction. They don't talk among themselves, even to decide on a course of
action. Instead two of them, both girls who can't be much older than sixteen,
circle the bed, take a hold of one each of James's arms, and help him from the
bed. 
James lets them lead him, unsteady on his feet and dependent on them to guide
him. If Steve hadn't just seen him navigate the room with much more confidence
just a few minutes ago, he'd believe him to be as helpless as he looks. 
The girls sit him down on a plush stool and one of them starts to tuck errant
strands under the edge of the mask. Another appears with trays adorned with
jewellery, holding them up for the contents to be studied and passed over,
until a selection is made and the most enormous piece is chosen. Steve's not
sure if it's a collar or a cape, but it fastens snuggly around James's throat
and almost seamlessly blends into the edges of the mask. It then forms a web
that hands down the front of his chest and over his shoulders. A pair of large
earrings come next, and Steve wonders if they are going to take off the mask.
They don't. Instead they slide the bar at the top of them into James's nipples.
Not earrings then. 
Amidst all this he is patted down with clothes soaked in sweet smelling water
and another attendant flicks at him with a straight razor, removing the odd
hair here and there as he goes. It answers the question as to why no YouTube
blogger can perfectly recreate the looks James wears in public: they don't have
an army of people to make them look good. 
Even Steve is mildly fascinated, at least until one of the attendants takes a
hold of James's dick and practically uses it as a handhold to make him stand.
"Do you need to urinate?" He asks, speaking to him for the first time.
James shakes his head. If Steve feels bad for him now, it's a feeling that
grows when the attendant takes that as a cue to wrap metal bands around his
dick. This time Steve does squirm in sympathy, because there is no way in hell
that can be comfortable. 
And just like that, the whole scenes goes from bizarrely, uncomfortably
captivating to really, really fucking skeevy. Maybe it's the stark reminder
that the Gilded is a man just like Steve is. Maybe it's that James can't see
what is being done to him. Either way, he's disgusted with himself. 
It takes him a second to realize what the next item on their agenda is, and
this time he does look away. That's something else he's done a good job of
overlooking. He came here to kidnap a Gilded and to stop Alexander using him as
the final trading piece in getting a very nasty law off the ground. He's just
not given much thought into how the Gilded played his part. The anal plug sort
of makes it hard to forget, even if he is supposed to be distracted by the
enormous sapphire that is set into the base of it.
The final items are relatively tame in comparison - four delicately engraved
cuffs, one placed on each ankle and wrist. He's being dusted with a faint,
shimmery powder when the doors open and Alexander returns with a contingent of
soldiers. 
The soldiers are for him, but it's James he's suddenly more concerned for. 
"Let me look at you," Alexander says. He gives one of the heavy piercings a tug
and Steve can hear James gasp in response. "I'd have you now if we had more
time," he says by way of praise, even though he's looking at Steve as he says
it. "I doubt Schmidt would appreciate sloppy seconds. It's a shame about the
mask; you know how much he likes to hear you sing for him." Steve can't tell if
that is a euphemism or not but he doesn't get the chance to find out as
Alexander continues. "Maybe we'll make you sing for us instead, Captain
Rogers?" Steve doesn't show his surprise. Of course they will have put together
the facts during the night. "Get him down," Alexander orders his soldiers. "And
find something a little more practical to restrain him with. You're coming to
Sokovia with us, Captain Rogers. Johan Schmidt is quite excited to meet you."
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm adding an extra warning for claustrophobia here. It's not
     something that really crops up again in the story in a big way, but
     if characters being trapped in small spaces is a no go for you, you
     might want to skip this part.
Even a king can't just kidnap a man and take him out of the country. There is
something oddly calming about that, and Steve thinks that maybe the transfer
from penthouse to plane will give him the chance to escape.
He turns out to be as wrong about that as he is everything else.
He's shackled properly is time, and not in the fancy bindings used on James.
They are no more or less yielding, but they aren't gold and he doesn't feel
trussed up like some kind of trinket the way he did before. But he is hobbled,
with chains around his ankles preventing him from taking his usual length of
stride, and more around his wrists, keeping them weighted down behind him.
Ahead of him, Alexander leads James along on a silver leash. He's crawling on
his hands and knees, so Steve can pretend their slow pace is down to that and
not his own stumbling steps.
He doesn't have to work hard to avoid looking at the way James’s hips sway with
each movement. After seeing the way he's been treated all evening he can't
bring himself to be yet another person who leers and drools over his nakedness.
Even the occasional wink of sapphire, no doubt intended to tease alluringly,
makes him feel nauseous.
That nausea grows when he sees just how they intend to smuggle him out of the
country. If he weren't gagged, he'd be telling the entire assembly just what he
thinks of them. He tries regardless.
Because Gilded aren't legally recognized as people in their own right, they
don't need a passport to travel across borders. They do, however, have to be
transported in a very specific, internationally recognized and approved
‘official’ way.
Hence, the golden monstrosity waiting for them in the entrance hall.
It's practically a coffin though it’s officially been termed a ‘carriage’. It's
long enough for a grown man to lay down in, with poles extending from either
end in order for it to be carried by attendants. It's elaborately engraved and
lined with black velvet, and there is no way in hell he’s going to fit inside….
But the carriage - crate, coffin, death trap - falls under diplomatic law, and
it cannot be searched by foreign officials. It’s probably the best way to get
him out of the country without anyone seeing him, and Steve isn’t exactly
claustrophobic, it’s just…
How long is the flight between New York and Switzerland? And he’s going to be
in there. He’s going to be in there with James…
Jesus Christ, no...
One of the soldiers puts James in first. The Gilded seems to know what is
coming - though whether he’s figured the full extent of it is anyone’s guess -
and he is obedient and pliant as he is settled down against the soft linings.
There is a small cushion for his neck to rest against, which is a consideration
for his comfort that surprises Steve. Then, despite the fact that there are
three very large intimidating locks on the outside of the crate, they clip the
cuffs on his wrists and ankles into the base of it.
And then they drag Steve over.
He lets the one behind him suddenly shoulder his weight as he rears back and
plants his feet in the chest of the closest soldier. It sends all three of them
crashing to the ground as neither of them are able to brace against Steve’s
attack, but it is a short lived victory as multiple hands grab at him roughly
and drag him, struggling and swearing, over to the crate.
It’s that that makes him stop fighting. Not because he’s giving in, but because
as he’s forced in face first, it’s not the soldiers he’s going to hurt if he
continues, but James. Despite his motivations for being here, he’s not sure he
can stomach the idea of doing so again.
They still feel the need to hold Steve down at the back of the knees and neck
until they can close the lid on top of them both. There are three ominous
clinks of metal as the locks are fastened, and then they are trapped.
The way Steve is bound means that the top of the crate presses uncomfortably
against his arms. He’s lying directly on top of James, and he wiggles, trying
to find a way to position himself so that the entirety of his weight isn’t
resting on the Gilded’s chest. There’s no way to avoid pressing against the
multitude of jewels though, and even through the layers of his clothing, they
dig unyieldingly into his flesh. He squirms again, ignoring the discomfort, and
manages to get their knees either side of each other. It’s then, when the crate
shifts and lurches and he gets the sudden, nauseating sensation of being
carried like a piece of furniture, that he realizes just how badly James is
shaking.
Steve’s not claustrophobic and the dark crate is terrifying him. There are
multiple gaps in the carving to allow light and air inside, but James is still
masked, still bound down, still struggling to breathe with the weight of Steve
on top of him.
And now, as they are being carried towards their destination, he is starting to
panic.
Steve is cursing the gag, his bonds and most of all himself as he tries to
brace his weight against his knees and allow James a little more room. It’s
impossible. There simply isn’t enough space in there for the both of them. He
tries making soothing sounds instead, which does about as much good as throwing
a cup of water on a forest fire.
Then he thinks;fuck it. James is already terrified of him, so he’s not exactly
damaging his reputation, and they have nothing left to lose, so…
He stops trying to create distance between them and goes soft instead, tucking
his face into the curve of James’s neck and using the rough edge of the mask to
try work the gag out of his mouth. It doesn’t take as long as it might have
done before James loosened it, and it is with a memory of that kindness that
Steve works furiously to repay him.
It feels like he is rubbing his cheek raw against the mask, but then they are
suddenly jolted. James shudders, and the gag comes free.
“Easy, easy,” Steve says quietly, his voice scraping rough with abuse.
“Breathe, come on, that’s it...you can do it. Deep breaths, nice and steady.
With me. Come on. I’m rambling. Please don’t pass out.” He’s worried about that
most. It’s the mask. How restricted is his breathing behind that thing anyway?
His nonsensical babble doesn’t have the desired effect. James continues to
tremble, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow huffs, pressed against
Steve’s own. Without the use of his hands, his usual methods of providing
comfort and security are robbed from him. He can’t give a strong hug or a
gentle, reassuring pat on the back. He only has his words, and they have never
really been good at anything useful.
He can feel the panic start to rise in his own throat and tries desperately to
push it back down to his gut. He wishes Peggy were here, or Sam. They’ve always
been so grounding, so calming, and he knows they’d be able to say the right
things to calm a trapped, frightened Gilded. Even Natasha is better at this
than Steve. Hell, even Clint is, and he has permanent foot-in-mouth syndrome.
But it is just Steve. Just inadequate, useless Steve.
Beneath him, James’s panic starts to become a desperate thing and he thrashes,
mindless now and wild, regardless of his bonds or the lack of space.
Frightened, garbled sounds leak from behind the mask and he shudders as if he’s
about to start crying.
Fully aware that if he does so the chances of him suffocating take a sharp
rise, Steve bangs his feet against the roof of the crate as hard as he can and
starts to shout for help. They might not care so much if he’s killed or damaged
in transport, but the repercussions if James dies now are too severe for
Alexander to risk, surely?
The only response he gets is a kick to the side of the crate, even when he
screams “He can’t fucking breathe!”
But his attempts to attract attention only seem to agitate James further, and
in the face of their apathy, Steve quickly quiets once more. “Shush, shush,
it’s okay, I’m sorry. Please, please just breathe with me, it’s okay, you’re
okay, you’re-” he switches track, desperate and out of ideas, and starts to
sing instead. He doesn’t even speak Irish, only knowing the songs as his mother
sang them and not the actual meaning of the words, but the melody is calm and
sweet, and it’s all he’s got. Céad slán don oíche aréir, 's é mo léan gan
íanocht inatúsLeisan mbuachaillínspéiriúil...is that...do you like that?” He
doesn’t get an answer, of course he doesn’t, but James does lose the edge off
his wild breathing. Elated, Steve continues, “A bhréagadh mé sealara
ghlúin,Chuirtúorm an t-éileamh,a mhíle grá bán,achníleatsamo rún Mar
céadfaraorgéar, tánasléibhte 'dhul idirmé 's tú…I think I’m singing you a love
song, sorry about that. Is it okay, do you want me to stop?” James’s leg
twitches under Steve’s. “Did you just try knee me in the balls? Okay then. Just
for that I’m going to sing you all the love songs I know. Even the bad ones.
Like, Beach Boys in the eighties, that kind of bad. Maybe some Celine...or...or
I could just stick to this one?” James timidly nods his head, the mask rough
against Steve’s cheek. He doesn’t say anything, just feels the relief swell
through his chest as they settle into something quieter, their breathing
starting to sync together. He does stick to the songs his mom used to sing him.
Not the ones his father taught him - no bawdy lyrics, just soft, sweet, gentle
tunes, until he feels his voice start to go, and switches to humming them
instead.
Outside of the small, strangely surreal space that Steve has created for them,
the world bumps along in shifting intervals, sometimes still and silence,
sometimes rocking and loud. It’s nearly an eight-hour flight, but he loses
track of how long they stay in there together. Eventually he has to stop
singing, dehydration, pain and exhaustion robbing him of the energy to do much
more than lay there as his body cramps and spasms painfully.
Ever so often, James twitches beneath him, his limbs moving in small, scarcely
perceivable ways. Every time he does, some part of Steve sings with momentary
agony, and then the pain in his legs and arms settles into something more
bearable.
He wonders how much of James’s life is spent restrained in one way or another.
He must have developed pretty impressive ways to deal with the stress positions
and enforced stillness, and it seems like he’s trying to help Steve in the only
way he can.
And Steve, exhausted though he is, rests his head in the small, unadorned space
between James’s neck and shoulders. “Thank you,” he says quietly. He feels
James nod as the casket is suddenly tipped at an angle that sends shooting
pains up the back of Steve’s legs. They must be near their destination.
And James has started to tremble once again.
“I’m getting you out of here,” Steve promises with rising urgency as they are
set down with a hollow ring of metal meeting marble. The first of the three
locks clicks as it is unfastened. “I promise. I’m getting you out of here.”
 
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Strong warnings in this part for non-consensual sex, consent issues
     and the overall nastiness that comes with a society that accepts the
     treatment of Gilded as normal.
     You'll be able to skip this part and pick the story up in the next
     chapter if you don't wish to read this particular content.
There is no eleventh-hour salvation waiting for them when they land. Steve
can't say he's surprised, not really, not when the rest of his team can only
guess as to what has happened to him. Peggy will take his failure to meet at
the RV as a sign that he has failed his mission and she'll be forced to fall
back on plan b. Steve hates plan b. Plan b involves them all doing things that
they really don't want to do. It involves crossing that invisible line that
sets them apart from the people they are trying to bring to justice.
They just might not have a choice anymore.
With that in mind, Steve sets about planning his escape, hoping that he can
still save them all from becoming what they have sworn they will never become.
He's not going anywhere without James, which presents its own set of problems.
He's seen how devoted to Alexander James is and while he might live in fear of
what is going to be done to him here, there's no doubt in Steve's mind that
Alexander has been filling James's head with horror stories of the world beyond
his golden cage. He won't come willingly. First and foremost, Steve is going to
need to incapacitate him somehow. He got his ass handed to him before, but he
has one thing James doesn't, and that's the ability to fight dirty. If Steve
has to hurt him to save him, then so be it.
That still leaves him in the unenviable position of having to smuggle one of
the most heavily guarded men in existence out of a fortress-like palace without
being caught by their enemies, or blown up by their allies.
Because if the only way to stop Alexander and Schmidt from pushing through
their new law is to send in an unsanctioned air raid... SHIELD have that kind
of firepower.
If anyone has the balls to make that kind of choice and live with it, it is
Peggy.
Steve doesn't want to be hanging around, just in case she does.
And none of that helps him actually escape the palace. First he's got to get
out of this god forsaken coffin, then he needs to subdue or kill the soldiers
who will no doubt be in constant attendance. He's fairly sure Alexander isn't
capable of putting up much of a fight if it comes down to it, but Schmidt is a
whole different beast. He's military trained himself.
And unlike King Alexander, he is not a pragmatic kind of man. He's also less
prone to dramatic bouts of grandiose showmanship, something that becomes all
too apparent when they are finally released from their golden prison.
Steve is hauled out first, forcing him to shelve his mental escape plans and
calculate his options on the fly. They dump him on a ground made from ice cold,
highly polished stone, and kick him until his numb limbs flare agonisingly back
to life. He can do little more than take it, folding himself into as small a
space as possible and trying to control his breathing as the pain laces through
his arms and legs. They could release him now and he'd not make it more than a
few paces, he knows it. His body has simply never been forced to endure such
prolonged enclosure before and it is struggling to keep up with what is
happening to it.
That's another issue to contend with. He's dehydrated and he's weak, as well as
being heavily outgunned and outnumbered. 
James seems to be handling things a little better. Through the gaps in the legs
of the men beating him, Steve can see King Alexander standing dispassionately
next to a tall, horrifyingly mutilated man. Schmidt has famously taken a knife
to his own face on numerous occasions over the years and the result has left
him with thick bands of scars that stretch across his thin, bony face. It's
what has earned him the nickname 'The Red Skull', and in full, sweeping black
leather coat and equally dark trousers, he cuts a strikingly sinister figure,
especially when he pulls James from the crate and the two of them stand side by
side. He holds James up on shaky legs with an arm around his back. The other
hand traces the edge of the mask curiously. "And this is here because?" He asks
Alexander, who nods his head in Steve's direction, passing the blame down the
line.
"He allowed that one" he points at Steve, "to touch him. I am...reminding him
of the things he values and is valued for. I understand you must be
disappointed but I really must insist the mask remains on, at least until the
day's business has been attended to. After that, you are, naturally, free to do
as you pleased with him for the negotiated period of time. Mask or no mask."
"It is a hardship I will endure for the time being," Schmidt says, putting his
hand between James's legs and squeezing until even Steve can hear his gasps of
pain. "There will have plenty of time for me to enjoy his face once our
business is done."
King Alexander smiles and nods again, and Steve wonders who would have been
forced to give in if Schmidt had pushed the matter. Alexander has the final
say, yes, but he wants something from Schmidt badly if he is willing to loan -
and Steve shudders at the idea now - James to him for more than the one night.
Steve's presence continues to be ignored by both Schmidt and Alexander. They
couldn't care less about him. He is an afterthought; an extra bonus in a deal
already weighed heavily in Schmidt's favor.
Schmidt is more interested in his prize; predictable in his desires, it is no
wonder Alexander has not shown any sign of concern that the deal might not go
through.
It makes Steve wonder just how many times James has done this for him for him
to be so supremely confident of his success.
"And this one?" Schmidt asks, finally looking at Steve, who has struggled
painfully onto his knees. "The SHIELD agent?"
"Captain Steven Rogers, to be precise," Alexander corrects, the grim smirk on
his face suggesting that he knows all well and good just how pleased Schmidt is
going to be to have Steve in his possession.
He's not wrong. Schmidt's skull-like face morphs into a smile that promises a
grim future. "Perhaps you would like to sit in on negotiations, Captain
Rogers?" Schmidt asks, his teeth gleaming bright and sharp as his mouth
stretches into an enormous grin. "Witness history being made before we end your
life?"
Steve doesn't dignify him with an answer. 
The space set up for negotiations is a large, echoing chamber in the very heart
of the palace. Faces of men long dead stare down at them from the walls on all
sides and the only natural light comes from the glass ceiling almost seventy
feet above them.
In the centre of the room, there is a table large enough for a hundred people
to sit around. There are not that many in attendance today, but he can imagine
what it is like when the room is full to capacity.
They make him sit at the head of the table, freeing his bound hands and feet
long enough to fasten them securely to the chair he is sat on. The relief he
gets from the change in position is offset significantly by the pain the
movement causes.
And then, as casually as a man might remove his shoes, Alexander absently lifts
his hand in signal of approval and Schmidt roughly pushes James face down
across the table. 
After seeing how much emphasis the King puts on grace and refinement, this
sudden violence towards his Gilded - by another man no less - should be enough
to trigger all kinds of rage. Instead, Alexander beckons over a server and
orders himself a brandy.
There's a ringing sound of metal hitting the floor, then the rustle of fabric,
then he's taking the space between James's thighs and just...
Right there, in the middle of the room. 
James doesn't make a sound. Doesn't protest. Doesn't resist. He'd thrown Steve
halfway across the room just for touching his arm, and yet now, because
Alexander wills it, he remains docile and placid as he is so roughly used in
front of an audience. 
He can fight. Steve's seen it. He can and he should but he's not. Steve wants
to scream at him to get up and beat Schmidt's fucking face in like he knows he
could. He wants to scream at all of them - at Schmidt, at Alexander, at
everyone just sitting around and watching...
Instead he is just sitting there himself, stunned and useless and unable to do
anything to stop what is happening. There are a dozen other people in the room,
not including those who are being paid as security by Alexander or Schmidt, and
not a single - not a single goddamn one of them - is doing anything to stop it.
Worse though, they are acting like it is normal. Like it's part of their daily
lives.
The fact that it so clearly is, it's just...
They're sitting around talking among themselves, talking to Schmidt, about
their trips, about the fucking weather, and he's just...rutting away like an
animal. Worse than an animal. He's a monster, they all are.
And James doesn't even know it. He doesn't know that this is fucked up and
wrong and sick because he can't have ever known anything else. He's been bred
for this specific purpose and that's just. His brain can't get around it. The
reality of knowing that someone specifically created a life for it to be abused
like this. And the rest of the world just accepts it. Hasn't put an end to it
or ever really, truly tried to. A few uprisings. The odd rebellion. But history
on the whole has been content to let this just happen.
And Steve...Steve came here to kidnap James, fully intending to return him to
Alexander when they'd achieved their goals. He's as bad as they are. God, he
might even be worse.
"It's been done as you asked," Schmidt says, grunting as he finishes. He steps
back and slaps James hard on the ass, laughing at the soft moan the violence
produces. "Still such a good fuck," he laughs. "No wonder he's not gotten rid
of you yet. We will have fun, you and I." Then he sits back in one of the
chairs, legs wide and predatory, and waits in smug satisfaction as James climbs
gracefully down from the table and straightens his clothing for him. Then he
slides onto his knees and kisses the top of Schmidt's boots. The mask stops his
mouth from making actual contact, but the gesture remains the same.
Somehow it's almost the worst thing that has happened so far. How totally
brainwashed does someone need to be to willingly and without prompting kiss the
feet of the man who just raped him in the middle of a crowded room? And there's
no question in Steve's mind that that is just what happened. The law doesn't
allow James to say no. If he can't refuse consent then he sure as hell can't
give it.
Maybe that's what snaps in Steve's head. The unjustness. The whole disgusting
idea that somehow the lives of the people in this room are worth more than
James's or hell, even Steve's. That because they have money, they can treat
such atrocities as commonplace.
Steve came here to stop Alexander implementing a law that would leave millions
of people in even greater poverty than they already are. He came to stop a King
and a corrupt politician from creating the spark of fire that will ignite
a country that has been teetering on the brink of chaos for generations into
the flames of a full-scale civil war. He came to do something good, and he'd
been willing to do something bad to make sure it happened. To push the
boundaries of the rules he and his kind have always followed out of a sense of
right and fair play.
No one was going to get hurt.
Now, he's going to burn every last one of them to the ground.
His plan changes, and the wooden arms of the chair splinter beneath his rage.
The left arm gives way first, and it makes a good weapon to thrust upwards into
the unprotected belly of the first man who tries to restrain him. 
The world explodes into a cacophony of sound and violence around him, but
Steve's head is, perhaps for the very first time in his life, utterly,
peacefully quite. 
He knows what needs to be done, and no force on earth is going to stop him from
doing it.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     There's basically just a lot of violence in this chapter. Most of it
     is against people who deserve it.
The fight is a short-lived one.
The soldiers that rush to restrain him don’t stand a chance against his rage.
He’s never killed like this before– indiscriminately, viciously. He knows he
can be cold blooded when the occasion calls for it, but this, this feels too
hot. His rage isn’t made of ice, it is made of fire, and his whole focus is
turned on burning every last one of these bastards to the ground.
The problem isn’t his will. That is solid and unbending.
The problem is that Schmidt is as intelligent as he is deranged.
An entire army couldn’t stop Steve at this point.
But the sharp blade of a knife pressed between two of the many diamonds
adorning James’s throat? That stops Steve in his tracks.
From there it isn’t much effort to bring him down to his knees, hands holding
him firm, weapons pointed at him just in case their masters gave the order to
kill.
No one looks surprised by what just happened. Schmidt, evil bastard that he is,
looks smug. Alexander just looks contemplative. He’s the one who withdraws the
key from a chain around his neck and unfastens the heavy mask on James’s face.
Schmidt is still holding him firm, ready to draw blood if Steve shows any hint
of resisting. He doesn’t. He stays as still as James does, noting the fact that
the Gilded moves more while the mask is being removed than he did when Schmidt
pressed the knife against his skin. He's too quiet and docile and passive. No
self-preservation at all. 
But then maybe the same can be said for Steve. He’s about to get killed for
someone half the world claims isn’t human.
He looks human to Steve. Free of the mask, his face is almost bloodless. The
kohl he’d applied before being put into it is smudged around eyes that are
ringed red and sore. There are indents in his skin where the mask has pressed
too firmly for too long and his mouth is swollen and sore looking.
But he’s looking at Steve in utter bewilderment. And for the life of him, Steve
can’t tear his eyes away.
“It seems you’ve made something of an impression on Captain Rogers,” Alexander
says before he turns to Steve and asks, “Was it the fact that it was Herr
Schmidt who fucked him that upset you, or rather that he was just being fucked
by someone who wasn’t you?”
It physically pains Steve not to throw off the hands holding him so he can
charge the king down and rip his face off.
“I think the good Captain has a soft spot for your lovely whore,” Schmidt
chuckles. “How sentimental.”
James hasn’t stopped looking at Steve since the mask was removed, and he jumps
when Schmidt presses the knife into his palm.
“Master?” He asks Alexander in a soft voice.
The crack of the back of Schmidt’s against his cheek hits all the way to
Steve’s bones. James manages to stay on his feet, which is impressive as hell
given the kind of power Schmidt can throw into one of his blows. It’s made his
lip bleed though, and the sight of blood spikes Schmidt’s appetite for more
violence. “Finish him,” Schmidt orders, pointing at Steve.
It’s the first time James has not immediately moved to obey an order. He looks
back at Alexander. “Master, please,” he says, his eyes wet. Steve wonders how
many people James has been ordered to kill in the past. It’s happened before,
he can see as much in James’s eyes. “You wanted him alive.”
It’s a dangerous thing to say, but James says it anyway, surely knowing what
response he is going to get. Steve waits for the worst of it – for Schmidt or
Alexander to punish James for his disobedience – but no beating or spectacular
show of violence erupts from either man. Pierce shakes his head in
disappointment, something that seems to hurt James more than a physical blow,
then turns his back on them all. He doesn’t leave the room, but it’s a pointed
way of showing James that he’s very much under Schmidt’s rule right now and can
expect no help or support from his master.
For a second, James looks bereft. Then Schmidt snatches the hand that holds the
knife and tangles his other fist in James’s hair. Diamonds scatter, knocked out
of place by the roughness as James is dragged over to Steve’s side.
“Cut his throat,” Schmidt says, “or this,” he squeezes the hand that holds the
knife, “is the next thing going up your ass.”
The soft sound of pain he makes is too much for Steve. He wants to fight back,
but there is no way he’ll get more than a few paces in either direction before
someone puts a bullet in him. Now he’s been cleared for death the gathered
soldiers won’t be so restrained in dealing with him.
Maybe he should try though. If he is going to die, better that he spare James
the trauma of having to do the job himself.
But Steve simply isn’t the give up and die kind. It’s in his nature to fight
even when he probably should just give in.
And he can’t now, not knowing he will be leaving James to this – to a short,
miserable lifetime of abuse.
But Schmidt moves before he gets the chance. He jerks James’s hand forward, the
blade angled upwards to sink into Steve’s throat.
And James, showing all the grace and agility he had displayed while dancing at
Alexander’s command the night before, twists himself under Schmidt’s arm and
drives the blade deep into the Red Skull’s gut.
Everything slows down to match Steve’s shock. The soldiers don’t move.
Alexander doesn’t yet turn at the commotion.
James stares down at the place where he’s holding the knife inside of Schmidt
with a mix of horror and surprise in his eyes. He doesn’t look like he can
quite believe what he has done.
Steve’s not sure he can, either.
But then something snaps, both in the room, and in James, and several things
happen all at once.
First, and most importantly, Steve hears the sudden screech of alarms. They
aren’t inside the palace but outside. Perimeter alarms. Warnings. Someone or
something has breached the outward defences.
Oblivious to that, James pulls the knife out of Schmidt’s gut. Instead of
dropping it or throwing it aside, James stabs him again, this time in the
throat. He doesn’t stop there. As Schmidt falls to his knees, James stabs him
again and again, his face twisted up with pain and hate and he’s not going to
stop unless…
That’s when Steve moves. In the confusion that follows, as the alarms blare and
the room falls into a confused, bloodwashed chaos, Steve throws all his energy
into bucking off the hands that hold him down. Faced with the sheer amount of
power his adrenaline and rage provide him with, they don’t stand a chance of
stopping him.
He can see Alexander moving towards them from the far side of the room. The
other aides and politicians are too busy trying to escape, but if he reaches
them Steve is almost certain James will shut down entirely.
Very much wanting not to get stabbed, he grabs the hand holding the knife
before James can plunge it into Schmidt’s mutilated body again. In an ideal
world, he’d have the time to talk James down, to calm him and reassure him that
Steve isn’t going to hurt him.
Only Steve has every intention of doing so, and he can’t bring himself to lie
about it.
Instead, using his grip on James’s wrist to hold him firmly, what he does say
is “I’m so sorry about this.”
Then he head-butts the Gilded. Hard.
James might know how to fight, but he can’t defend himself from that kind of
blow, not when he’s taken completely off guard.
Steve doesn’t hesitate after that. He throws James over his shoulder and spins
around on his heels. He’s certain that at least a third of the weight he’s
carrying now is jewellery, but it isn’t enough to slow him down. Steve once
carried Thor thirty miles through a toxic wasteland; in comparison, James is
light as a fucking feather.
With James safely in his arms, Steve doesn’t turn and head for the door.
Reinforcements will be on their way, attracted by the screams from inside the
room.
Instead, he heads towards the window. Turning so he hits it at an angle – with
his shoulder, not with James’s body – Steve charges directly at it, smashing
through the ancient glass and throwing them both into a freefall towards – what
he really hopes is – the rescue waiting below.
 
***** Chapter 6 *****
Steve has jumped out of a lot of windows in his life, but he’s never regretted
it so quickly or completely as he does now.
Their rescue is indeed waiting below them.
In a chopper.
Directly below them.
He doesn’t even have time to mentally finish swearing before the bird suddenly
lurches onto its side – a spectacular bit of flying that makes it immediately
clear Clint is not at the controls – and the two of them crash painfully into
its open belly.
Immediately arms latch around them both as their transport is levelled out.
Half a second later, Steve is being yelled at by everyone on board.
“What the fuck was that?” Sam is behind the controls and he looks like his
whole life just flashed before his eyes. “What the fuck was that?”
“Good timing!” Steve says, clutching his arms tightly around James and holding
him protectively away from both Natasha and Sharon, who crowd around them
trying to decide if Steve is unharmed and healthy enough for them to beat him
senseless. Apparently he looks pathetic enough for them to hold the violence
and settle for a verbal lashing.
“Please tell me that’s not-“  Sharon says, staring at James. Steve has him
carefully shielded in his arms, his face tucked away from sight, but there is
no hiding those telltale gold markings. “Fuck,” she swears. “Oh fuck.”
“Not exactly how I planned on dying,” Natasha says, her voice dry.
“What’s he done?” Sam asks from up front, his focus on getting them the fuck
out of there while the rest of their air support provides enough cover for them
to escape. He’s probably the best pilot they have, but even he’s taxed by the
demands of flying so far behind enemy lines. Alarms are blaring from every
panel the bird has as their computers work overtime to ward off the barrage of
ground to air missiles being aimed their way. Pierce wasn’t lying: he will wipe
James out of existence before he lets someone else have him. “Is that?” Sam
asks, casting a lightning fast look over his shoulder. The rest of his response
is long and colourful and it makes even Steve blush, then he says, “if your
dick is to blame for this clusterfuck I will sit on you while Natasha cuts it
off.”
Steve is so glad to see them again, so thankful that they came after his dumb
ass, that he laughs. “Technically I was supposed to kidnap him,” he points out,
cradling James’s head in the palm of his hand. His hair is silky and soft and
after spending so long locked in a box with him, bound and unable to provide
comfort, Steve revels in being able to try and soothe the headache he knows
James is going to wake up with.
“That,” Natasha points out, throwing a shock blanket over James and himself.
She fusses in a way that makes it clear she resents her soft, squishy centre
being exposed for all to see and he knows he’ll be paying for it for weeks,
“Was the plan before you got yourself taken hostage like the dumbass dipshit
that you are. Now I think it is a bit redundant.”
“I couldn’t leave him there,” Steve says softly. “Nat…he killed Schmidt. They
tried to make him kill me, and he killed Schmidt instead. You know what they
would do to him.”
Both she and Sharon pause, stunned, then Sam swears again and the bird lurches,
and by the time they regain their footing that surprise has morphed into
something else. Respect, maybe.
Sharon touches Steve’s shoulder gently, understanding. She, more than anyone
perhaps, knows how hard he finds it to turn a blind eye to suffering of any
kind.
And god, what they would have done if Steve hadn’t taken him. What they will do
if Steve can’t keep him safe. Gilded are supposed to be meek and submissive and
docile. You can beat them, brand them, torture and rape them and they won’t
fight back. They’ll take it all prettily and ask for more. That’s apparently
part of their appeal.
A Gilded disobeying is rare. A Gilded fighting back is unheard of.
A Gilded murdering someone – not their Master, but almost as good as…
If word gets out Masters the world over will wonder if their own Gilded are
equally capable of violence.
Other Gilded might think they have a chance at righting some of the wrongs
inflicted on them.
If not contained, it could be bloody, world-shattering pandemonium.
The Council will need to make an example of James. To reassert the submission
of the Gilded and to discourage any others from acting out against their
Masters.
In no world could Steve leave him to that kind of fate.
James is still in his arms as Steve clutches at the edges of the shock blanket
and wraps it more tightly around them both. He can feel the cool clamminess of
James’s skin and it matches the bloodless pallor of his flesh. Beneath the
beautiful dustings of pearl and gold, beneath the diamonds and sapphires that
decorate him like a pretty bauble, he looks the closest to human Steve has seen
yet. Frail almost. Not fragile, just mortal. He is bruised from where Alexander
struck him the day before, and from where Schmidt struck him just. And Steve.
He’s left his mark as well. None of them are disfiguring. Shamefully, they only
serve to draw attention to the otherwise perfect lines of his face. He is
truly, exquisitely beautiful, and suddenly Steve feels less validated in the
way he has just snatched James from the only reality he has known. For a moment
it feels less like a rescue and more like a theft. He’s a thief in the night
who has stolen something very rare and precious, priceless even.
It lasts for only a second and leaves him feeling hollow and disgusted. James
isn’t an object. The law might say he belongs to someone, but he is a living,
breathing human being and he deserves more than the lot he has been given.
“You know this is how the Trojan War started,” Natasha says. Before joining
SHIELD, Natasha had been trafficked as a child, taken from her home in Russia
and sold to a particularly disgusting man in America. If she is sympathetic to
James’s situation, there is no indication of it on her face. She’s good at
hiding the truth of how she feels about everything, and Steve has never
presumed to push her to do otherwise. “Peggy is going to string you up by the
balls.”
Sharon nods in equal seriousness.   
Steve would comment, but James makes a soft, pained sound in his arms and that
steals all of his attention.
“Hey, hey, James? Can you hear me? It’s Steve…remember me?” In hindsight, he
probably should have started with something less antagonising than ‘hi, I’m the
guy that tried to kidnap you and made your shit life even more shit’. James
opens his eyes almost immediately and Steve thinks he could drown in them they
are so clear and so blue. That’s all the warning he gets before James rears up
and slams his bruised forehead right into Steve’s nose.
Which breaks on impact, blood gushing like a fucking guiser, streaming down his
face and his clothes, across James’s face – still lovely but now creased with
utter fury. He doesn’t make any move to extract himself from the blanket, or
Steve’s awkward hold. He simply goes limp and heavy and glares up at him with a
look that pretty much defines passive-aggressive. He’s waiting for the
retaliation, but not in a way that is weak or cowed or traumatised. It’s
challenging, reminding Steve that James knows for a fact that he isn’t
Alexander and therefore has no reason to be all the things Gilded are supposed
to be.
“Oh,” Sam grins, looking over his shoulder again, “I take it back. I like him.
He can stay.”
Steve, holding one hand to his nose, tries not to swallow too much of his own
blood. He nods in agreement with Sam because yes, he deserved that.
It hurts like fuck, which is fair. It is. He probably owes James more than one
good hit. And he’ll give it to him as well, because now on top of the
clusterfuck that comes from murdering a Head of State, kidnapping a Gilded,
committing treason and breaking a dozen international treaties…on top of the
fact that they are still more than likely going to blow up before they make it
to international waters and the safety of a SHIELD helicarrier, Steve has
another problem to deal with.
He’s pretty sure he’s in love.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
     Warnings: creepiness. much creepiness. also Pierce thinks like a Bond
     villain. more creepiness.
TWO DAYS EARLIER
 
James fights the way he dances: his whole body given over to the fluidity of
movement, of grace and power and poise culminating in something as deadly as it
is beautiful. Alex can watch him all day and never grow tired.
All Gilded are expected to continue refining their skills and James is no
exception. He practices daily, sometimes alone, but more frequently with
members of their security detail. He’s grown from the delicate boy he once was
– from a child Alex had little use for. He’s given himself over completely to
his training, to his betterment. He has become this for Alex, because Alex has
asked him to.
That’s the true power of owning a Gilded. It’s not through force or violence
that submission is taken, but complete and utter devotion. James loves him,
body, heart and soul. He wants to please Alex more than he wants anything else
in life. Alex’s dissatisfaction physically pains him, his anger emotionally
devastates him. That’s the power he wields. That’s the power that makes James
the perfect weapon. No danger, no threat, is equal to the distress caused by
the mere concept of failure.
It’s why he wins every match he fights and has done for years. He has more to
lose than the men who oppose him. The carrot and the stick both have their
places in owning a Gilded, but Alex has found that the carrot is much more
effective in the long term.
Up on the platform, James ducks under Commander Rumlow’s swinging arm and then
kicks his leg outward in a graceful sweep. Rumlow goes down with a grunt and
holds his hand up in supplication. If James were not James, he would expect to
be given a hand back up to his feet, as is courteous when fighting a friend.
Alex allows him physical contact while fighting, but the second the match is
won, their standard rules apply. The hand that touches James will be removed
and James will be sent to the Room. Rumlow is not stupid enough to risk
dismemberment and James will do almost anything to avoid the Room.
“Well?” The stack of official reports on his desk need his attention, but for
now he has more important concerns. “Is he ready?”
James is barely out of breath, unlike the circle of men and women who surround
him. Rumlow had been the last man standing – James has calmly and methodically
forced all eight of his security team into submission. And now he crawls over
to Alex and settles at his feet. He’s fully made up – a final test to ensure he
can fight as well in his adornments as he can without them – and as exquisite
as the day Alex first took possession of him.
“Rogers won’t know what hit him,” Rumlow chuckles, rolling his shoulder in a
way that suggests James has really hurt him this time.
“Excellent,” Alex settles his hand in James’s hair and smiles at the blissful
way his Gilded leans into the contact. Such a tactile boy. “Leave us now,” he
tells the rest of them, his eyes not leaving James’s. They truly are
mesmerizing. A man could go mad with the power of that much adoration.
He waits until the door closes then draws James up to his feet and leads him
over to the large, down stuffed couch in the bay window. Sunlight streams
through the glass and paints James’s skin lovingly; drawing shadows and
contrasts to the raised gold lines and the intricate artwork of jewels.
Alex has spent millions adoring James with so much finery. Many of the more
elaborate pieces are gifts from sycophants and admirers wishing to buy his
favor, but today he wears only the gifts Alex has given him. The collar is
platinum and set with a row of pear shaped diamonds that grow in scale until
the largest sits at the hollow of his throat, glittering in the light. The
corset has been chosen for its restrictiveness – forcing James to use all of
his skills to fight effectively. It’s cinched as tightly as the fabric allows
and the steel boning will leave indents and bruises in his skin when Alex
removes it. He doesn’t mind. The fabric itself is strong but almost sheer and
decorated with silver metal thread to add robustness. A thousand crystals have
been added by hand, and the laces that bind the corset together have been
dipped in liquid gold. Alex can just about see the bruises already blossoming
beneath the thin material and it is a sweet, tempting tease at delights to
follow. The ring around his cock and the plug nestled in his ass are equally as
exquisitely designed and it is almost a shame that neither are on display.
And there is no time to play with either, not yet.
“Are you ready, precious?” he asks, taking a seat and drawing James down until
he can lay his head in Alex’s lap.
“I believe I will be able to please you, Master.” That’s James’s way of saying
he is. He will never respond with a simple yes or no answer – to do so would be
too presumptuous, but he can respond in a way that lets Alex know how he feels.
When he says the words ‘Only if it pleases you, Master’, Alex knows he does not
want or agree with what is being asked of him, but will do it regardless. Now,
he is happy and confident that he can do what has been requested of him.
“I do not doubt that for a moment,” Alex says, gently stroking his hand through
James’s hair. It’s the perfect length – long enough to invite fingers to muss
or grab, but not unruly or untidy. “I am aware of what I am asking of you,” he
says. “This will be the hardest thing you have ever done to prove your
devotion. The pain will be great. Both myself and others will hurt you. Are you
prepared for that?”
“The greatest pain will be being parted from you, Master.”
“Not seducing Captain Rogers? Not looking at him the way you look at me? Not
submitting your body to his touch?” He’s teasing, mostly, but the sudden look
of distress on James’s face is agonizingly sweet.
“I-“ James thinks a moment. “No, Master. None of those things will be real. I
will not love him.”
“And you love me,” Alex says, gently running his thumb across James’s cheek.
“Darling boy. You know what I need you to do.”
“Yes, Master,” James says.
Alex tightens his fingers in his long hair and snaps his head back tightly. It
hurts, and James gasps, looking up at him with wide, wet, sorrowful eyes and
red lips that part on a delicate sound of hurt. “Poor Rogers,” Alex laughs, “he
doesn’t stand a chance against you, does he?” He loosens his hold, and James
relaxes against him again. The point has been made.
Steve Rogers is an artist as much as he is a soldier, and he is a good man. He
believes himself safe within his cover, working his way through the ranks to a
place where he can force Alex’s hand. He’s not a bad spy. He plays the part
well. But James will not be the first of Alex’s eyes in SHIELD. He’s had the
poor Captain made from the very start. And he is predictable – predictable
enough that Alex has prepared him this – the perfect trap.
James is sweet and beautiful enough to appeal to that artist’s eye, and he
hurts so prettily. The Captain will want to save him from Alex and all the
wicked things he is forced to endure. And when he learns that James doesn’t
need saving, he will do what every man does when faced with their idea of
perfection:
He will fall in love.
James will own him, heart, body and soul. And he will own SHIELD through him.
And Alex owns James.
He’s going to change the world and everyone in it. He’s going to reshape
history and use the spoiled, pointless, pampered, useless pets of his position
to do it. No one has ever weaponized a Gilded before. No one has ever tried.
Not until Alex.
James is going to reshape the world and deliver it to Alex’s feet, and he’s
going to do it with that lovesick, hopeless, adoring smile on his face.
A man could go mad with the power of that much adoration.
***** Chapter 8 *****
“Oh. Em. Gee. You are in so, so much trouble!”
There’s a relief crew waiting for them the second they land on the Helicarrier
and because the world hates him, Wade is leading it.
“Literally no one says ‘oh em gee’,” Steve says tiredly, his eyes fixed on
James as they make their way down the ramp. It’s windy and loud and chaotic on
deck, and James’s eye dart from one side to the other in a show of nerves. He’s
clutching the shock blanket around his shoulders and though he’s being very
careful not to actually touch Steve, he’s physically projecting his desire to
stay close. Steve is okay with that. He doesn’t want James out of his sight for
a second.
“They absolutely do in hundred percent all of the time what happened to your
face?” 
“Our guest broke his nose,” Sharon says, smiling kindly at James. “To be fair
he deserved it.”
“I did,” Steve agrees, trying to show James that he’s not angry and he’s not
going to hit him or hurt him or shout at him.
Wade gasps loudly and smacks his hands over his mouth. “Oh. Em. Gee!” He
exclaims, his voice muffled. “You are my new favourite person. Hi favourite
person, I’m Wade and I will be your guide as we tour this exciting but badly
designed secret government facility! Do you have a name? I’m okay with calling
you Favourite Person but my boyfriend might get upset.” Somehow Steve doubts
it. Peter is the most level headed guy on the planet, which is a necessity for
balancing them both out.
Despite the run on mouth and the twelve degrees of batshit, Wade doesn’t make
any move at all to touch James, and his entire body langue is relaxed and
unthreatening. Like Sam, he has an official combat role within SHIELD, but the
two of them are also key members of the Med Team’s Mental Health Unit. It’s not
like anyone has experience dealing with a Gilded, but they do have patients who
suffer from PTSD and Stockholm Syndrome. That’s got to be a start.
And James doesn’t seem intimidated by Wade the way he is the rest of what is
happening around them. He opens his mouth and says, “I’m Bucky,” and Steve’s
jaw hits the floor. “I mean…” he flinches at Steve’s surprise and huddles in on
himself in expectation of a blow. “One of the nurses who looked after me, she
called me Bucky. I like Bucky. If…if that’s okay?” He’s asking Steve, who
doesn’t agree fast enough. Wade kicks him solidly in the shin.
“Bucky,” Wade says, “I like it.”
Steve loves it. Bucky. It’s a name he chose. It’s an identity that he’s claimed
as his own, and that’s phenomenal. Maybe there is hope for him now he’s out of
Alex’s influence? Blindly obedient pets don’t pick out their own names, or if
they do they don’t have the courage to claim them verbally.
But despite Wade’s acceptance, it’s Steve Bucky is looking to for validation.
He’s no idea why. The first thing he did when waking up was break Steve’s nose
and now he’s looking to him for permission.
“It’s perfect,” Steve says softly, his heart growing three times the size as
Bucky’s whole face lights up in delight. Holy shit. He’s never seen a smile so
radiant that he feels cold as soon as it fades away.
“So Bucky,” Natasha says, drawing all of their attention back to the mission,
“will you be okay going with Wade for a check-up while Steve and the rest of
the team debrief?”
It has to be done. Even without the verbal ass-kicking he’s got coming, no
mission goes without a debrief. Besides, he needs Peggy’s advice. What to do
when you fall in love with your target? What to do when your target is
basically an old pervert’s living sex doll?
But Bucky goes pale and to everyone’s horror, drops to his knees. He bows his
head and clutched at Steve’s ankle. “Please don’t send me away,” he begs.
They’re getting a lot of strange looks but no one is foolish enough to bother a
group that has both Natasha and Sharon in it. Steve doesn’t pay them any
attention and drops down to his knees with a painful thud so he is level with
Bucky. “I’m not sending you away,” he says, gently prying Bucky’s arms from
around him. “You’re safe here, I promise.” When he is able to encourage Bucky
to look him in the eye, his heart breaks at the confused misery he sees on his
face. The smart-mouthed, feisty, angry man who has arguably kicked his ass
twice is nowhere in sight. He looks young and frightened and Steve aches with
the need to help him feel safe. “You need to see a doctor,” both for a standard
physical, and because Steve is still concerned about how violently Schmidt used
him, “but…I can come with you? If you want?”
“If it pleases you,” Bucky says softly.
Pleased might not be the word Steve would pick, but there is something very
formal and antiquated about the way Bucky speaks sometimes that is no doubt
thanks to Alexander. He’s not about to comment on it. “Sure,” he says, drawing
Bucky back up to his feet and fussing with the edges of the blanket that have
slipped down his shoulders. His skin is like ice when Steve brushes it with his
fingers. Ice, and silk.
“The Director won’t be happy,” Natasha points out. It’s in a way that makes it
clear she isn’t trying to change his mind.
“She can only cut my balls off the once,” Steve shrugs, then glances at Bucky
in case he took the joke literally. His face is carefully blank again. “Sam’ll
put in a good word for me, won’t you, Sam?”
“No,” Sam says. “Sam is going to try patch up his poor, wounded baby.” He waves
his arm at the bird and the several large holes in her side. “You’re on your
own.”
“I’ll try get the WSC to postpone the debrief until you’re done,” Sharon offers
with a helpless shrug. It's the best he's going to get.
“Excellent!” Wade says, already bounding over towards the hanger doors. “Shall
we?”
Bucky has yet to move. He stays fixed to the spot and looks at the doors like
they are going to lead him directly to the seventh circle of hell. He’s not
going to follow without encouragement.
Steve holds out his hand. “Bucky?” He asks, waiting, hopeful and foolish.
A cool hand slips into his own. There’s a ring on every finger and his nails
are neatly trimmed and highly polished. The gold cuffs are still locked tight
around his wrists. They are a rude reminder of the world Steve has snatched
Bucky from. 
Steve draws him closer and Bucky goes. “Let’s get you taken care of,” he
smiles. 
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