Chapter Text
The man in the suit is hard to read. Military background, obviously. Most likely a former intelligence officer, given what Erik has been able to deduce about Fury’s organization. SHIELD, it’s called. Erik doubts that’s what they actually do.
Past that first day Erik has no contact with the outside world; Fury doesn't even try to make up excuses for Erik's detention. At first Erik is accommodating, mostly for the purpose of extracting slivers of intel from the agents Fury sends to question him, but eventually Erik becomes sick of answering the same questions over and over again:
Yes, Erik was loyal to the Allies the whole time.
Yes, Erik tried to stop Rogers from returning the cube to the Allies.
No, he did not intend to steal it for Hydra or Hitler.
No, he did not intend to keep it for himself.
No, he did not kill Rogers.
That last one… that’s the only answer Erik feels uncomfortable about. Because it is his fault that Rogers died. And the discomfort of having to repeatedly share the details of Rogers’ death is what pushes Erik over the line from grudging cooperation to stubborn silence.
It doesn’t take long for Fury to become monumentally pissed at Erik’s silence. First, he confiscates all of the books, newspapers, and documentary films he’d allowed Erik to have for educational purposes. There is a lot of catching up to do, and despite hating the fact that he has no way of vetting any of the information Fury gives him--no way of verifying any event past 1944 without relying on media that Fury's organization provides—Erik valued it all immensely. Realistically, the sheer volume of material Fury provided, as well as the lack of inconsistency between texts, suggests that the major events and dates are all true. It’s simply too much for Fury’s organization to have counterfeited purely for Erik’s benefit. But Erik is a spy: he knows there’s more than one way to lie. In this case Erik’s suspicion is that the media Fury provides is not necessarily biased but the selection of information probably is. So losing it is inconvenient but not necessarily distressing.
When Erik fails to crack to this initial punishment, Fury’s next retaliation is to withhold the special drug cocktail his scientists have cooked up to soothe the more obvious side-effects of Erik’s serum. Which is fine with Erik, since he never asked for it anyway, nor asked for the cosmetic surgery they’d imposed before he’d even woken up. Presumably they assumed he’d be grateful for both. But Erik barely recognizes his face in the mirror anymore. It’s almost a relief when the cocktail wears off, prompting the red hue to return to his skin and his face to grow gaunt once more.
With nothing else to do but pace and give disdainful looks to the one-way mirror anytime he hears someone moving behind it, Erik entertains himself by analyzing his observations of Fury and of SHIELD, musing over how long it will take Fury to decide to withhold Erik’s food. He’s the type to do it, Erik is certain. Or maybe Erik’s assessment is too harsh and Fury turn out to be more imaginative. Either way it doesn’t faze Erik. No one can be as imaginative as Zola was.
But instead of withholding food or shattering Erik’s finger joints one at a time, Fury sends in an agent with an implacable expression and a tailored suit that betrays only the slightest bulge where his gun is hidden. He sits down at Erik’s table, setting down several manila envelopes and two large drink containers made of the same fluffy foam material all of Erik’s food is brought in. They smell strongly of coffee, and the exact aroma is oddly familiar to Erik.
“Brazilian Avena burnt roast,” the agent says, gesturing at the coffee. “I was looking through Howard Stark’s old files for more information about you and found a tariff invoice with a note that it was your favorite brew. I imagine it was even more of a hassle getting it during the war than it was finding it now.”
Erik doesn’t reply. His strategy since he stopped cooperating with Fury has been to completely ignore everything said to him. No response, no reaction, no signal that anything they say is of the slightest interest to him. Most of the time it truly isn’t. But Howard… Erik never knew Stark had found the Brazilian coffee specifically for him. Erik manages to keep his expression flat, but he does break eye contact.
Erik doesn’t make a move to sit down across from the agent or take the coffee. Instead he checks the one-way mirror, listening to see if he can guess how many people are watching. Erik can’t make out any sound. Perhaps they’ve found a way to silence the other room. The agent watches Erik mildly and sips his coffee. Erik continues to ignore him. Eventually the coffee in Erik’s cup stops steaming. Stark must have wasted so much money keeping it on hand for the sake of the few days a month Erik was on their side of the front lines. Erik knew then it was a ridiculous luxury, of course, but he’d assumed it was just another one of the luxuries Stark insisted on bringing with him wherever he went. Not one of the gifts he brought for specific people, like artist’s charcoal for Rogers and new lipsticks for Carter. The agent could be lying, but Erik doubts it. If the invoice didn’t have a note attached then there’d be nothing to indicate that Erik had ever even tasted Stark’s coffee.
The agent finally cracks after about two hours of silence. Or that’s what it seems like at first.
“I actually found out quite a lot in the old SSR files,” he says. His tone is impartial and professional. “Details that actually matter, I mean. Not just mission reports.”
Erik ignores him. He leans against the wall across from the mirror, a position that allows Erik to watch the agent’s reflection but forces the man to turn sideways to see Erik. Erik has been on both sides of interrogations before. He knows how to play the game. The agent is obviously aware of this; he doesn’t try to pretend that his motivation for being here is anything other than the obvious, which Erik appreciates. Fury has not once acknowledged that Erik is a highly competent spy, treating him instead like a rookie field agent.
The agent continues. “I found transcripts from several SSR meetings evaluating your loyalty as an undercover operative, all with extensive comments from Agent Margaret Carter.”
Erik doesn’t let on that he’s heard. Carter always told Erik whenever they held those meetings, and always let him know she was in his corner. It doesn’t matter that Erik doesn’t know exactly what she said.
“I also have a rather amusing disciplinary report involving a misappropriated crate of medical ethanol. It has a signed statement from Captain Rogers to the effect that you and Lt. James Barnes had nothing to do with him getting blind drunk and missing a PR engagement."
Erik’s expression doesn’t betray the slightest hint of the bittersweet emotions the memory stirs up. Erik can’t recall exactly what blackmail Barnes used to drag Erik into his self-appointed crusade to find out how much alcohol it takes to get a super-soldier drunk. (Rogers, Erik is certain, had not required any extortion for the simple reason that Rogers was incapable of saying no to Barnes.) Erik does remember being extremely smug about out-drinking Rogers—at least, for the whole twenty minutes he was able to stay conscious after Rogers passed out. Erik’s wished more than once that he could have seen Col. Phillips face when Rogers handed over the blatantly false statement.
The agent continues talking without even waiting for Erik respond.
“Of course, those are just examples of what I found in the general records. The personnel files were much more illuminating. I looked at your file, but it didn’t give me nearly as much information about you as these did.”—The agent reaches out and taps the manila envelopes in front of him.—“If you want to find out who someone really is, you start by finding out what their friends think of them.”
Erik tries not to look at the envelopes. He already memorized them earlier. There are five of them, all unmarked, two of them much thicker than the other three. He can guess whose files they are. There’s only so many people who might have spoken well of him in their own reports. Rogers, Carter, Stark, Barnes, and Phillips.
The agent picks up a thicker envelope and waves it gently. “Captain Rogers had a very high opinion of you.” The man pauses, then adds, “Although apparently not at first.”
Erik casts his eyes downward, away from the mirror, so he doesn’t have to look at the agent or at Rogers’ file. He doesn’t want to hear about—
“At one point he became very insistent that Col. Phillips give you more time to rest. He kept bringing up excuses to keep you at HQ for longer periods rather than send you immediately back to Hydra.” The agent’s tone is still professional, unconcerned. Erik hears the sound of paper rustling as the agent opens the envelope. “There’s a few personal letters from Stark in here, his half of what seems to be a conversation about a trip to New York City. They apparently couldn’t figure out a way to plan something short enough that you wouldn’t be missed by—”
“Stop.” Erik can’t believe this. He can’t believe that this of all things is what will break him. It’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, but he just can’t handle hearing anymore. Not this soon. Not when it’s his fault Barnes and Rogers are dead. Not when Erik knows how sharply Carter and Stark’s opinions of him must have changed after hearing that he’d done on the Valkyrie.
Erik takes three deep breaths to quell the trembling in his bones, and forces himself to relax. Then he turns to face the agent, crosses his arms, and says coolly, “Why didn’t Fury send you first?”
Erik doesn’t have to explain. He’s been here for more than three weeks without betraying a hint of weakness. This agent has him cracking in less than three hours. The agent betrays a sign of actual personality for the first time: he gives Erik a nod for the implied compliment. Then he says: “Director Fury didn’t send me.”
This is so unexpected and intriguing that Erik is able to finally stop glancing at the envelopes on the table. He settles back into his unaffected, collected mask. “Then who are you?” Erik asks calmly.
“My name is Agent Phillip Jones-Coulson. And I am your ticket out of here.”
Erik raises an eyebrow, and waits for the man to explain.
”Unfortunately, I did expect you to cave slightly sooner, which means I am out of time for today,” the agent says. “I’ll come back next time I can arrange to have Director Fury distracted.”
Erik rolls his eyes as the agent rises from his seat. How convenient.
Erik doesn’t realize how consistently his eyes are tracking the manila envelopes until the agent gathers them together in a neat pile and picks them up. He gives Erik an infuriatingly knowing look.
“Don’t worry. I’ll bring them with me again next time.”