Work Text:
Bob’s wrists were raw and red from tugging against the cuffs that were holding him tightly against the chair. His throat hurt from screaming. The door to the cell closed with a resounding thud, and Bob tried to breathe through the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He stared at the chair across from him and tried to count the breaths that Walker was taking – slow, weak, barely enough to make his chest rise and fall, but steady. He was still alive. Most of his blood was on the ground under him, but he was still alive. His torso was made up of more cuts than unbroken skin, but he was still alive.
“W-Walker?” Bob whispered, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat and waited, but Walker didn’t twitch even a finger. “Walker? Are–are you okay?”
“D’I look okay, Bobert?” Walker replied after a long moment of silence. The words were all slurred together and he didn’t lift his head, but Bob relaxed instantly at the nickname.
“I–you need to let them go for me next time,” Bob said quietly.
Walker moved for the first time. He shook his head slowly and looked up, “I can take it.”
Bob swallowed thickly, the sound loud in the thick silence. His arms trembled with strain against the cuffs as he leaned forward as far as they would allow. “Walker, please. They don’t have to do this to you. You can’t keep–”
“Quiet,” Walker interrupted softly. His voice was rougher than Bob ever remembered it being before. “They’re listening.”
Bob froze. The single overhead light was buzzing faintly, casting shadows that stretched long and thin across the concrete floor. Somewhere behind the wall, footsteps hit the ground and faded away. His stomach turned with fear and guilt. The door opened and Bob sucked in a sharp breath as the air seemed to vanish from the room. A figure walked in, the same as before, dressed in the same blood stained clothes, with the same knives sheathed in the same fabric sheaths on the same belt. Walker’s shoulders tensed for a split second before he forced himself to relax and dropped his head down.
“Stop!” Bob shouted without thinking as the man reached for Walker. The man turned to stare at him silently. He lifted his chin and clenched his jaw, meeting his gaze head on. “Take me instead.”
“You?” the man said with a look that was almost amused, the word dripping with more disbelief than what should be possible for a single syllable.
“Yes,” Bob said firmly, trying to control his voice so it wouldn’t crack and betray him.
Walker lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes locked onto Bob’s and narrowed, “No.”
“Walker–”
“I said no,” Walker’s tone was final, solid steel under the weariness of bloodloss. “You wouldn't last five minutes, Reynolds.”
“I don’t care–”
“I do,” Walker’s breathing hitched and he cleared his throat and straightened up, only a flicker of pain across his face betraying how much he was hurting. “I can take it. That’s the point. I’m built for this, you’re not.”
There was something terrifyingly noble about it. A soldier’s conviction. Bob’s heart was hammering in his chest, “You’re going to die.”
“I’ve had worse,” Walker replied, smiling faintly even as his lips trembled.
“Enough talking,” the man snarled as he grabbed Walker’s hair and used the grip to yank his head backward to a painful angle. “Tell me where the Winter Soldier is.”
“Eat…shit,” Walker choked out.
“Fine.”
“No!”
The man pulled one of his knives out and, before Bob could process what was happening, he drove it into Walker’s thigh. Walker’s entire body jerked, and a pained noise slipped out of his mouth before he locked his jaw shut. His breath came out ragged, force through clenched teeth. The sound filled the cell in the seconds after the knife strike – shallow and uneven, before it slowly shifted into something deliberate, as if every inhale was some sort of command to himself. Bob’s wrists ached where the cuffs bit into his skin, but he barely felt it anymore. His entire world had narrowed to the space between Walker’s bent head and the slow, terrible drip of blood hitting the floor. The sound changed slowly as a small puddle formed, dripping on itself and spreading. The man with the knife crouched beside Walker again. He didn’t speak right away. He waited with a patient expression, watching Walker’s face as if he expected a reaction or an answer.
Walker didn’t look up.
He was trembling. It was a barely visible shake, but a fine tension ran through every muscle in his body. Bob could only see it in the way his fingers curled slightly and his shoulders hitched on every exhale. The man ripped the knife out of his thigh and Walker doubled forward, lips pressed into a thin, white line as he exhaled forcefully, but still didn’t make a sound.
“Still nothing?” the man asked quietly. His voice was almost conversational in how bored he seemed. “You think you can outlast me?”
Walker swallowed and slowly straightened up; blood was oozing from his thigh. He met the man’s eyes and the man raised his eyebrows expectantly, “You talk too much.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and he plunged the blade into Walker’s chest just above his heart, twisting it harshly before letting go. He glanced over at Bob and spat on the floor between them, “You have more time to think about your answer to my question. And if you don’t know, you had better hope he has enough blood left in him to talk.”
Bob didn’t say a word, and the man turned and stormed out of the cell again – leaving the knife in Walker’s chest. Silence fell over the cell before Walker laughed breathlessly, “Damn.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Bob whispered harshly and Walker shrugged before hissing quietly as the blade shifted in his chest.
“They’re not listening,” he said as his only response before leaning his head back and inhaling shakily. “He actually left this time.”
“What were they talking about?” Bob asked when he realized Walker wasn’t going to say a word about the knife sticking out of him.
Walker smiled slightly and Bob tried not to worry about how delirious the expression looked, “Yelena found us.”