Breakdown | Steve Rogers

009

THERE WERE MANY WORDS that could and have been used to describe Elijah Davis - legally Elijah Meyers. The majority of them weren't all that great, ranging from racial slurs to derogatory insults fuelled by his sexual orientation and inability to, quote on quote, fall in line.

But hey, what's the American dream if not incredibly discriminatory?

He much preferred the titles that had been used to describe him. He enjoyed being a brother, a best friend, a boyfriend, a partner in crime... hell there was even a time, as short-lived as it was, where being referred to as Staff Sergeant Elijah Davis brought a smile to his face.

But now as he walked through the hallways of the Triskelion, his eyes finally settling on their normal brown colour instead of the harsh red, he wished he had a label for this.

Elijah had never known what he was, from a young age he'd been susceptible to blood and had simply learnt to live with it. He remembered the first time he'd noticed his weakness very vividly and the way it made him feel.

He was 11 and his mother had just brought home his new little brother. Unlike him, the small Korean baby had been adopted and Elijah remembered not even being able to coo at him before being assaulted by the smell of blood, caused by the little wounds where the baby had been given his vaccinations.

He'd almost gone carnal that day and still, 13 years later, he wondered why his parents could bleed in front of him and elicit no reaction and what would have happened if his mother hadn't taken the baby to the nursery and his father (before he became an abusive asshole) took him to his piano lessons.

Where Elijah believed what he was had no name, what he could do did. Haemokinesis, or in layman's terms the ability to manipulate blood.

He could sculpt his own blood into everyday tools, weapons, limbs, anything as long as the cut producing the blood remained open. He was also able to control another person and the flow of their blood as long as he'd tasted it within 24 hours.

Discovering the latter was incredibly traumatic for the man, and the sole reason why Elijah would never tell the story of the night he lost his virginity.

"Elijah, status," Maria's voice brought Elijah out of his mental deep dive into his past and he responded without hesitation.

"Exhausted," he exclaimed dramatically, "this is utterly exhausting, why do you do this shit for fun!?"

"Assignments aren't usually fun," Maria responded and Elijah could practically hear her rolling her eyes, "where are you?"

"A stairwell," he answered, looking around before he specified, "north stairwell on the 41st floor."

"Perfect, Sam's just down the hall. He needs help."

"Help with what, lifting a watch?" He asked sarcastically, very aware that although his eyes were no longer circling through red, he was incredibly weak to blood. Once he gave into his inhibitions, his control was so fragile that a simple paper cut could turn him feral.

The last thing he wanted was for Sam to notice and ask if he was okay, Elijah hated lying to the man but he wasn't prepared for him to find out what he could do just yet.

"Natasha said you have impeccable aim and we both know you not fighting doesn't mean you can't," Maria said sternly, "whatever's scared you into being a pacifist, get over it. Sam needs you."

"Woah... some motivational speaker you are," Elijah responded, he'd bit down on his lower lip as Maria had read him like a book and being a sarcastic asshole was his only defence mechanism.

"Elijah."

"Fine, fine, I'm going," he pouted although Maria couldn't see him, "no need to scold me like my mother, God rest her poor soul. You sounded just like her, scared the shit out of me."