Chapter Text
But he also accepts human sacrifices, when during the spring ice drift the believers throw themselves into the river in ecstasy and drown, thus paying tribute to this deity.
“Sitteth the Wyrm upon a chair of gold,
beside the hazel-bush, where he cracketh nuts to eat them.
‘I would take me a wife!
Choose thee a maiden whom thou wilt, whom thy heart doth love.’”
MYTHOLOGICAL DRAGONLORE
T. A. Kopychev
Phase Six
Dragon’s wives live in a lonely carved tower on a picturesque cliff above the sea. It’s called the Golden Cage among the people.
That is twice a lie. For, first, its chambers bear no mark of splendour; and second, those who dwell within are at liberty to depart whenever they desire. Only they always return.
Their faces are not known. The very fact of their existence and even their number, let alone appearance and names, are veiled in mystery and an incredible flood of rumors, speculations, and someone’s fantasies passed off as reliable information.
“I don’t remember when was the last time I saw you this angry,” Natasha calmly remarks, not taking the pins from her mouth as she continues weaving a complex Greek braid for her younger sister.
“He’s always angry, Natashka. How do you even measure how much?” Elena responds, resting her head on her hand. Her pretty doll-like face displays deadly boredom, yet it still can not hide both curiosity and delight at the Dragon’s unexpected visit.
He is their shared husband. Both of them were once sacrificed to him.
“Today he’s angrier than usual because something upsets him. He understands it and that drives him crazy,” Natasha shrugs. “He’s so mad he can’t even speak.”
“I can speak,” Steve objects without raising his head from the lap of his third wife, whose strong cold fingers massage his temples. “But I came here to listen to you.”
“And what would we say? We don’t know anything,” Lena snorts. “Well, except that you have some new love interest. Of a slightly twisted sort.”
“Lena,” Natasha scolds her, pulling one of the pins from her mouth to fix another strand of hair. She still lisps a little because of the rest. “If you mean that his new favorite first tried to kill him — remind me, which of us didn’t? Steve definitely has a type.”
“Except this time his new chosen one is an adult man.”
“And it explains a lot.”
“Such as?”
Natasha catches the unfinished braid with her left hand, removes the other pins from her mouth, and looks Steve straight in the eyes.
“Well, for starters, why he never fucked either of us. Turns out he’s just not into girls. Isn’t that right, Steve? Because I thought you were impotent.”
Elena snorts in outrage and almost jerks the braid out of her sister’s hands.
“Nat, are you trying to piss him off even more?”
“No. He likes when I tell him the truth. Don’t you, Steve?”
Steve only mutters something vaguely affirmative. The confident touch of fingers and palms over his forehead, brows, cheekbones, and scalp makes things a little easier.
No one else is allowed to touch him. No one but his wives.
His so-called wives.
In the world he has created, they hold a very special, unique place.
Natasha was sacrificed to him fifteen years ago. A young red-haired ballerina, raised for the sole purpose — to slip into his bed, survive sex, and then kill him in his sleep. A Black Widow.
General Drykov was a good strategist, skilled at sensing human vices and weaknesses. He almost guessed right, even with the Dragon.
At any rate, he delivered Natasha to him exactly at the moment when endless loneliness and his own demons tormented Steve so much that he decided to give “sacrificial virgin” a chance to both seduce him and kill him.
In bed she was surely magnificent. But his ageless, perfect body did not respond to her beauty or her inviting caresses, to the sweet scent of her skin or her readiness to surrender.
Drykov miscalculated after all.
His young ballerina-assassin failed her mission.
When Steve softly set her away from him and quietly explained what she should have done, her thin naked body immediately tensed into a fighting stance — but her eyes screamed with terror, helplessness, and that familiar absence of hope the Dragon knew so well.
He asked her what she wanted. And told her that if her answer is honest, he will grant her one wish.
Natasha was strong. She told him she has two wishes, and that if he grants them both, she will serve him all her life.
Her first wish was Drykov’s death. The second wish was the salvation of her younger sister.
He liked that she was full of life, passionate, and self-sacrificing.
And he very much disliked that General Drykov managed to hide from him his own secret brothel-school for underage slave-assassins.
The Dragon sets laws for all humans. And those who rise above others are not permitted to break them.
Steve may dislike humans as much as he wants, but that does not mean he allows them to traffic in one another.
And slavery, above all, he considers one of the vilest and most shameful institutions in human history.
Nevertheless for two more years he played with Drykov — drawing him closer, letting him get entangled, lose vigilance, expose himself.
He even demanded a new sacrifice from him — a young virgin with smooth skin, a child’s face, and sunlit hair.
Elena was only fourteen years old, but already a small killer with steady hands and haunted eyes.
She was perfectly trained to succeed where Natasha failed.
But Steve is not a philanthropist and cannot stand tearful scenes.
He was not even in the bedroom Elena came into. Her sister awaited her there — the sister thought dead.
Drykov was publicly executed live on air. After six months of interrogations, investigation, and trial, he was thrown to his own slave girls, equipped with breathing masks that strip away his main defense. Beautiful, flexible ballerinas, with wrist scars from handcuffs, tore him apart like animals.
The Dragon despises human cruelty, but this ending he deems just.
After this execution, he declared both sisters, both innocent Black Widows, his wives. And settled them in the Golden Cage.
“Please, Steve, do tell us about your fourth wife, the last one permitted by the Quran?” Natasha asks. “What is he like? Young? Handsome? Slender? Or a big guy, like you?”
“He looks like Bucky,” Steve answers bluntly, and the cool hands on his face suddenly freeze.
“Oh, so that’s the reason it hurts so much,” his third wife, Wanda the Scarlet Witch, breathes barely audibly.
“Bucky? That handsome boy you befriended before the war?” Elena asks. “The one who later became your sniper? He looks like him?”
“In my life there was no other Bucky, Lena,” Steve simply replies.
Natasha finally pins the braid in place and whistles meaningfully.
“Wow! Someone really knows how to hit where it hurts. And who was it?”
“I don’t know yet,” Steve answers.
“What, losing focus when handling your lover?” Natasha says with a playful lift of her brow, illustrating with her fingers how, in her estimation, these interrogations proceed.
“No point. His memory was completely wiped. He doesn’t even know his own name, let alone his employer,” Steve catches Wanda’s hands as she tries to pull away, pressing them to his eyes. “He couldn’t tell me anything even if he wanted to.”
“Oh, looks like you’ve got a weakness for him,” Lena stirs with interest. “Is he really that similar?”
“Yes and no,” Steve honestly answers. “He’s older, rougher, harsher. Sometimes cynical and fatalistic, yet at the same time all on the surface, like a child. Bucky was subtler, softer. But my Bucky loved life so much that everyone loved him back. He had so much love that he managed to love even me. Even the way I was back then.”
Wanda hisses softly like a snake, soothing him, gently massaging his eyelids.
“And this one… He has the same lips. And sometimes he sits and watches, or does something — so like Bucky. But he is not Bucky. That’s what angers me,” Steve admits. “Similar, but not him. I even call him Not-Bucky.”
“Cruel,” Elena remarks, leaning closer and laying her hand on his wrist, then asks in a conspiratorial tone: “Are you so sure it can’t be him?”
“Elena!” Natasha scolds.
“I’m sure,” Steve replies, straightening and looking at his lovely blonde doll. “I am very old, my girl. And my pretty sniper, as you call him, was a year older than me. Even if he had survived back then, now he would be nearly a hundred years old.”
“Then maybe it’s his clone?” Elena persists. “Maybe your enemies found his body, saved the tissues, cloned him, raised him just to kill you. Even more effective than me and Natashka. Think about it — his clone! That’s so cool. Like his son, almost. Probably they raised him in a cage, tortured him to make him bitter, trained him to kill like us. A Black Widower, wow, that’s awesome!”
“How was he supposed to kill you?” Natasha asks directly.
“I don’t know,” Steve honestly answers.
“What do you mean?” Natasha tilts her head. “You haven’t fucked him yet? So you are impotent after all?”
“Natasha!” This time Elena scolds her, then cuddles her cheek to the back of Steve’s hand and purrs sweetly: “Steve, when you finally get tired of her rudeness, will you make me your main wife?”
Natasha snorts and rolls her eyes, then looks at Steve again with a thoughtful, attentive gaze.
“I haven’t fucked him yet because when I do, I’ll kill him that way,” Steve says honestly.
Elena gasps softly, pulling back, eyes wide and calm.
“How dramatic,” she says evenly. “You’ll be a Black Widower too. Welcome to our club.”
“Elena, that’s not why Steve came here today, is it? You want to know how exactly they might have trained him to attack you during sex?” Natasha interrupts.
“Actually, no. But go on, I’m curious,” Steve answers restrainedly, feeling the headache return, and lies back on Wanda’s lap. “How were you supposed to kill me?”
“I’d strangle you with a garrote, darling,” Natasha purrs. “Always hidden in my hair. Convenient, invisible. I still wear it there.”
“Ha!” Elena snorts. “Garrote, last century. They put poison in my secretory glands. Anyone who sticks a cock in me dies. No skills required. Kind of insulting, honestly. Clean and modern.”
“Modern? They killed that way in Japan five hundred years ago,” Natasha sneers, though pain flickers in her eyes. Elena notices.
“Don’t pity me,” she snaps. “So what if I don’t sneak off to fuck a circus clown. A married one! Big loss.”
“He’s an acrobat!” Natasha protests.
“Juggler, whatever! He still won’t leave his wife and kids for you.”
“I don’t expect him to. Still better than picking up stray dogs like an old crone,” Natasha retorts viciously, then turns to Wanda and adds: “Or dreaming how to sin with a dead brother.”
Wanda doesn’t react to the jab, continuing to massage Steve’s head.
Her former master, Baron Wolfgang von Strucker, was not as ambitious or brazen as General Drykov. He trembled in fear in an old fortress in Eastern Europe, ready at any moment to sell or betray anyone to save his wretched life. And still he managed to create an ultimate weapon there. By using occult practices and artifacts, the baron opened in a little orphan girl from a war-ruined city an inexhaustible reservoir of power.
Since then, von Strucker knew what to pay the Dragon with when he would come for his soul. A girl with a bomb inside. Only he does not realize that the Dragon makes no deals.
It happens that this story coincides with Tony’s betrayal and the creation of Ultron. As a result, von Strucker ends his days stupidly and ingloriously, not even paying his dues properly. And Wanda becomes the Dragon’s third wife.
She did not seem to care. At that time, she was too consumed by grief, because she lost the only person she ever loved with all her heart and soul — her twin brother Pietro.
Since then, she truly lived half in her fantasies.
But that did not make her less dangerous.
Unlike the two Black Widows, she does not swear eternal loyalty to the Dragon, but still he is absolutely sure she will not seek another patron.
With every passing day she goes further into madness.
“You hurt him, but that hurt yourself,” Wanda suddenly singsong-whispers. “It hurts so very much. That’s why you come to us. To convince yourself you’re not a monster.”
“And what did you do to him?” Natasha immediately asks, intrigued. “Go on, tell us. Now we’re all curious.”
“What can you do to someone you can’t fuck? But in a way that makes you feel just as ashamed as if you had?” Elena lays her head on her shoulder, staring at Steve expectantly.
“I made him fuck himself. With a dildo. And I watched,” Steve answers flatly.
“Not so terrible,” Elena replies.
“Depends how you see it,” Natasha disagrees. “He didn’t want to, right? And you forced him. And when you got what you wanted, you didn’t like it?”
“It was rape. I know what it’s called, thank you,” Steve says. “I didn’t mean to force him. I thought maybe we could both get release without touching each other. But the previous night he made me angry, and I forced him.”
“And now you’re ashamed,” Natasha concludes in surprise. “Never saw you that way.”
“It was unfair to him,” Steve agrees. “And I am fair.”
“Yes, you’re harsh, but fair,” Natasha drawls, stroking his hand. “Bloodthirsty, merciless, cruel, but fair. That can’t be taken from you. But now you messed up.”
“This situation throws me off balance,” Steve admits heavily.
“Then maybe you should be truly fair and let him go?” Elena suddenly suggests.
Steve even winces at the suggestion. But then hears Wanda’s voice:
“He can’t. He tried not to swallow that bait, but when he saw others playing with it, he chased them away and swallowed it himself. And now it hurts, and it’s sweet. He won’t let go.”
“I won’t,” Steve confirms firmly, rising to his feet. “He tried to kill the Supreme Existimator. It’s a crime punished by death. And I choose an execution myself. I have already chosen.”
“We also tried to kill you,” Elena says. “You spared us.”
“None of you has Bucky’s face,” Steve cuts her off and heads for the exit.
All three women remain silent behind him.
And he realizes he does not feel lighter. For though they are grateful he destroyed the scum, the half-dragons who tormented them, he himself is still the Dragon — and they quietly hate him too.
Antiphase Six
When the front doors part, and the sound of footsteps reaches him, he perceives that the Dragon has returned home. The Soldier stirs not. He draws in hurry the last draught from his cigarette and flicks it through the balusters of the balcony, tucking the crumpled pack beneath his t-shirt. He has not much hope it won’t be taken from him anyway.
He hears the Dragon stride with purpose to the bath, open and close the door, pause a moment, and then step out onto the balcony.
“What are you doing here?” he asks sharply, adding, accusingly, “Why are you freezing? They brought you a heater.”
““I decided it’s better not to warm up,” the Soldier answers quietly.
“Oh, is that so,” Steve frowns, and after a pause, settles himself by the neighboring column.
Their balcony faces north, and behind the high western peaks, the setting sun is no longer seen. Only the sky glows crimson and purple, darkening steadily above them. It is so cold that the Soldier hardly feels it anymore.
Yet it is the right cold.
“Have you eaten?” Steve asks after a long pause.
“Yes.”
“Long ago?”
“Yes.”
“Dinner will be served soon.”
“Good.”
“I regret what I did this morning.”
The Soldier slowly closes his eyes and says nothing. He doesn’t know what one can say to that.
“I did not intend to force thee. Nor to humiliate. It pleased me not.”
“Yet all usually do,” murmurs the Soldier, not turning to meet Steve’s gaze.
“I know I treated you wrongly. I brought that stupid toy because I thought it would let us have sex without touching each other. But I was still angry at you over the book. I shouldn’t have started all that in such a state. I didn’t plan to punish you with sex.”
His mouth tastes bitter, but he still wants a cigarette. He remains silent.
“You don’t believe me?” Steve asks.
“No,” he answers honestly, finally turning to meet the Dragon’s gaze again. “You’re so furious because I took his favorite book, and you plan to fuck me to death with, I suppose, his favorite cock,” the Soldier glances briefly at his groin, then meets Steve’s eyes again. “And yet you say you regret humiliating me, making me masturbate publicly. I have no idea what to believe here.”
“That book… it isn’t even the original,” the Dragon replies. “When I searched for his things, his parents were already dead, his sister moved to another state. She sold everything. I didn’t find his book. But I tried to buy the same ones — same year, same covers. I didn’t even open them,” Steve shrugs and admits, “I always thought pseudo-scientific fiction was silly. And boring. I like entirely different books myself. But I bought these. I rarely buy anything on a whim for myself. But I bought these as a memory, because I practically have nothing left from him. I didn’t think you’d latch onto them immediately, as if you were trained for it.”
“I just liked those books,” the Soldier admits hoarsely.
“Exactly,” Steve says, staring at him directly, and holding his gaze is not easy—but looking away is impossible. “Your mere existence unsettles me. Yet I understand objectively that it isn’t your fault.”
The Soldier wants to say something back — a perfunctory “good” or even “thank you” — but he opens his mouth and coughs. Steve’s nostrils twitch immediately, inhaling.
“Have you been smoking?” he asks.
“You didn’t forbid it,” the Soldier frowns.
“I didn’t forbid it,” Steve agrees, slightly embarrassed, and demands, “Any left?”
“Yes,” the Soldier snaps, pulling out the crumpled pack. Steve takes it, sees the last two sorry cigarettes, and just snorts. “You’ve smoked almost all of them?”
“I knew you’d take them,” the Soldier says. “I wanted to smoke every one.”
Steve studies him with a long, unreadable gaze, then asks, “Where did you get them?”
“Traded,” the Soldier admits, growing darker.
“For what?”
“Not for my white body, don’t worry,” the Soldier instinctively hugs himself tighter with his iron arm.
“For what? Answer me.”
“I won’t,” the Soldier snaps.
Steve says nothing but moves closer, and suddenly the Soldier imagines them fighting right here, on this cold balcony, over dumb cigarettes. He’s barely moved all day, frozen, not in the best shape. Steve will beat him, extract the dumb truth, and then both of them will feel shame. Pain too. Is it even worth it?
“For a tissue,” he admits. “A snotty tissue. Satisfied with my answer?”
“Explain,” Steve frowns.
“I’ve been sitting here all day. Only went out when they brought lunch. And… I blew my nose into a tissue. I wanted to secretly throw it in the bathroom, but she caught me and asked what I was hiding. I didn’t answer; she told me to show her and asked, ‘Is this what I think?’ I didn’t know what she thought and said, ‘No.’ Then she ordered me to give it, but I refused. She offered to trade, said, ‘You’ll still have more with him, don’t break.’” The Soldier shrugs. “Then I agreed to trade for a pack of cigarettes. That’s the whole story.”
“She thought it was my sperm?” Steve grimaces.
“She fooled me too—the pack wasn’t full,” the Soldier still frowns, but Steve is close and doesn’t seem hostile. And he smells so good. He is a despotic bastard, but somehow the Soldier realizes he probably isn’t even angry at him anymore. “I hope she figures out what it was before trying to use it.”
“Bucky could make money out of nothing too,” Steve admits, smiling surprisingly softly, and the Soldier feels a sharp pang in his chest. But Steve immediately changes the subject:
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does she look like?”
“Why do you care?” the Soldier asks.
“She’ll understand and get revenge on you. Petty sabotage. I don’t like that. I’ll deal with her. I don’t need perverts among the staff.”
“Steve, that’s nonsense,” Winter Soldier tries to argue. “I won’t tell you.”
“No problem. I’ll fire the whole shift. No guarantee any of them wouldn’t do the same. We can’t know.”
“Dyed blonde,” the Soldier breathes helplessly, hating himself for how easily he breaks. “Her name’s Lorraine. I saw the badge.”
He drops his gaze, then buries his face in his knees. He’s so cold.
Steve rises and tosses the cigarettes near him.
“Enough. Stop,” he says, and, as in the morning, touches the Soldier’s hair again. “Get up, let’s have dinner. Live while you can.”
The Soldier follows him, and, glancing at the cigarette pack, suddenly kicks it sharply off the balcony. He doesn’t want to touch it anymore.
During a silent dinner, full darkness falls.
The Soldier still can’t warm himself, and even under a blanket, he continues to shiver. Without a word, the Dragon moves closer, almost lying atop him. The Soldier doesn’t want to touch him, but he is big and warm, and every cell of his body longs to press against him.
“Why are you so sure you’ll kill me when we have sex?” he asks.
The Dragon rubs his nose against his neck and answers quietly, “I saw it in a dream. Twice already.”
“You see prophetic dreams?”
“No. But I know it will happen.” Steve speaks so low, so quietly. “I’ll transform, right inside you, and tear you apart. I’m a fairly large dragon.”
“Like a horse?”
“Bigger. One hand will cover you from groin to crown.”
“I’d like to see your true form,” Winter Soldier says without fear.
“You won’t understand anything. You’ll die immediately,” Steve whispers.
“That’s not so bad, if you think about it,” Winter Soldier replies. “Instant death. And from sex. As a human, you’re alright. Not the worst end. If you can manage it, of course.”
“I will,” the Dragon says grimly.
“Steve, in your dream, was I barefoot or in boots?” Soldier asks, warming up, caught by a reckless talkative wave.
Steve pauses briefly, recalling, then admits, “In boots.”
“Cool!” the Soldier exhales happily.
“Why?”
“Someone once told me a man must die in his shoes. Without shoes, not men. I remembered. One must die in shoes, like a hero.”
“Sleep, hero,” Steve says softly, embracing him with both arms.
And Soldier feels, despite everything, warmth returning, and silently strokes the Dragon’s tense, broad back.