As Soft as Steel - blackthorn_possum (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

[Physical functionality: sixty-five percent.

Prosthesis functionality: eighty-three percent.

Cognitive functionality: seventy-two percent and falling.

Time elapsed since activation: thirty-two point four hours.

Time elapsed since maintenance: sixteen point seven hours.

Time elapsed since nutrition: sixteen point seven hours.]

[Mission failure. Ongoing cognitive malfunction. Locate handler. Submit for disciplinary action. Report for reset.]

The Captain’s words juddered through it, the indescribable shock in those too-blue eyes seared into the retinas. The body felt unusually cold, the chest hollow, the mind a buzzing hive, conflicting thoughts like wasps whose wings whirred with the hum of the bone saw.

It knew him. The body had known how he would move before it even engaged him in combat. But then he simply…didn’t. ["Im not gonna fight you."] No other target had ever laid down their arms without hesitation when faced with the Soldier, with the promise of death that rode on its shoulders. The Captain had not surrendered, had not been simply accepting his fate. He had trusted it. His voice had overridden all other protocols, compelling it to break from the mission and cease its attack. To recover him from the river. To stay, only long enough to hear his first gasping breath. Then, as abruptly as it had gone silent, the mission imperative came screaming back. [Mission failure. Extraction imminent. Locate handler. Report for reset.]

There was no extraction team. There was not a designated rendezvous point. The Soldier returned to the nearest base. DC Alpha One-Zero [Codename: The Vault] was empty, obviously cleared out in a rush – cabinets hung open, loose documents lay scattered under desks, and supply inventories were severely depleted.

It required maintenance. The tac suit was soaked, adhering to the body and stinking of diesel and brine. The hair clung to the face, polluted by sweat and river water and spilled fuel. The prosthesis sent jolts of complaint up the spine. Something was damaged in the second joint, though the range of motion was still within tolerable parameters. The only weapons remaining were the six knives tucked into its kit and two pistols so water-logged as to be unusable.

The mission was a complete failure. Neither target had been eliminated. The Insight carriers had not only failed to implement their algorithm, but had been totally obliterated. The Secretary would not be pleased. The Soldier suppressed a tremor. It knew it would be disciplined severely. It could only accept the punishment it was due.

The directive to locate a handler was a siren in the skull, but it could not obey. It did not know where Commander Rumlow was, or the Secretary, or any of the secondary handlers.

It should have radioed the extraction team, or checked the intranet for communications, but every scrap of technology in the base had been removed, or was so damaged as to be unusable. All that remained were the maintenance chair, the surgical table, and the cryo chamber.

It could only wait.

The Soldier stood at attention by the empty cryo chamber for nine hours and thirty-seven minutes, until the body began failing.

The legs experienced unusual weakness. The left patella, multiple ribs, and the pelvis were fractured. Breathing was impaired. A deep ache set in behind the eyes, overlaying the sharp pain of the unheeded imperatives. It required nutrition. It required cleansing. It required reset. The icy blackness of cryosleep was deeply appealing, but there was no one to operate the machine.

In an unacceptable display of self-regard, the Soldier placed itself inside the cryostasis chamber and forced the capsule shut, allowing some of its weight to rest against the steel wall. At least the familiar confines of the tube would keep it out of sight if there was any enemy infiltration. The mind drifted, the sound of its heavy exhales echoing against the bare metal. The eyes fell closed involuntarily.

It did not sleep as other operatives did, but it could rest and allow itself to heal for a while. Part of its attention remained attuned to any noise from the exterior. It felt the knitting of muscle and sinew in the right shoulder, the shifting of bone, the sting of wounds struggling to close under the clinging leather. It would be ideal for it to lie supine with this type of damage, but it could not risk being found in such a vulnerable position.

Time passed unmeasured.

The clock on the far wall read 0616 when the Soldier rallied. [Physical functionality increased to seventy-eight percent. Cognitive functionality: sixty-six percent and falling.] An entire night had gone by with no communications, no orders, no nutrition.

It had expended a great deal of energy on the previous mission, and even more in healing its injuries. The head ached in a telltale sign of low glucose. The Soldier considered what punishment it might incur if it were to take rations without permission. This situation would qualify as an emergency, in which case it was authorized to act without handler instruction.

It might be worth the beating if it would stop the incessant complaints of the body. Its mind unhelpfully supplied an image of the Commander feeding it some overly-sweetened concoction of peanuts and chocolate in the transport, and the stomach emitted an irregular sound.

It pried open the cryostasis chamber, steeling itself against the inevitable pain of disobedience to inspect the supply cabinet. The bones of its pelvis crackled in a nauseating staccato, but it ignored the sensation.

The med kit was gone. The prosthesis maintenance kit was gone. In a forgotten drawer, there were four packs of field rations, barely more than its standard daily intake. It would need water to prepare the powdered substance.

It found an appropriate vessel and inched down the hallway to a neglected bathroom, ears pricked for any indication of returning operatives. The sink was stained with rust and calcium deposits, but the water ran clear after a few seconds. Each portion of field rations required point five liters of water and would provide two thousand calories. It tore open one of the waxed paper packs and carefully emptied it into the steel cup.

Before it could measure out the water, the slam of a steel door echoed down the empty corridor. It quickly hid the cup and opened rations, the pain in its skull spiking as it added deception to the list of protocol violations. [knuckles cracking across the jaw, baton on the fingers, pain, pain, pain] There were voices, boots on the concrete. Eight men, judging by the footfalls. They did not sound familiar to it, but it only interacted with a small number of the agents stationed here.

They were approaching the lab from which it had just emerged. It hesitated, torn between the imperative to report to a handler, any allied operative at all, and the instinctual desire to hide itself. The Soldier attempted to attune its hearing to their communications, the sound distant and tinny from down the concrete halls.

One of them spoke a name from its briefings. Hill. These men were reporting to SHIELD. It could not let itself be discovered by them, and there was no point in defending an empty base. Escape was imperative. It shoved the remaining three ration packs into its jacket and made sure the hallway was clear before finding an access panel for the ventilation system. It crept silently through the ducts, doubling back to ensure that even minimal movements would not reveal the direction of its escape.

Emergency extraction protocols were in full force now. It found an unoccupied supply room and procured a bag large enough to hold a second tac suit, the remaining rations, two pistols, four boxes of appropriate ammunition, and eight additional knives. There was no cash or documentation to be found, and all larger caliber weapons had been taken. It wasted no time returning to the ducts, angling for the closest access to the outside of the building.

The exit vent was barely above ground level, and it had to nearly dislocate the flesh shoulder again to squeeze out into the alley. It tucked itself behind a steel trash receptacle, remaining still and waiting to determine if its exit had been detected. There was no movement on this side of the building.

After twelve point six minutes with no interference, it elected to move on before it was seen. It slunk through alleys and across rooftops until it could acquire appropriate civilian garments. The sullied tac suit went into the duffel, leaving no evidence of the Soldier’s presence.

With the prosthesis covered, it was able to move along the street. The unimpeded sunlight of the clear autumn morning assaulted its eyes, increasing the pain in its head. It pulled the brim of the stolen hat down further and made itself small, shifting its gait to minimize the presence of the prosthesis. The nearest safehouse was eight point four kilometers away. It would take approximately one point five hours to reach it on foot at its current functionality.

The Soldier chose routes that bypassed major pedestrian and vehicular roadways. The city was under emergency lockdown after the failed helicarrier launch, law enforcement camped out on every corner. Civilian movement was limited, though that did not prevent the press of crowds in many places. There were large clumps of bystanders observing the removal of debris from the fallen aircraft, phones held aloft and cameras recording. It took care to avoid the digital eyes of the devices, and to skirt the edges of CCTV where possible.

When it was far enough from the base to avoid immediate detection, the need for information became pressing. The mission had been public, unacceptably so, but that meant that there might already be reports of other HYDRA activity. Failure of the Into the Light protocol called for an immediate communications blackout, but there was a chance that the extraction team had left an encoded message, some indication of where it should report.

The disparate cells would be regrouping, prioritizing defense of major installations while shutting down minor bases and reestablishing communications on new channels. It detoured past an electronics store, scanning the television news stations for any relevant information.

Thousands dead in Triskelion Attack

HYDRA Active in the 21st Century. Terrorists on US soil – A New Civil War?

Captain America Gravely Injured, No Comment from Avengers or SHIELD

Secretary of Defense Pierce Revealed to be HYDRA, Killed in Triskelion Collapse

World Governments Compromised, UN Calls for Immediate Investigation

SHIELD/HYDRA Files Exposed, Black Widow Wanted for Questioning

The Secretary was dead. The Secretary was dead . The–

The cognition faltered, ears ringing. The body tensed, preparing for punishment. It had stopped stock still in the middle of the sidewalk, heart rate increasing to a dangerous level. The Soldier felt the ground tilt under its boots, stomach swooping and head sparking like a frayed wire.

The sudden presence of a civilian at its back made it bristle. The fingers twitched for a knife, but it overrode the impulse. It had no orders to damage them, and that kind of violence would draw unnecessary attention. It pressed itself into a nearby alleyway, forcing its bodily functions back into submission.

The breathing was still ragged, the Soldier’s eyes scanning every passing pedestrian for signs of threat, every rooftop for indications of hidden weaponry. The Secretary was dead. The Secretary was– [silk tight around the throat, airways constricted, hands twitching uselessly at the sides, “Show them how good you can be, Soldier.”] He was– It had to focus. This weakness was unacceptable.

The Secretary was dead . HYDRA’s infiltration of the government agencies had been revealed, hidden files dumped onto the civilian internet. They were encoded, but it would not take long for enterprising civilians and federal agents alike to access them. SHIELD was in chaos, their own secrets spilled, though they still had enough loyal operatives to regroup and search the Vault.

There was no way to know how many HYDRA facilities had been compromised. It could not determine which direction to go, where the remaining HYDRA operatives would seek shelter. But it was not some helpless thing, it could function independently long enough to locate the new handler.

The Commander. He would be its primary handler now. It had to find Rumlow, to report for maintenance and disciplinary action. He was good to it. He would provide rations and touch its hair and maybe… maybe even let it have a cigarette, if it pleased him, if it took its punishment well, if it complied and was silent and held still for him.

The Soldier steeled itself and walked on, heading vaguely southeast. It paused only long enough to pick a few pockets and acquire cash in order to move freely through the city. It required access to a computer terminal in order to gather more intelligence, to try and contact what remained of HYDRA, though the likelihood of finding a secure channel was low.

It found a relatively uncrowded cafe and summoned the cognitive energy to mimic human behavior and purchase a plain, black coffee as a cover. It did not drink. It sat, monitoring the movements of the civilians, until there was an opportunity to lift a small tablet computer from a distracted young couple with a wailing child. The screech of the child’s displeased crying grated against its nerves, causing the incessant pain in its head to grow sharper. It waited long enough that its movements would not seem suspicious, then sought out a quieter location.

The bathroom of the cafe was single occupancy. It leaned the duffel against the locked door, regulating its breathing. It should prepare the rations, but it could barely stand in front of the sink long enough to empty the paper coffee cup.

The mirror above the basin taunted it, reflecting some pathetic creature with sallow skin and hollow eyes. The image inspired the urge to scream, the left arm whirring loudly as it clenched its fists [severe malfunction, report for reset]. The right hand shook, crumpling the cup into a useless lump. It had to leave. It would find somewhere else to make use of the computer, far enough from the victims of its theft to avoid suspicion.

It adjusted the clothing, covering as much of its face as it could, then took the duffel and made a quick exit through the back door.

The Soldier continued angling towards the safehouse, doubling back and changing direction randomly. It was highly unlikely that it had picked up a tail, but it could not have too much caution. It was unknown how much of the Soldier’s own operations manuals were available now.

If the activation sequence was revealed, any upstart with an internet connection could attempt to claim it. The thought made it nauseous. It required a real handler. It had to contact an extraction team.

It found a public library advertising free wireless internet and hid itself just outside the building between a concrete pillar and an overgrown arborvitae. It was not usually permitted to access civilian communications channels.

The amount of extraneous data was overwhelming, and there was a risk that misleading information would interfere with its programming. The Soldier recalled a rookie agent being severely reprimanded for showing it videos of domesticated cats while they were waiting for extraction at a safehouse. Rumlow had broken the man’s phone clean in half. But this was an emergency. It was necessary.

It skimmed the major news headlines, but there were so many images of the Captain, the target it had failed to eliminate, that the pain behind its eyes became nearly unbearable. The echo of a scream rang in its ears, the shriek of ice on steel overriding logical thought for uncounted seconds.

This was more than a failed mission. [You know me.] There was something about the Captain that threatened to unravel its cognition entirely. The Soldier shut off the screen, allowing itself thirty seconds to recover. Then it altered its approach, anonymizing the IP address of the tablet and accessing the SHIELD and HYDRA intranet clients for more concrete information.

Both organizations were an absolute mess. Communications on the HYDRA channels were scattered and incomplete, ending abruptly at 1628 yesterday. The moment Insight had failed. SHIELD now had access to every single channel, rendering them useless for any communications the Soldier might attempt. SHIELD loyalists, including the Black Widow – the other failed target, and one of the only operatives to ever present a threat to it, aside from the Captain – were already tracking the remaining cells down and beginning to ferret them out.

According to SHIELD communications, the Captain’s hospital room was heavily guarded by federal agents and under observation by operatives from multiple organizations. The Falcon and the Widow were keeping close watch on him around the clock.

At the same hospital, the–

[sharp smile, cigarette smoke and leather and cologne, pain in the entrance, pain on the face, pain and smiles and chocolate and pain and pain and pain]

The Commander.

The Commander was listed as a casualty of the battle of the Triskelion, succumbing to his wounds only hours after being transferred to medical care.

[Report for–

"The timetable–"

Mission failure–

Submit for dis–

Cognitive mal–

Mission f–

"Do it one more–"

Locate–

Submit–

Report.

Report.

The tablet clattered to the ground, screen shattering as it hit the concrete. The Soldier’s hands came to its head involuntarily, and a low noise crackled from its throat. The world narrowed, only darkness, the pain in its skull, the knot in its gut, were real.

It could not remember ever having been so decidedly incompetent. It might not survive the kind of punishment it deserved for this behavior. It was not sure who was even left to mete it out. It could not– It had to–

The soft scuffing of rubber soles on the concrete drew it from the eddy of panic just in time to notice the approach of a civilian. A child. [It cannot–] She was small, barely taller than one-hundred-twenty centimeters, and traveling alone.

There were multiple thick books tucked under her arm, and her dark eyes were fixed keenly upon the Soldier. Judging by her size, she might have been eight years old, but her face indicated intelligence closer to that of an adolescent. Her hair bobbed as she approached, thick curls pulled up into two symmetrical spheres at the top of her head.

[Threat level: zero.]

“Hey, mister, are you okay?”

It did not answer, averting its gaze from the child and attempting to hide its face under the brim of the cap. There was no protocol for interacting with children except as collateral damage. The thought of causing harm to such a defenseless thing made the stomach churn. It pressed itself further into the shadow of the building.

“Oh, your tablet broke. That sucks.”

The child reached for the device, but the Soldier was faster, removing it from her grasp before she could inadvertently handle classified materials. She stumbled backwards, surprised by its swift movements.

“Ah! Geez, sorry, mister. It sounded like you were crying. Are you sad about your tablet? I would cry, too. I broke my phone last week and my momma nearly whupped me.”

If she could not be deterred, this chattering child would attract notice, potentially even law enforcement. It had to find some way to escape her attention without revealing itself or damaging her. If she became an unwitting witness...

It could vault over the hedge, though there was a risk that other civilians would see it through the windows of the library building and report irregular activity. The entire city was still on high alert.

“D’you need help? My momma’s a nurse, she knows lots of good places to stay if you don’t got one.”

Some clunking, rusted part of its brain juddered to life. The child was offering assistance. She was not at all responsible for the Soldier, yet she had expressed… a similar experience. And inquired about needed material. ["You’re my friend."]

“Unnecessary.” Its voice came out too quiet, crackling and hoarse. It should have been better at this, mimicking human speech patterns for a mission, but its cognition was so fractured as to be nearly useless, the ongoing malfunction only worsened by the trek through heavily-populated territory and the lack of rations. By the pain of failure. It finally remembered the appropriate response. "N-no, thank you.”

She eyed the Soldier skeptically, co*cking her head and causing the little plastic ornaments in her hair to clack together.

“If you say so. You change your mind, you can ask Miss Laurie at the library desk. She knows people at the hospital. Or the VA. You look like you might be a soldier. Mister Sam was real nice to my Uncle Carl, helped him get an apartment and everything.”

This child had a very poor understanding of operational security. With these points of data, her entire family could easily be located. The inexplicable urge to protect this tiny, presumptuous person grew like a swelling blister behind the ribs.

The Soldier disregarded it. It did not understand what she said about its appearance. It had acquired civilian garments, which bore little resemblance to American armed forces uniforms. It was sure the child meant ‘soldier’ in the common form, and not its designation.

Even if it had been identified in news media images, none of its distinctive features were currently visible, curled up in the heavy shadow. There was no way she knew…was there? The heart rate increased the longer the child stared at it, the Soldier becoming concerned that it would have to resort to drastic measures to make an escape.

After a tense moment, she seemed to lose interest, flouncing away with an, “Okay, then. Bye, mister, take care!”

It exhaled silently, crushing the compromised tablet into unusable shards. The child’s interference had caused it to stay in one location far too long.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Time was difficult to judge, between cryo and the wipes. It knew the current year was two-thousand-fourteen. That had been in the mission briefing.

Rumlow’s stint as its field commander had begun in nineteen-ninety-four, shortly after it was transferred to the American base. Twenty years, if it counted its time in the ice. Twenty years of watching him grow older, more self-assured, more brutally efficient. Twenty years of learning his preferences, his nonverbal signals, his patterns of behavior in the field and during recreation. Twenty years of his gruff praise, his sharp correction, his carefully doled out gifts. It could not remember every interaction, every mission, but the body knew his touch, knew the taste of chocolate and tobacco and even the rare mouthful of whiskey. The Soldier still felt the urge to please him – to earn a hand in the hair and a toothy smile – a keen ache at the base of its skull, woven through its flesh.

The Secretary had been a vague threat, looming in pristine command rooms, obscured by layers of silk and subterfuge. He was there when the Soldier required more intense discipline, when it served its secondary function for negotiations with his enemies and allies, when the unit was briefed on a particularly sensitive op. He was a specter in fine wool and porcelain, his hands rarely dirtied with the Soldier’s daily handling requirements. But the Commander had been a constant. Somehow more real, more solid than the other handlers. It could barely comprehend existence without the Commander. His death was impossible, unthinkable.

It had to confirm the information. The intranet was compromised, and it was possible that the reports of the Commander’s death had been fabricated by SHIELD in order to sow chaos, or by HYDRA to facilitate some secret movement. There was still a chance…

The hospital was fifteen kilometers from its current location. Two hours’ travel on foot, if it could avoid further delays. It would take the Soldier in the opposite direction of the safehouse, but if there was any chance that the Commander was alive, it was imperative to find him. It could appropriate a vehicle, though with the increased police presence and checkpoints throughout the city, the likelihood of interference was high.

It had been intentionally tuning out the regular noise of the city; the babble of the crowds, the wail of sirens, the sputter of automobiles. But it understood the workings of metropolitan areas. It knew the patterns of civilian movement, the pulse of life through hidden veins, the filth of the sewers and the vantage of high, gleaming buildings. The deep, ground-shaking rumbling that came at predictable intervals had been just another irrelevant stimulus until that moment. When it came again, the Soldier connected the noise and vibration to the machines causing it.

The Metro. It had not considered civilian transportation networks. Protocol dictated that the Soldier avoid such transport. But these were exceptional circ*mstances. It had successfully evaded detection so far, and the train would allow it to move much faster. There was a simple map displayed on the outside of the library doors. The schedule had not been heavily impacted by yesterday’s events. Gallery Place Chinatown Metro Station to Walter Reed Medical Center. Red Line. Approximately forty minutes. Departures every eight minutes. It could reach the Commander much sooner and minimize potential interactions with law enforcement. Keeping the face hidden from security cameras was no challenge, even with its current malfunctions.

It recognized the impracticality of navigating the rail system with a large pack. It would be ideal to retain access to the weapons, but the tac suit would not be necessary for this operation. It detoured to an alley between two multi-story buildings. Scaling the brick wall was more difficult than it should have been; the damage to the pelvis and shoulder still had not fully healed. Weapons secured under the clothing, duffel stowed, location memorized, it descended into the streets and made its way to the rail platform.

The structure seemed designed to irritate the senses. The flash of digital signage made the eyes ache. Even minute sounds echoed from the cavernous ceiling. Nearly every civilian was endeavoring to assault their fellow travelers with various fragrance-based chemical weapons. The Soldier felt the absence of its combat mask acutely. It navigated the terminal efficiently, not wasting time or cash to acquire a ticket, easily bypassing the security gates. Once situated in the appropriate train, it stood with as much of the carriage in its visual field as possible. The space was not crowded, only six civilians sharing the car, all of them studiously focused on their mobile phones or personal effects.

It kept vigilant observation of the entrances and passengers as the train lurched into motion. The lights of the tunnel flashed, slow, then faster, as they sped by the windows. The solid platform of the station was left behind, and the interior of the carriage fractured into shadow and halogen-yellow as it entered the underground passageway. The Soldier’s equilibrium was disturbed far more than expected from the movement of the train.

The carriage was dim, the doors sealed. A solid metal tube, encasing it entirely. It should have been a relief, but something about the situation put the Soldier on edge. It was nearly impossible for enemy agents to approach without notice here. Every entrance was within sight, and it would be nothing to tear the doors open and escape into the tunnels. There were no threats, nothing at all out of place, yet, between one moment and the next, its breathing became irregular and its heart rate increased. The clatter of the heavy car along the tracks filled its perception, subsuming all other sound. The Soldier felt the heat drain from its face, as if it had been wounded and was losing blood. A gray haze crept into its peripheral vision. It clung to one of the upright rails, attempting to keep its balance, to maintain awareness of its surroundings.

The flesh seized with the sensation of icy wind whipping across it. The ears rang with the screech of metal on metal. The eyes failed, blinded by a flash of otherworldly light. All awareness of the outside world was subsumed by blue and white and cold and noise. The Soldier could not think, could not breathe, could not even summon the energy to panic under the weight of the phantom sensations. It had to– it could not–

[Severe cognitive mal–]

It did not remember exiting the train. It did not remember passing any other platforms, additional civilians filling up the carriage, or how it knew to disembark at the correct stop. Clear blue morning sky filtered through the high windows of the station, footsteps echoed from the tile to the domed ceiling, and the heat of other bodies made the skin crawl as they shoved past it rushing to their intended destinations. It was not dizzy, exactly, but disoriented. The body was responding correctly, if somewhat sluggishly. It was as if the time had passed without the Soldier’s awareness. Like it had spent the past thirty-seven minutes in cryo and been spit out in this train terminal.

There was no blood on the hands and none of the usual external chaos that accompanied its more violent malfunctions. No one was looking at it with fear or anger, as if it were a barely-contained animal. All of the weapons remained in their holstered positions. The security personnel did not take notice of its presence. The Soldier determined that the journey must have gone without incident, but it was deeply disturbed by the lapse in its vigilance. It was an unacceptable violation of operational parameters that carried a high risk of some unintentional action interfering with the mission.

It would not take that risk again.

It leaned against a wall, the cool of the concrete causing a tremor across its back. Pain lanced through the skull, inescapable. The sensation of ice had not left it. It was not like the dark, peaceful cold of cryo. It was hard and bright and sharp.

It forced itself to return to mission focus, pushing through the vexing input. The medical center was across a busy road, but this appeared to be a regular travel time for civilian employees. It disguised itself in the crowd crossing the highway and entered the building. Another security checkpoint, hastily assembled – likely in response to yesterday’s disastrous mission and subsequent national security threat – was simple to bypass, the Soldier fading into the blind spots of the CCTV. It tucked the hair more securely under the cap and covered the face with one of the sterile paper masks provided by the hospital. The mask served dual functions, obscuring its appearance and filtering out the nauseating odors of sickness and disinfectant. The Soldier ignored the tension in its chest brought on by the glaring lights, clattering gurneys, and the miasma of sterility.

It broke into a secure stairwell door, damaging the electronic keypad in a manner that prevented the alarm from sounding. This was routine, infiltration into the bowels of the building, concrete and steel and bold paint demarcating areas reserved only for staff. It passed a few civilian employees as it descended the stairs, but they took no notice of it. With the proper bearing, it could insinuate itself into most any situation without the need for violence. And with its features covered, there was no need to eliminate potential witnesses. The staff were harried and distracted, overwhelmed with the wave of new arrivals from the Triskelion. It appropriated an identification badge from a particularly inattentive employee who was fumbling with his coffee, eyes fixed on his mobile phone as he mindlessly ascended the stairs to his next assignment.

The records room was not hidden, clear signage indicating its location at each junction. The stolen badge granted the Soldier access. For some reason it expected reams of paper folders, large dusty shelves. But there were only a few physical records, most of the room dominated by servers and computer terminals. The ID badge also served as a key for the computers. There should be nothing suspicious about an employee checking patient records, and it would likely go unnoticed in the aftermath of the helicarrier crash. It searched the Commander’s name.

Rumlow, Brock A.

050-42-xxxx

B: April 25, 1965. New York, NY

D: October 14, 2014. Washington, DC

Patient admitted at 18:38 by emergency medical transport from ——————.

BP 70/32

HR 131 BPM

BR 11 BPM (after intubation)

SpO2 84%

Severe shock. Systemic crush injury. Third degree burns over approx 60% of the body, second degree 20%. Extensive hemorrhaging, thoracic and intracranial. Traumatic head injury. Multiple lacerations and abrasions. Suspected fracture of the right femur, left humerus, skull, and multiple minor fractures. Intubation performed by EMT. Immediate transfer to OR. Narcotic and antibiotic administered. Renal filtration initiated. 4 units whole blood, 3 units saline solution administered. Hemorrhage stabilized, transferred to ICU 20:26. Multiple attempts to stabilize cardiac rhythm. Coded at 18:42, 19:07, 19:39, 21:13.

Time of Death: 21:13

Cause of Death: Multiple organ failure, asphyxia, cardiac failure due to traumatic crush injury.

Accidental.

Body released to ———— for cremation.

It was true.

The Soldier checked the paper records, and there it was: a signed and notarized death certificate.

The Commander had died on the table three times. His heart had failed and been restarted three times before he had finally taken his last breath. Alone, surrounded by beeping machinery and stale white light. Not in the heat of battle. Not at the hand of some more skilled operative. But because of its failure. Because it could not complete the mission, did not defend the carriers. The Soldier’s chest ached, lungs heaving and hands clenching before it could control itself. There was no time for this emotional response. It could not allow itself to be overtaken by panic yet again. It spared a final glance to the report before shutting off the terminal and wiping it down.

It should have left the medical center immediately. It was unnecessary to remain any longer, and every moment it lingered on the premises it increased chances of detection. But the impulse to go to the intensive care unit, to see the room which had held the Commander in his final moments, was overwhelming. It was useless, it knew, but it needed to go there, had to see for itself.

The staff stairwell took it to the correct floor. Three turns and another secure door and it was in the ICU. It was quieter here, the hush interrupted only by the regular tones of monitoring equipment and the chatter of personnel. It located the room indicated in the Commander’s records. There was already another patient housed there. It should not expose itself to questioning by entering the room. Its presence was sure to be noticed eventually. This was a closed ward.

The feet led it into the room, and the hands took care to close the heavy door without a sound. The resident was not awake, their labored respiration echoing off the bare walls. There was nothing special about the space. It had undoubtedly been cleaned and sanitized thoroughly after the Commander’s body was removed. But it could’ve sworn that the scent of charred flesh lingered on plastic and cloth. The Soldier allowed itself one point five minutes to observe.

Nothing of the Commander remained. His weapons would be remanded to SHIELD. His body would be ash and bone within the day, passed on to his next of kin or interred in some communal grave befitting a clandestine operative. It did not know if he had family. Very few STRIKE agents did, and even fewer spoke of their kin within earshot of the Soldier. Somehow it could remember that Rollins had a sister, nieces and nephews. He was in federal custody now, would probably be disappeared to some SHIELD black site and listed as dead.

The Soldier did not know hope. But some whispering thing within it wondered for a moment if the Commander might have met the same fate.

The ward where the target, the Captain, was being kept was on the same wing as the ICU, just a few floors down. It had noted the increased presence of security personnel when it ascended the stairs, obscuring itself behind a group of employees as it passed the landing.

It would be so simple to complete the mission.

So simple to acquire acceptable clothing – there were entire supply closets full of the medical uniforms – to cover the prosthesis with sterile gloves, blend in with the hospital personnel, wait until the change of guard to enter the Captain’s room. To slit his throat, press the hands over his mouth until his breath ran out, tamper with the intravenous medications, or introduce air into the veins. It had done these things many times before. Deaths in medical centers were easily disguised, and he had been so weak, so heavily damaged when it…

It pulled him from the river. Why had it pulled him from the river?

[I’m with you…]

There should have been an imperative. The programming wailed, telling it, incessantly, that it had failed. That it was malfunctioning. That it must report to a handler. But the imperative to complete the mission was damnably silent.

His heart had stopped, just for a moment, on the muddy riverbank. Long enough for the Soldier’s enhanced hearing to pick up on the irregularity, until his body had expelled the gray, brackish water and the pulse had come back strong. Was that long enough to satisfy mission parameters? Was the mission even still in effect, now that the handlers and the field commanders were gone? Or had the Captain’s confounding words somehow overridden the imperative permanently? Did he have access to command codes?

[...to the end of the line.]

There were too many unknowns.

It hesitated at the end of the hallway, disguising its movements as those of a concerned visitor, pacing between the windows and the machine full of colorful packages… It recognized one of them as the confection that Commander Rumlow had given it not two days ago. It took far too much effort to tear its eyes from the bright yellow plastic.

It would attract the attention of security personnel by lingering here. Six plainclothes operatives patrolled the hallway, and two heavily-armed agents stood guard outside the Captain’s door. SHIELD, maybe even the Widow herself, would be monitoring security cameras.

There was no mission imperative. There was no handler to clarify orders. It had already risked compromising the mission by diverting to the ICU. Despite the unreasonable urge to see the Captain’s face again, [his eyes were so blue, blue like…] to understand why this man haunted its thoughts, it forced itself to move on, pausing only long enough to raid a supply room for useful materiel.

There was space in the jacket to secret several rolls of medical tape and a few bags of intravenous nutrition. It was not formulated for the Soldier, but it was unlikely to damage its enhanced physiology. It took only three units. The solution was refrigerated, and it did not know when it would have access to climate controlled environments again. Stealing from a civilian installation did not elicit the same disciplinary imperative as taking the field rations had, but the hospital would have need of them. It was unacceptable to waste nutrition. It dropped the stolen ID badge on the floor near the information desk where it could be returned to the employee with little negative recourse.

It was nearing midday by the time the Soldier emerged from the hospital, the throbbing in its skull only exacerbated by the glaring sunlight. It had greatly exceeded expected travel time. It should report to the safehouse and make use of the nutrition packs as soon as possible. Every passing hour increased the probability of SHIELD discovering the location of the safehouse, or of discovering the Soldier.

Returning via train was not an option. If it were to suffer another malfunction, there was no way for it to be sure of its surroundings, to control the body appropriately and maintain cover. It began the journey back, pushing through the pain in the head and the complaints of the body to increase its speed. Keeping out of sight of the roads, it was able to maintain a steady run until it neared the more populated suburbs. Another hour of traveling, a slower pace through pedestrian areas, eyes scanning for security cameras, civilian phone cameras, and police activity. The fractured pelvis throbbed anew. [Physical functionality: seventy-three percent.] It located the duffel, carefully placing the nutrition packs inside so that they would not be punctured. The safehouse was close. It could wait there, allow its damaged body to heal, perhaps find a communications device or a message from the extraction team.

__________

The bridge was closed.

It traveled further north.

The bridge was closed.

It kept walking.

The bridge was closed.

It moved on.

The bridge was closed.

Another twenty minutes, another gaggle of gawking pedestrians.

The bridge was closed.

One after the other, all five of the potential routes were cordoned off with neon tape, heavily patrolled by police, military, and federal agents. Machinery droned and screeched, trawling the river for debris from the helicarriers and collapsed buildings. Even the railway bridge was blocked, eliminating the possibility of climbing the trusses or hiding itself in a cargo carrier.

There was no way to traverse the water without being seen. All watercraft were under strict docking guidelines to make way for the cleanup and investigation teams. With so many eyes on the river, even a small speck, a single body swimming across, would be spotted immediately. News cameras hovered in vehicles and aircraft, waiting for some significant discovery to be unearthed from the murky water. It seemed pointless. There would be only corpses and mangled metal.

The Soldier fell back, retreating into the shadow of a large oak. It would have to wait until nightfall, when the work crews and cameras would disperse. Until then, it would attempt to gather further intelligence and plan its next move.

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

It lingered as close to the river as possible without appearing suspicious to law enforcement, changing locations every thirty minutes and shifting with the civilian population as they cycled through patterns of work, travel, meals, work. Another black coffee purchased. Another newsstand examined. No encoded messages found in any of the broadcasts or publications. All known local HYDRA drop points examined and found empty. Seventeen pigeons disturbed from their feeding routine. Six potential opportunities to acquire another computer, disregarded.

There would be no change in the status of the intranet. There would be no communications for weeks if blackout protocol was followed correctly. The Soldier traversed the entirety of the downtown area three times in four hours. Its ability to maintain the illusion of human behavior was steadily waning.

As it moved to the next point in its surveillance, the Soldier faltered to a stop at a large intersection. It was confronted by an image of the failed mission, the Captain, looming large before it. That familiar, too-bright blue of his uniform caused its heart to stutter. [You know me.] His face, grim and sullied by battle, was plastered across the side of a city bus. It was an announcement for an exhibition, outlining the Captain’s origin and his work in the previous century. When the vehicle pulled away, the Soldier felt its feet twitch, as if its body would instinctually follow the Captain’s image down the street.

The exhibit was only point nine kilometers away. If it could gather more intelligence, perhaps it would be able to understand why the man’s face would not leave its mind. Never before had a target been so persistent in its memory. Knowing more about the Captain could prove useful, and maybe with further information his strange words would make sense to it.

The Soldier’s legs moved before it had fully come to the decision.

The route to the museum took it across a strange, barren wasteland of turfgrass, the back of its neck pricking as it left the cover of trees and alleyways. Gaining entrance to the facility was simple. It softened the shoulders and trailed in at a casual distance behind a group of older women tittering over some inanity. It was not even required to exchange cash for entry.

There was a highly uncharacteristic moment of distraction as it passed the displays of aircraft and extra-atmospheric exploration vehicles. The bulbous form of a space capsule was particularly interesting, pinging some deep feeling of familiarity within it, though it was almost entirely sure it had never been sent on extraterrestrial missions. A similar sensation came when it walked by a collection of vintage automobiles, eyes lingering over the gleaming curvature of the cars’ bodies. The right hand moved as if to touch one of them. The Soldier caught itself. It was losing mission focus.

Navigating through the press of civilians further depleted its cognitive energy. Even with the city still recovering from the attack, the exhibit was crowded. Perhaps the Captain’s public appearance had increased interest. It hung back, avoiding physical contact, obscuring itself from the security cameras, and deflecting the attention of the guards.

The entrance to the exhibit was marked by a gigantic, larger-than-life photograph of the Captain, flanked by operatives in mismatched tactical gear, covering the entirety of the wall. The image, his eyes blazing with determination, kept morphing into the scene from the helicarrier, playing back and forth like a malfunctioning computer screen. [I’m not gonna fight you.] The memory of that face, mottled with bruises from its own hand, nose broken, lip busted, made the Soldier’s insides twist and the head throb. It felt the nearly overwhelming impulse to run, to escape from this place as quickly as it could, but the feet were riveted to the floor. It forced its gaze away from the Captain’s face, but it found no reprieve.

The image of the operative at the Captain’s left threatened to fully shut down its functioning. The urge to scream clawed up its throat, quelled only by its tightly clenched teeth. Perspiration broke out across the back of its neck. The stomach was empty, but it roiled threateningly.

The Soldier’s memory, at least what parts of its memory it was allowed to keep, was eidetic. It could identify a target by the bridge of their nose or the pattern of their gait. It knew that face. It had seen it, haggard and dusted with stubble, not six hours ago in the mirror at the cafe. It was… it was the Soldier itself. Not just similar, as if its appearance had been modeled after this operative. It was exact, down to every freckle and crease of the skin. As it turned from the mural, the eyes lingered on the replica of the operative’s field uniform, catching on each shining button and elegant cut of fabric. It was a very unique shade of blue, like…

At the next display it was again accosted by its own image, this time in pale greyscale. There was a long description alongside the photograph: A Fallen Comrade: [Your name is] Sergeant James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. The words that followed read similarly to the assumed identities that operatives created for infiltration missions. An entire backstory, including friends and family, presented as fact by this exhibition. The Soldier disregarded the information as obviously false. Two conflicting dates of birth revealed that little care had been taken in confirming the data. It had no family. It had been made, born in ice and agony, a creature mimicking human form to pass unnoticed in the shadows. Another wave of pain, as if a bullet had torn through its skull. It wrenched itself away from the display, tension building in its spine.

The Soldier had known the Captain. Its assumption that they had fought together before was accurate, but it could not have guessed that he had been its field commander. ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ must have been an old designation, the one it used while working under the Captain.

It was often used for internal sanctions. Colonel Karpov especially had enjoyed employing its skills when punishing defectors. It must have served the Captain long ago, before he became an enemy of HYDRA. It could not remember. It was only permitted to retain information relevant to its training, its protocols, handlers’ preferences, and, of course, its punishments. How else would it learn? It had no idea how long it had been operable. The earliest data it could recall was from approximately 1960, though that was sparse and full of gaps where irrelevant programming had been redacted. It knew it had served many masters, being transferred from the Soviet Army to Department X before its placement with the Americans, but HYDRA’s scientists had created it, and that department had been founded in the early twentieth century.

The Captain would have been one of its very first handlers.

No, that couldn’t be correct. The first handler had been… [Bare feet on icy concrete, legs aching with exertion, hand shaking and painted in red, red and red and red on pristine white. “Snova! Bystreye, sobaka!”]

It barely suppressed the trembling that threatened to incapacitate it. The limbs were at once numb and alight with fire, run through with artificial lightning. The muscles of the back spasmed uncontrollably. It felt itself teetering on the edge of a precipice, gravity an irresistible temptation. It could so easily let itself fall, let the ice take it, let the empty white chasm steal away the agony that suffused every hour of its being.

It blinked. The museum. It was still in the museum, standing dumbly before the ghostly reflection of its own face. A bolt of rage nearly drove the fist into the glass. The urge to destroy the disorienting display was overwhelming. It had to move, had to escape these false words and taunting images. The Soldier turned to leave, but the eyes caught on another photograph, the emotional response dissipating just as quickly as it had arisen, replaced by an inexorable force tugging at its solar plexus.

Before it could stop itself, the body moved, weaving through the crowd to reach the far side of the cavernous room. Its knees hit cold tile, and the Soldier found itself face to face with a perfect, life-size image of, of…

Phantom sensations came over the body once again, [wool blankets, warm broth, graphite-stained fingers trailing down…]but they had a different quality than the previous malfunctions. There was a sense of… warmth, not-pain, not-fear. Comfort, perhaps? The Soldier was not sure when it had last felt comfort, or if it would recognize the state if it were to experience it. Its existence was marked with the looming threat of punishment, the sharp eyes of handlers, the cold tools of the technicians, the tension and frenetic release of the missions – a mosaic of violence stitching its patchwork memory together. Comfort was not a consideration for the Fist of HYDRA.

It was drawing odd looks from the civilians. The Soldier realized it had been kneeling before the display for uncounted seconds. It slowly rose to its feet, feigning attention on its boots as if the laces had come untied. It should relocate, divert attention from itself, but the knees felt weak, and the lungs struggled to draw in air. It felt inexplicably drawn to this man, the stranger who shared the Captain’s face. And his name. Steven Grant Rogers, the caption said. One-hundred-sixty-three centimeters and forty-three kilograms of scoliotic asthmatic. He had undergone an experimental procedure to become the first enhanced soldier. To become the Captain.

The Soldier could barely rectify this information with its observations.

He was so… so small before. It studied the photograph, drinking in each detail – his sharp jaw, the jut of his clavicles under thin cotton, the span of his fingers, so deft despite their crookedness. Its own fingers itched to touch, reach out and trace the fine bones of his hands. It knew, intrinsically, that it had knelt at this man’s feet, had felt his grip in its hair, even before he underwent the enhancements. His mind must have been very valuable, his hold on the Soldier strong.

Only a few handlers had made such a lasting impression on it. Some with pain, others with rare glimpses of tenderness. It was nearly impossible for any sort of weakness to survive within HYDRA, and the Soldier coveted each gentle touch, each small gift. Commander Rumlow had seen that, and he had obliged the Soldier often, petting its hair, giving it what few human foods it could tolerate. Sometimes he even took his gloves off when he used it, and the feeling of his rough, gun-calloused hands lit up the Soldier’s entire body. It could not remember any of its time serving the Captain – his protocols were likely erased when he turned against HYDRA – but the body knew him. He must have been either exceptionally kind or exceptionally cruel.

But he had said I’m with you, as if they were comrades. He’d said I’m not gonna fight you and I’m your friend. The Soldier could not comprehend the words. Weapons did not have friends. It barely had allies. Only fellow operatives, pointed at the same target, or handlers, meting out orders and discipline.

The Captain’s voice kept ricocheting through its mind, more compelling than any imperative. He was alive now. The Soldier could have seen him, just this morning. It had been so close, only meters away from his hospital room. He had been breathing when it pulled him from the river, it was sure of it. The Soldier had heard his heartbeat. His death would not go unannounced. Unless SHIELD was withholding the information… It had to find him, ensure his safety, it had to– [severe cognitive malfunction, report for reset.]

The warring compulsions became intolerable, the Soldier unable to process such disparate input. It hastened to the nearest toilet, spilling little more than bile into the ceramic basin. It had to leave. This place was only worsening its malfunctions. This was why it was not allowed outside information; it was obviously detrimental to its functioning. It quickly cleansed itself, avoiding the mirrors. It could not stand to see that face again.

____________________________________________________

The heart rate calmed as it moved back through the city, cool autumn air soothing its skin and the pattern of surveillance settling the mind. The police blockade showed no signs of dissipating. Even as night fell, huge spotlights were illuminated for miles along the river bank to facilitate continued dredging and monitoring through the darkness. Another retrieval crew filed in, ready to take up the work. If anything, law enforcement increased to compensate for the potential of interference after the sun set. News helicopters still hovered, camera crews and vans lined up along the streets at every checkpoint. There was no way to reach the safehouse in Anacostia without attracting notice. By now, SHIELD had probably already discovered it.

It had to keep moving. It had been in DC for nearly thirty hours with no sign of extraction. It was still reeling from the train, the hospital, the museum, the press of the crowds, the flood of unbidden sensations and uncontrollable responses. The Soldier knew its cognition was rapidly becoming unreliable.

There was no real timeline anymore, only the continuous imperative to locate a handler. It could spare an hour to rest and nutriate. It knew how to find appropriate shelter in metropolitan areas. It had done so before, when the extraction team was compromised. It had taken a bus, once, all the way to… [cognition error]

In fourteen point two minutes it found an ideal location – an abandoned housing unit, sandwiched between a shuttered storefront and an empty lot. There was no surveillance on the entire block, and several of the streetlights were dark, bulbs busted and never replaced. It completed a perimeter check – no sign of habitation, no noise from any of the surrounding structures. The Soldier did not even have to break the locks, shouldering open a half-rotten side door. The interior moldered with neglect, paper peeling from the walls, water damage staining the ceilings, most of the windows broken, but it would suffice for its needs. It cleared away some of the debris and settled into a corner of what used to be a sitting room, monitoring both entrances but obscured from view of the windows.

The intravenous nutrition should be used first, as it was unstable outside of refrigeration. It had observed this procedure countless times. Each intravenous nutrition pack contained its own sterile needle and cannula. Infection was not a concern. It located an appropriate vein and inserted the tubing quickly, tamping down on the tremor that ran through it at the sight of the hypodermic [irregular]. The emotional responses were becoming more noticeable the longer it went without maintenance. The Soldier elevated the bag, locking the prosthesis to serve as a stand, and allowed its head to rest against the crumbling wall. The impulse to close its eyes was nearly irresistible. It had only been operational for fourteen hours since the last rest period. It should not be so weak.

A long, low breath exited the lungs when the glucose solution hit its bloodstream. It knew its metabolic requirements were a major obstacle in its maintenance. On multi-day ops, there was an entire duffel devoted just to its nutrition and supplements. The field rations would have to be carefully monitored. There was no way to know how far it would have to travel or when it might find appropriate supplies.

It had not been able to locate any of the standard pharmaceuticals at the Vault. The technicians always administered them after activation – or the handler, if it was in the field longer than seventy-two hours. It was not sure of the exact function of these substances, but it was highly probable that their absence was contributing to its malfunctions. Even if it could find a cache of the pharmaceuticals, it would not know how to administer them or at what dosage. It was soon approaching the critical point at which maintenance would be necessary to any semblance of functionality. The IV, at least, had supplied enough nutrition and hydration to bring some of its strategic thinking back online. [Cognitive functionality: fifty-three percent. Report for reset.]

HYDRA was in complete disarray. The Secretary and the Commander were dead, most of STRIKE Alpha dead or in federal custody. The secondary handlers would have gone to ground after the Widow’s data dump, their identities revealed and operations disbanded. The rendezvous points had been abandoned with no communications. And nearly all of its maintenance supplies had been requisitioned for other uses.

There was no way to determine chain of command until the remaining HYDRA cells coalesced into something functional. The communications blackout meant that no new information would be available until new encryptions had been created, and by that point the Soldier’s passcodes would be useless. There might still be a secondary handler active in this region, with enough men loyal to them that they could hold power until HYDRA regrouped. Davis was supposed to be nearby, heading up operations in the northeastern region. But the location of any given operative was impossible to determine now. He might already be on another continent.

If it sent out a missive for extraction to whoever was left, it would satisfy the imperative to report to a handler. But SHIELD had access to the HYDRA intranet, and that would give them a clear avenue to locate the Soldier and take it into custody. It could hardly guess at what sort of treatment they might subject it to. It could withstand most any interrogation technique, but SHIELD might prefer to reprogram it for their own use. It had no discrete memories of the original programming process, but the Soldier knew it was to be avoided at all costs.

It flicked the plates of the prosthesis open to maintenance position, trying to determine if the tracking device within the arm was still functional. It was useless without the proper tools. There was evidence of previous damage in the upper portion of the limb, hastily patched, and the lower arm and wrist joint exhibited a millisecond delay from the circuit damage inflicted during the confrontation with the Captain and the descent into the river. There was non-zero probability that at least one tracking device had been rendered inoperable. The prosthesis had been exposed to high impact force multiple times, electro-magnetic charges, and had been submerged in polluted water for over eight minutes with damaged plates.

The last anyone had seen of it, it had been falling from an exploding helicarrier into the Potomac. It was possible that the Soldier was presumed inoperable. Or dead. As far as a biomechanical weapon could be dead.

There were no orders. There was no mission. There was no extraction.

Panic threatened to consume it once again, the vision clouding and the heart rate increasing. It forced itself to focus. The IV nutrition bag was empty. It was formulated for human metabolism and would not provide even a tenth of the Soldier’s daily caloric needs, but it was better than nothing. It took a slow breath and stripped the tubing, eking out the last few precious drops of glucose, then removed the cannula from its arm, pulled the jacket sleeve back on, and used its smallest knife to cut the sullied end of the plastic. It could leave no evidence of its presence behind, no sample of HYDRA’s successful serum for some enemy to find. The bloodied needle and tubing went into the duffel, to be properly disposed of later.

The Soldier scoured the building for any usable materials. Only a few canned foods and items of clothing, neither suitable for its body, remained in the house. It discovered a lidded plastic container that would be serviceable for the field rations while it was in transit. The attached garage was slightly more fruitful. It added a coil of nylon rope and a few tools to the duffel, then adjusted the civilian clothing and made its exit.

It would have to avoid the river and travel further north. Davis had been stationed at the research facility in Baltimore. Even if he relocated after the data dump, the base itself might yield information and supplies. Transportation via civilian vehicles or mass transit would be most efficient, but with its worsening malfunctions the probability of attracting attention was high. If its cognition failed while operating a vehicle, or if it could not maintain situational awareness on a crowded train, the resulting scene would almost guarantee that the Soldier ended up in enemy custody. It would go on foot, keeping under cover. The base was approximately sixty kilometers from here, only ten hours’ travel on foot. Darkness enveloped the city now, providing ideal conditions for movement.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

The Soldier found itself in a seemingly endless expanse of trees. It had been so focused on reaching the base, locating a handler, that it had barely taken conscious notice as the landscape around it shifted from crowded suburbs to rural homes to the dense forest. It should have been reassuring – the cover of foliage in the dark night, the lack of civilian vehicles, the deep silence. But it could not settle its mind, and the body was not complying with its commands. The legs would not move faster, the eyes went unfocused for long delirious seconds, and the gut cramped incessantly. It was imperative to reach the base quickly, but some invisible weight bore down upon its limbs. Its pace had slowed the further it had traveled, an irregular response to the simple exertion of walking.

There was something deeply wrong with it. It required maintenance, a reset. It would not resist the chair this time. It would welcome the quieting of its mind, no matter how much pain it brought. It longed for [the Asset does not want] the certainty of clear orders, the nothingness of cryo. It paused behind a thick, gnarled elm. The hands would not stop shaking. Even the prosthetic limb shuddered with nervous energy, plates flickering back and forth in an unsettled recalibration pattern. It did not understand. The Soldier had used the nutrition pack. It was not enough, but it should have had a more lasting effect.

It leaned back against the solid trunk of the tree and sank to the forest floor, allowing the glittering stars to steal its attention for a while. It felt intolerably small, staring up into the expanse of the night sky. It thought of the carefully crafted machines at the museum, soft, unenhanced humans exposing themselves to the most inhospitable conditions in order to explore the expanse of space. There came an unexplainable sensation, the stomach lurching as if it was falling up into the blackness.

The Soldier was lost. Not literally – it had a highly accurate sense of direction and could easily determine latitude and longitude based on the position of the stars above. But cognitively. It was chasing after its handlers with a desperation it had not felt since… [invalid data.] It was the Fist of HYDRA. It was a valuable weapon. And yet, it was wandering through the middle of Maryland at 0300 with no support. It hadn’t missed the rendezvous. There had been no rendezvous. No extraction at all. That couldn’t be right. Was it possible that it had forgotten the extraction instructions? Its cognition was sometimes unreliable. A handler would know how to mitigate the malfunctions, how to discipline the Soldier, to silence the ever-louder clamoring in its head.

[You know me.]

It could not escape the images of the failed mission, the target-turned-rescue, the small man in the museum. It turned them over again and again, swept up in a cycle of analysis and doubt. Whenever it closed its eyes, the Captain’s face was there again. It was unnerving. Even if he had been a handler – even if he had been the first handler – it did not understand how he had overridden its orders. Why he had spoken to it like that. Why he had stopped fighting.

Why, even before the Captain said those haunting words, its body had rebelled against the mission imperative. There were multiple clear shots for his head, but each time, its hands had faltered and the Soldier’s bullets found some other home. Then, his voice burrowed deep into its marrow and reawakened something long dead. He must have been instrumental to its training, perhaps even part of its creation, for his influence to be so strong after decades of reprogramming. It remembered his body, broken and bleeding on the riverbank, and the stomach twinged with phantom pain.

It remembered screaming at him, its face screwed up in rage. Emotional reactions were a weakness that was below the Fist of HYDRA. They were irrelevant to its functions and interfered with the mission. It never vocalized in the field except to relay information to other operatives. It never had emotional reactions to its targets. But it had been… it had been so angry . It had hurt. Every time the Captain opened his mouth, the steel guy-wires of its programming had twisted tighter and tighter, until they snapped. And it stilled its hand. And it fell. And it jumped, following his silhouette into the murky waters.

[End of the line. One more time.]

The limbs were trembling constantly now, an intolerable display of its deficiencies. It required more nutrition, but it could not bring itself to insert the IV or prepare the field rations. It could no longer track the seconds, time slipping past on skittering treads. The horizon seemed to cant back and forth, as if the Soldier were on a gently rocking craft on the ocean. Had it ever been on the ocean? It must have. It had been active for decades, completing missions all over the world. The probability of traveling by sea at least once was high.

The Soldier sat, staring up at the swath of the Milky Way and picking apart what little information it had, for uncounted hours. Eventually the swell of birdsong drew it back to awareness. Dawn was beginning to break, a soft glow chasing the stars from the eastern sky. Movement was imperative now. Approximately six hours remained in its journey. The Soldier pushed itself to its feet and levered itself into motion. The unintentional delay had allowed the pelvic fractures time to heal, though the other malfunctions persisted.

In less than an hour, it came across a stream that was cold and clear enough to be trustworthy. Its physiology made the risk of bacterial infection negligible, though part of it rebelled against the idea of consuming untreated water. Nutrition took priority. It dropped the duffel and knelt by the bank. The stream sparkled with the pink light of the morning sun. Cupping some of the icy water in its hands, it attempted to cleanse the face. The sudden shock on its already clammy skin sent the mind clanging off its rails.

[Face covered, frigid water in the mouth, in the nose, in the lungs, limbs jerking against the restraints. It wanted to scream, but it only sucked in more water. “Are you ready to comply?”]

It gasped, shaking itself. Its hands were in the mud. The dew from the grass had soaked through the knees of the soft civilian pants, exacerbating the fluctuations in its body temperature. Rations. It had to prepare the field rations. It tore through the duffel with unsteady fingers, extricating the plastic vessel and one of the ration packs. Open the packaging. Some of the powdered substance spilled out onto the grass and across its clothing. A waste. It should– Open the water bottle. Combine water and rations. Just half a liter. It closed the vessel and agitated the solution, attempting to regulate its breathing.

The Soldier hesitated as it brought the vessel to its mouth. [Ration allocation is at the discretion of the handler.] This situation was outside of regular operating parameters. It was an emergency, though no handler or field commander had declared it so. Without nutrition it could not report to the handler to fulfill its functions, to receive maintenance, to carry out its next mission. It commanded its hands to move despite the twinge of pain from disobeying protocol. The stomach nearly rebelled at the sudden influx of nutrients, but it forced the rest of the rations down, breathing slowly and regularly until the risk of expelling the solution was minimal. Stealing rations and consuming them without orders was one thing, but wasting them… that was entirely unacceptable. It rinsed the vessel in the stream, tucked it and the spent packaging into the duffel, and continued north.

_____________________________________________________________

It skirted highways whenever possible, keeping to the sparse forests that dotted the city. Its path crossed with few civilians, most of them vagrants. They were similar enough in dress to the Soldier that its appearance allowed it to pass unnoticed.

As it drew closer to the base, it took to pedestrian pathways. Traversing a metropolitan area was even more problematic now. Cognitive functionality had declined precipitously as it came back into populous neighborhoods [forty-five percent and falling] despite the additional nutrients from the rations. The shaking in its limbs had decreased, but there was still a noticeable tremor in the right hand. It required every shred of the Soldier’s discipline to maintain cover as it moved through the city, following the route etched within its mind. The body tensed, and it nearly dove for shelter when a passenger jet roared overhead. The airport. It was close. At the sign for Brooklyn Park, it turned east. Keep moving. Eyes down, shoulders slumped, make itself small and unobtrusive.

After approximately fourteen hours of travel – had it lost time again? – it came to the hidden entrance of the base, a heavy door disguised within the corrugated walls of stacked shipping containers. The air stank of brine and diesel and heated steel. The noise of civilians moving about, ships and trains coming and going, was a constant distraction. The Soldier hid the duffel, secreting three more knives under its clothing. The risk of meeting enemy agents was nonzero.

The security system was still intact. It entered the standard access code to avoid alerting anyone to its presence with a higher level authorization until it had assessed the situation. The door clicked open.

It waited.

There was no sound from the interior. No trace of blood or gunpowder. Just the musty smell of seawater and stagnant air. It slipped inside, drawing its sidearm as the door closed behind it – a Sig P220 found at the Vault. It still had the Derringers from the tac kit, though they would require a thorough cleaning, and a Glock G34 stowed in the duffel.

Operations was two levels up, disguised by the derelict manufacturing facilities on either side of the concrete structure. The Soldier quickly cleared the first level – it was in a state similar to the Vault, hastily abandoned, with all comms devices destroyed or ripped from the walls. There were scorch marks in several places where documents had been incinerated rather than falling into the hands of enemy agents.

The second level was much the same, with the addition of broken equipment and shattered glass from the chemical research laboratory located here. The Soldier moved through these rooms with haste, tamping down the reactions that threatened to rise up at the sight of the gleaming tables and unmarked vials. It remembered the short time it had been housed at this base well.

There were no signs of occupation, nor of interference from SHIELD. Only two days had passed since the files were released. Perhaps they had not yet discovered this location.

On the ops level things were less chaotic, but there was still evidence of a rushed retreat. Where there had once been banks of servers and comms equipment, there were only silhouettes in the dust and wires hanging loose. It made its way deeper into the corridors, angling for what had been Davis’ office. The door was bolted, still secured with an electronic lock. It risked entering the access code for administrative level operatives. The keypad blinked red, and the door did not respond. It had been reset after the base went into lockdown. The Soldier tried an override code. No response.

It shifted its stance, drew back the left arm, and battered the hinges until the door caved inward. The twinge of complaint from its ribs was negligible, and it was worth the satisfaction of feeling the heavy steel give way.

The office was bare, only a dark wooden desk and padded chair remaining. It scanned for any scrap of data, any potential hiding place for an encoded message, but the cabinets were cleaned out and all of the physical documents gone. The Soldier inspected the far side of the desk, hands tracing under the edge of the wood until it found an irregular seam. There. With a soft click, a hidden compartment swung open. It appeared empty. It ran the fingers of the left hand across the opening, searching for something, anything out of place.

As it passed the sensors of the prosthesis across the back of the compartment, the index finger sent anomalous feedback, an almost imperceptible jolt of static electricity. The fingertips traced the interior walls until it heard another soft sound. A second compartment slid open. It hesitantly explored inside, groping blindly until the fingers closed around a small rectangular object. The Soldier pulled it free, examining it in the gloom of the windowless warehouse.

An electronic key. Without knowing how it knew to do so, it paced over to the eastern wall, searching again with the prosthesis until it found another site that made the fingers hum with static, a small indentation in the panels. It inserted the key.

Nothing happened.

It was missing something, some step in the process that had been obscured by the many resets since it had been under Davis’ command. It pressed both hands to the smooth surface of the wall, trying to think, trying to remember. It was so close. Tension built in its chest. It rested the forehead against the wall, breathing in the stale scent of the office, steel and salt and copper. Traces of Davis’ cologne still lingered in the room, tickling the back of its mind. It felt the shadows shifting. The ghostly weight of lost years settled heavy on its back.

[Leather boots in the periphery, whiskey spilled on the floor, deep voices laughing above it. “Oh just wait til you see this…”]

The lips moved without thought.

“Crimson X-ray Victor India India”

The voice sounded strange to its ears, thready and cracked. It opened the eyes to find a seam of light glowing from the wall, spreading until it became a rectangular outline. A panel moved forward, revealing a hidden terminal. Davis’ personal access point. It must have been forgotten in the rush to evacuate. The Soldier exhaled a breath it did not realize it had been holding. It was unbelievable that it had been able to get this far at its current level of cognitive function, and without being detected.

The hands wavered as it began working at the terminal, attempting to access any internal communications channels. In a blatant violation of infosec, Davis’ login to the personal mail client was still active. It searched through the most recent messages, looking for any information about where the remaining operatives had evacuated.

The eyes fell on an oddly titled message, addressed to multiple agents. A Very Special Birthday Party . It had been sent in March. Every other message was businesslike, with straightforward subject lines. Perhaps it was some sort of code. The message had an attachment, an untitled zip file. It extracted the data, expecting details on some high-level project. What it found caused several simultaneous reactions in the body. Blackness edged around the peripheral vision. Nausea rolled through it, and perspiration broke out along its back. The mouth was dry, and the extremities suddenly felt very cold.

There were dozens of images of the Soldier performing the secondary function. Tension twisted through its abdomen. It did not remember these activities, could not recall the room it was in or the chains on its limbs or the press of so many hands on its flesh. It could not even name half of the operatives shown in the images. It had not been aware that this function was documented in such detail. Surveillance images of its primary function were always thoroughly wiped. The eyes caught on one photograph in particular – its own face, battered and soaked with unnameable fluids. Someone outside of the frame held its chin, fingerless leather glove revealing tanned, calloused digits, the thumb scrubbing over its mouth.

["So good for me, kitten."]

For a moment, it thought it could smell the Commander’s cologne, and wisps of cigarette smoke haunted its vision. The Soldier quickly closed the folder, removing its shaking hands from the keyboard. It stumbled away from the console, pressing its knuckles to its eyes. The phantom scents were gone. The softly glowing screen showed only the desktop, littered with various files and applications.

The chest heaved, the heart rate stubbornly refusing to slow. This reaction was irrational. The secondary function was simply part of its duties. It hadn’t known these images existed, but they should not inspire such weakness. It pressed the nails of the right hand into the palm, focusing on the negligible pricks of pain.

Once the nausea had abated and the tremors in its hand had returned to the baseline of the previous eighteen hours, it approached the terminal again, sifting through the remaining messages. Supply requisition. Budget alteration. Weapons testing results. It decidedly did not read that message. Davis’ proclivity for chemical weapons was well known, and the Soldier… the Soldier had…

[–bitten through the mouthguard, screaming and screaming until the sound was drowned in its blood and bile and a chunk of hot meat in the back of the throat. The tip of its tongue, choking it until Davis had–]

There. Personnel movements. A small contingent of researchers had been transferred to Washington state to pursue a weapons development program using Chitauri biological samples. But the message was six months old, and it was unrelated to Insight.There was nothing noteworthy in the messages since then, nothing to indicate the rest of the operatives’ direction of retreat. They must have used verbal comms to coordinate their movements. Blackout would have been initiated as soon as the Captain infiltrated the Triskelion.It had to find something, anything indicating the secondary handler’s location. All that remained on the harddrive were research files and personnel reports. The Soldier accessed the most recent map of Region Six installations.

The map was unchanged. There were no new facilities marked, no hint as to where the new regional Head, if one existed, would be stationed. It spent a moment exploring the application, searching for anything hidden in the code. Many administrative operatives preferred to embed sensitive information within other types of data, disguised from lower-level agents. The Soldier discovered a previously unseen dataset, locked but not encrypted. It let the hands move across the keyboard without conscious instruction, muscle memory guiding it to the most likely key. On the fifth attempt, the screen refreshed and a new layer overlaid the map.

Each base and cache had a symbol over top of it. Some of them a white circle. Some, a white star. A select few were marked by black circles. It dug into the coding, trying to determine the origin and function of this data layer. The coding style seemed familiar, though it did not follow the standards of this branch of HYDRA. The new layer was recent, deployed thirty-one hours ago, and updated only two hours ago. Forty-four hours after the SHIELD files had been released. There was no legend for the icons, no way to decipher what their meaning was. It went back to the map, letting its eyes rest on the image, relying on its intuition to find some sort of pattern.

It clicked.

The white icons formed a spiraling fractal, beginning with the Vault at the center and radiating outward, the longest arm lying to the southwest. The black circles were clustered around the DC safehouses, with one or two indicating caches in Philadelphia. It was a constellation, a delicate spiderweb shining in white and blue LED. Someone was checking off bases in this sequence all across the eastern half of the continent. Whether it was HYDRA or SHIELD or some other unknown agency, it could not know.

As it studied the pattern, the map flickered, and the white dot indicating the Baltimore facility turned black.

The Soldier quickly cleared the terminal and pushed the panel back into the wall. It crushed the electronic key and scattered the pieces across the destroyed laboratory as it made a swift, silent exit.

Natasha dug around in her purse, trying to figure out which phone was vibrating incessantly. She absently stepped forward as the line for coffee advanced, bringing the oversized Gucci bag in front of her to avoid twisting her injured shoulder. Falcon burner? Nope. Clint emergency line? Nope. Straight-to-voicemail Tony decoy? Not that one either. Aha. The latest addition to her collection – the HYDRA intranet baby monitor. She punched in the passcode, then the second passcode, and opened her custom tracking app.

She’d given up on getting notifications for every single new IP accessing the channels. There were so many agents scrambling for information using civilian devices, she’d gotten hundreds of alerts within the first half hour. Eventually Natasha had narrowed the notifications down to hits from specific facilities, those significant enough to indicate a large movement of personnel or supplies. The rest of them were recorded, of course, but now her phone wasn’t blowing up every time HYDRA Bob scratched his ass.

She glanced up distractedly at the overly peppy barista, rattled off her usual order, and presented one of her many Stark black cards before returning her attention to the phone.

Natasha really wanted to get out there and bash some heads. But all of her covers had been blown, her shoulder was still shot, and then she’d had to rush off and spend a very stressful eighteen hours trying to extract Clint from Palmyra without him acquiring another limb-threatening injury. Since then, her agenda was decryption, coding, and more decryption. Plus putting together a couple dozen new covers. All while harassing Wilson and making sure Rogers didn’t bolt from the hospital. So much fun.

Huh. One of the internal alarms at the Baltimore base was set off when someone broke into an admin office and accessed a terminal. The ragtag remnants of SHIELD were scheduled for a final sweep of the facility today, but that team hadn’t even left DC yet. When she’d cased the base yesterday morning, there was nothing left but boot prints and empty labs, much less a functioning computer. There must have been a hidden access point that she missed. It rankled. She never missed things like that. Most of the HYDRA cannon fodder were brainless minions, but a handful of the command level members were slimy enough to pull sh*t like this once in a while.

It might be a stray tech trying to contact someone or salvage their work, but all of the operatives in Baltimore, hell, across the entire East Coast, had fled within hours of Insight’s failure. They were following some emergency retreat plan that she still hadn’t been able to find in the exposed files. Natasha scrolled through the activity log, expecting the usual hasty data scraping, but it just looked like someone had poked through Davis’ emails and then…

She nearly dropped her cappuccino when she saw the photos that had been accessed. Falling into the nearest open chair, she set down her drink and clamped a hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t puke. She quickly purged the files, running a handy little sequence that would chase down all remaining instances of those photographs. (Thank you, Stark Industries PR training.) No one needed to see that, especially Rogers. There would be plenty of other evidence if they needed to build a legal case. She took a wavering breath, smoothing her hands over her hair and tugging at the end of her bangs.

God, James. What had they done to him? He’d looked so… resigned. Not angry, not even afraid, just blank. It was a far cry from the confident, headstrong man she’d known. Natasha desperately hoped he wasn’t the one at that terminal right now, but there was a good chance it was him. She couldn’t even imagine how he’d react. She really needed to shoot someone. No, that wasn’t quite right. Stabbing would be much more cathartic. Maybe a nice slow death via impalement. She knew of at least one old Basque castle with some lovely implements still intact.

Whoever was using the terminal closed out of the message quickly. They spent a few minutes clicking through the other emails, then opened the regional map. It was being referenced a lot lately, now that the HYDRA goons were looking for secure boltholes or the newest wannabe Head to fall in line behind, but so far no one had noticed her little addition.

It would be stupid to let HYDRA know that they were coming. But whoever this was had figured out the password for her hidden layer without having to hack their way in. She knew it wasn’t exactly secure, but she'dbeen leaving breadcrumbs, on the very slim chance that James came to his senses and tried to find her. The key was an old Soviet code she only used with certain allies. Natasha had tried something like this before, dropping leads that he might pick up on – at least once she’d put enough distance and bloodshed between herself and the Red Room to not be captured – but he’d never touched them, might not have even known what they were without his memory of their private signals.

Steve said the Soldier had recognized him for a brief moment, but that could be chalked up to wishful thinking on his part. She loved Steve, really, but his optimism was closer to idiocy sometimes. No, not optimism. Stubborn insistence that the world should be as just as he imagined it. The result was the same.

She’d known James for almost a decade in all, first as a student, then as a partner. After the last time they wiped him, he hadn’t acknowledged her with anything other than bullets and blades. But Steve’s influence went deeper. She didn’t have all the details of their relationship, but based on Rogers’ reactions, it wasn’t that difficult to guess. They were tangled up in each other like some great ancient vine, roots so deeply intertwined that it was surprising Steve had kept breathing this long without James. Hopefully James’ memories of him would still be in there, somewhere the reprogramming couldn't reach. Somewhere more sheltered than where her memories had lived. Natasha nearly rolled her eyes when she recognized the creeping tendrils of jealousy coloring her thoughts. It didn't matter. Whether or not he was still her James, she owed him this.

Two days since Insight. That was plenty of time for him to make his way to that base after the Vault was compromised. She couldn’t be sure if he was out for revenge or just trying to return to his handlers. She wasn't about to rat him out to Rogers. There was no way to know where James' head was at right now, and he didn't need that kind of pressure on him if he didn't remember Steve right now. But if SHIELD got to him…

She toggled the icon for Baltimore.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

There were a number of abandoned industrial buildings in the vicinity. The Soldier located one with lines to the entrance of the base and a functional lock on the main doors. It scaled the exterior of the building and heaved itself and the duffel through a broken fourth story window. The wooden floor creaked with its movements, years of dust disturbed under its boots. The space was empty save for a sparse scattering of crates and a healthy population of rats and pigeons. It did not know if the incoming agents were allies or enemies. If an allied operative was returning to clean up Davis’ terminal, it could intercept them here. If enemy agents were inbound, it would monitor their movements and attempt to determine an appropriate response, if one was needed.

There were no long-range weapons in its supplies. It set up at an acceptable vantage point, retrieving the UV-blocking goggles and locking the prosthesis to provide stability for the Glock, compensating for the persistent weakness in its right hand. The Soldier fixed its attention on the entrance to the base, approximately one-hundred-twenty meters from its location. The wind was steady from the east, the sky unclouded, and its position obscured by the angle of the sun. It waited.

With a weapon in its hands, the tremor eased. It felt the calm of mission focus steal over it, muffling the cognitive malfunctions and clamoring imperatives until nothing but silence filled the mind. The eyes tracked civilian movement in the area, the ears pricked for any irregular footfalls. Hours passed. The light shifted. The Soldier adjusted its position accordingly, boots barely disturbing the shattered glass littering the floor as it moved down the row of smog-clouded windows to follow a patch of shadow.

Three hours and forty-one point three minutes after it had assumed its post, it heard the approach of four heavy vehicles: two armored vans and two utility vehicles. One pulled up directly in front of the entrance to the base, and the other three were positioned to block the alleys on each side. Armored operatives in unmarked uniforms poured from the vehicles, cutting off every exit. Four agents approached the hidden entrance, setting charges around the doorframe. They weren’t even trying an access code. SHIELD loyalists, probably, though they wore no insignia. Without Insight to eliminate them, it seemed that SHIELD was regrouping and targeting HYDRA installations. It did not know the identity of every double operative within their ranks, and could not determine if any of these people were to be trusted.

It heard the agent in charge coordinate via radio, then two muted detonations went off simultaneously. The front and rear doors fell, and the agents filed in, weapons readied. There was nothing for it to do. There were no resources to protect, no handlers to defend. If they did not have the codes for the door, it was highly unlikely that they would be able to access Davis’ terminal, if they could even find it in the first place. The Soldier revealing its location by engaging would be counterproductive.

SHIELD had flushed it from the Vault and was in Baltimore just hours after it had arrived here. It knew there was a tracking device hidden in the prosthesis. There were likely others buried somewhere in its flesh. Before, it had assumed that HYDRA would use them to retrieve the Soldier, but now it seemed more prudent to deactivate them. SHIELD had full access to the compromised HYDRA transmission channels. It was a violation of protocol to interfere with the devices installed in its body, but eliminating the risk of being followed by enemy agents would be worth the punishment. Capture and interrogation were to be avoided at all costs. If the handlers had not tracked it down by now…

The Soldier lowered its weapon, observing as the SHIELD team filtered in and out of the building. Once they confirmed the base was empty, they began removing whatever meager remnants of HYDRA activity they could find. Shattered beakers were swept into evidence bags. Singed, barely legible scraps of paper were carefully collected. Whatever information they gleaned from such pitiful materials would not lead them to Davis’ location. Their time would be better served sorting through the Widow’s data.

As it waited for the team to clear out, the right hand began shaking again. The left was steady where it gripped the pistol, but the flesh fingers grew restless, tracing back and forth across the weathered wood of the windowsill, nails catching on each irregularity in the weathered surface. Something shifted in the corner of the warehouse, shadows moving in the wrong direction for the angle of the sun. The Soldier held position, flicking its eyes over to inspect the cavernous space. There was nothing there, not even a bird fluttering in the rafters.

It required further nutrition. It had been over twelve hours since the previous rations, and the body was still recovering from the damage incurred in DC. The Soldier was soon approaching the seventy-two hour deadline for administration of the pharmaceuticals, but there was no remedy for that without a handler. It exhaled slowly, realigning the sight with the lead SHIELD agent, and reviewed its next steps.

Priorities:

Remove tracking devices to avoid detection by enemy agents.
Obtain shelter.
Prepare rations.
Determine next most probable location of allied operatives.
Locate handler.

It took the SHIELD agents another two hours thirty-nine minutes to fully clear the base. They had not looked towards its nest once. Either their fix on the tracking signal was not exact, or their arrival here truly was a coincidence. It seemed unlikely. Their presence did confirm that the hidden map application was of SHIELD origin, or at least correlated to their movements. Once the armored vehicles moved out of range, the Soldier collected its weapons, removed the goggles, and exited the building, sparing a moment to obscure the boot prints it had left in the dust.

The first objective was simple. The journey towards the base had taken it past an electronics manufacturing facility. Six hundred meters west, four hundred south. The time was approximately 1800. The doors were still open, and the present civilians were all deeply engaged in their work. It was a matter of seconds for the Soldier to slip inside and remove two of the tools from their slots on the bench without notice. They were placed into the duffel, and it strode sedately away from the building, cap pulled low over the face. Just another worker leaving after their shift.

There were three safehouses in this metropolitan area, but if the base was compromised then it was sure that the safehouses would be as well. The ideal course of action would be to find an unaffiliated location that would confuse any signals from the trackers. The airport. Plenty of radio towers and EM interference, and if the signal disappeared there, any pursuers would assume that the Soldier had left the region, if not the country. Once again it concentrated on fading into the crowds, making its way southwest.

_______________________

It burrowed into a derelict concrete shelter approximately nine hundred meters from the security fence of the airfield. The location was shielded by forest on three sides, invisible from the road. After establishing a secure perimeter for half a kilometer in all directions, it stripped down to the compression garments, folding the civilian clothing into a neat pile near the duffel. The magnetic locator detected four devices embedded in its flesh. One in the right patella, one by the left iliac crest, one near the right scapula, and one at the base of the skull. The first two were easily removed with short incisions and a few deft twists of the knife. The third presented more of a challenge. The Soldier confirmed the location of the device as accurately as it could, then marked it with the index finger of the right hand.

The prosthesis was steady, the knife was sharp, and the incision nearly painless. Finding the tracking device blind took a few moments, titanium digits digging into the muscle, waiting for the sensors to pick up some small change in texture or another burst of static feedback. The prosthetic fingers were not quite as sensitive as their flesh counterparts, but the range of the left shoulder joint was greater than that of a standard limb, providing more flexibility as it searched for the device. The Soldier located it, tucked behind the superior angle of the scapula. A quick gust of air left the lungs as it plucked the device out of the wound. Both of its hands were bloodied, and a sheen of perspiration had broken out across the skin.

The device at the base of the skull was not difficult to reach, but the location was far more delicate. If it erred, the potential for severe damage was high. The Soldier could not be incapacitated right now, paralyzed for hours while it waited for the body to heal. It knew it would, even from a spinal laceration. It had done so before… It had–

[Numb, numb, the entire body numb, trapped in the dark, rats scuttling over the feet. It could hear them, could imagine their tiny claws scratching at the skin, but it could not move. It was going to die, it knew, it had to–]

The scream of a departing jet jolted the Soldier back to the present. It was so cold, the autumn air stealing its body heat as it dried the sweat from its back. The knife was still in its hand, its blood growing tacky on the blade. The trackers. It had to remove the trackers before SHIELD found it. It reached for the metal detector and confirmed the fourth device’s location, immediately to the left of the first cervical vertebra. The Soldier was able to palpate the device, using the right hand to determine that it was no more than half a centimeter deep. It should be possible to remove without causing nerve damage. It was nearly certain that this was a tracking device and not some accessory to the chair. The halo targeted the temples, not the spinal column.

Sacrificing visual awareness to better position the neck, it lowered its head to its knees. It angled the prosthesis carefully, creating an incision parallel to the fibers of the muscle. The fingers of the right hand dug into the flesh, locating the tracker and removing it within less than a second. The Soldier let the knife fall from its grasp before the involuntary twitch of its neck caused further damage. It allowed itself five seconds to recover before placing the device on the ground with the other trackers.

Two of them appeared active – the ones from the spine and the scapula – tickling the palm of the prosthesis with tiny electric currents. It crushed all of them and scanned the body again, checking twice more for any anomalous readings. The embedded support structures of the prosthesis made it difficult to determine if there were any extraneous devices beneath the flesh of the left side. Performing field surgery on the anchor points would likely cause more damage than necessary. If it continued to be followed, it could reexamine the area at a later time.

It opened the plates of the prosthesis into the maintenance position and examined the inner workings. The Soldier still did not know exactly what it was looking for. The other trackers had been small, pill-shaped things, less than two centimeters long, but it was possible that the one embedded in the left arm was of a different design. It had procured a battery-powered circuit tester from the workshop. It began at the wrist, tracing each wire as they traveled along the length of the prosthesis. The longer it worked, the more the right hand shook. When it inadvertently pressed the tip of the tool to an artificial nerve, a bolt of agony shot up the arm and into the spine.

[Lightning in the skull, blinding white light, the whir of the saw, the Doctor’s words lost under the noise, the throat raw from screaming.]

It bit back a noise of pain, nearly flinging the circuit tester across the expanse of asphalt in front of it. The chest ached from how tightly the lungs had constricted. Shadows threatened the edges of its vision. It spent two long minutes attempting to get the breathing back under control. It exhaled sharply, grit the teeth, and resumed its search, carefully avoiding the rest of the wiring of that style.

After twenty-eight point three minutes, the Soldier located an electrical field separate from the regular circuits of the prosthesis, on the posterior of the shoulder joint. It rotated the arm to obtain a better assessment of the area, but it was barely visible even at the awkward angle. It could just see a small cylindrical device tucked between what appeared to be actuators for the upper arm. The Soldier was not encouraged to observe maintenance or study its prosthesis, and it had only a vague notion of how the limb worked. It should have requisitioned insulated forceps. It fumbled with the pliers it had taken from the abandoned house in DC, eventually getting a secure hold on the cylinder. It was ninety-three percent sure that this was the tracker. That left a seven percent chance of damaging the prosthesis. An acceptable risk. It pulled.

The body seized with another burst of pain. It was expected, but still nearly debilitating. The Soldier hissed through its teeth, inspecting the device it had pulled from the prosthesis. The electrical current was still running through it, separate from the power source of the prosthesis. There was an LED embedded in one end, blinking red in an irregular pattern. As it studied the device, the light began flashing more frequently. The Soldier hastily threw it out of range, shielding the head with the left arm. After six seconds the device emitted a loud hiss, and the capsule shattered. A failsafe, then, meant to disable the prosthesis, perhaps even knock the Soldier out. It was only sheer luck that it had not detonated during the previous mission. The Captain’s shield was unlike any other weapon it had encountered, more than capable of damaging the outer plates of the prosthesis.

It exhaled heavily, then flicked the plates of the prosthesis back into the resting position and tested the joint. Minimal damage. [Physical functionality: sixty-four percent. Prosthesis functionality: eighty percent.] It could only presume that it had removed all of the tracking devices. If it could acquire a radio frequency detector it could be sure, but there had not been one present in the workshop, and the Soldier did not know what civilian facilities might supply such a tool. It scattered the remains of the trackers into the gravel and glass littering the airfield and quickly re-dressed, covering its bloodied hands with the gloves.

The digital constellation was still fresh in its mind. It knew of a facility outside of Harrisburg [Lamda Four-Nine, location: 40.2877, -76.6283] that was not marked on the map. SHIELD interference was less likely there. There might still be HYDRA operatives present. And if not, it could take time to regroup and assemble some sort of communications array.

________________________________________________________

It passed a public market bursting with myriad supplies, brightly colored packages spilling from over-full shelves. It did not waste any of the currency. Lifting a pack of water bottles was simple enough, the action going entirely unnoticed by the shopkeeper. With that addition, the duffel was nearly full. It would wait to prepare the rations. There was no way to determine if the next base would be accessible, and it had to make the nutrition last until it reached the next resupply.

The Soldier grew increasingly agitated as it moved through the press of the crowds. It had been walking across this metropole for days, assaulted on all sides by noise and light and smells and the intolerable closeness of strange bodies. The only respite had been the few hours’ travel through the forested area to the south. The skin crawled, the hands twitching with the urge to tear off its clothing and reach for a weapon. There were too many vantage points, tall buildings looming on every side. Too many cameras, too many nests in which a sniper might lie in wait. It saw shadows scuttling around it on all sides, but when it turned its attention to them, they dissipated. Pain pounded dully behind the eyes. Soon, the input became so intolerable that it diverted from the city streets; it could not maintain enough awareness to properly preserve cover and defend itself. It detoured to the west, passing rows upon rows of identical housing units until it reached a greenway run through by a small river.

It followed the water upstream. It was the correct direction for the facility it sought, and using the river to navigate required much less cognitive energy than going by street signs and road crossings. For the first time in hours, it felt its breathing come easier. It watched the fading evening light dance over the rippling water of the river. The Soldier risked removing the hat, squinting against the glare of the setting sun and running its fingers through the tangled hair. The tongue unconsciously explored the lips, which were dry, cracked, and painful.

Water. It had forgotten that the body required water in addition to that used for the rations. It was no surprise its functionality was suffering so much.

The river was far too muddied to be potable. It had six liters of water and two field ration packs. The rations used only half a liter per portion. Five liters were available. The Soldier adjusted the duffel to retrieve a bottle. It drank cautiously at first, intending to save part of the bottle for later, but once the moisture unlocked its parched throat, it greedily finished the entire liter. It gasped softly, stomach cramping at the sudden fullness. An odd sensation came, tightness in the throat and heat in the face. How could it have forgotten water? It was accustomed to intravenous nutrition, of course, but it had completed multi-day field ops before. It knew the importance of hydration. It could infiltrate multiple facilities, travel undetected for days, and perform field surgery on itself, but it could not remember basic biological functions. This was why the Commander laughed and called it stupid.

For a moment, it could almost hear him. The wind carried the smell of his cigarettes and sweat, tinged with gun oil and spicy cologne. Its skin crawled with a familiar hunger. But he was gone. It would never feel the soft leather of his gloves on its face, would never see his crooked smile again. The chest ached.

The Soldier tucked the empty bottle into the duffel, increasing its pace. Night would fall soon. If it moved quickly enough, it could reach the state border before first light.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

By midnight, the Soldier’s steps began to falter. A nearly-full moon rose over the landscape, painting the forest in shades of silver and blue. The trembling of its limbs had returned in full force, even worse than the previous episode. Its feet scuffed along the forest floor, causing far too much noise. Alternating waves of heat and chills ran through the body, as if it was being pulled from cryo into the height of the desert summer and back again. The surface of the skin was sticky with drying perspiration. It attempted to adjust the clothing to account for the variations in temperature, but soon gave up the exercise as futile. It stuffed the jacket into the duffel with undue force and tugged the sleeve of the cotton shirt down around its left wrist.

It had been twenty-one hours since it consumed the previous serving of field rations. This was more than simply low glucose, but nutrition might improve the Soldier’s functioning enough to ease the disconcerting sensations. It knelt in the shadow of a gnarled elm, withdrawing the rations, the vessel, and a bottle of water from the duffel. There were still two IV nutrition packs, but the hands shook so badly that it could barely grip the water bottle, much less accurately insert a needle. It inadvertently crushed the plastic cap as it opened the water. The rations suffered a similar fate, the packaging giving way and a quarter of the powdered substance spilling into the grass. The Soldier hissed through its teeth and carefully mixed what remained with a half liter of water.

As it brought the vessel to its mouth, the chalky, cloying smell of the rations caused the stomach to turn. It ignored the complaint. Nutrition was necessary. The shaking of its right hand made the liquid slosh threateningly, and it had to use the prosthesis to steady the container. The first swallow landed heavy in its gut. The second caused a wave of nausea, further perspiration breaking out across the skin. At the third, its defiant organs won out, and the rations spilled from its throat onto the forest floor.

The Soldier stared, uncomprehending, at the mess reflecting the white glow of moonlight. It was completely unacceptable. It had attempted to provide nutrition to the failing body, but the body had rejected it. The plastic container slipped from its hands, and the rest of the solution poured onto the ground, contaminated with its vomit. It should– It should not waste– [ Clean it up, dog. ] The body was numb except for the pain in its stomach cutting through it like a dull knife. It was frozen in place, mouth slack and eyes wide. Its vision wavered, true darkness pressing in at the corners of its eyes. Long minutes passed as it stared at nothing, every muscle trembling in anticipation of punishment.

The clatter of a freight train echoed across the valley from the north. The beat of steel on steel filled the forest with unnatural noise. As the machine grew closer, it felt the rhythm of the engine in its bones. The track was… where was it? To the west? It had crossed the rails earlier, but now it could not determine which direction it was facing. A long horn sounded, howling like a cruel winter wind through the night. Its heart rate increased until the Soldier felt as if the organ would crawl up its throat and follow the rejected rations into the mud. The train was close now, heavy vibrations shaking the forest floor. It knew, logically, that the machine was no threat to it, but each clack and thud hammered unmitigated terror into its chest. It could not think, could not breathe, could not move.

The mind went blank, and the Soldier descended into familiar nothingness. Cryo, without the tube. It could no longer feel the tremors of the body or hear the screaming engine. Ice crept into every extremity, and it was momentarily grateful for the reprieve from the feverish heat before even that awareness faded.

__________________________________

When it could feel the body again, the train was gone. If it was even there in the first place. The Soldier had been chasing shadows all day, its senses becoming increasingly unreliable. Its cheek was pressed into the soft duff of the forest floor, arms braced over its head as if to defend itself from attack. The extremities were frigid, colder than they should have been given the ambient temperature. Its neck and back were tacky, sticking to the cotton shirt, and the face was slick with mud and mucus. It sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to orient itself in the gray gloom.

“Well that was f*cking pathetic,” the shadows growled.

It shoved itself up to its knees, whipping its head towards the Commander’s voice. The sudden movement caused blackness to overtake its vision. It waited, allowing the eyes to adjust and refocus, but there was nothing there, only leaves moving in the moonlight, shadows skittering across the grass. It could not even hear birds or small mammals moving in the dim forest.

“I get it now, why the old man wanted to put you down. You’re pretty f*ckin’ useless these days. I think you’re much better suited to being my pretty little pet. I know you’d like it," he purred. His voice came from its other side now, barely a meter from its ear. The ghost of a gloved hand ran through its hair. “Sitting at my feet and keeping my co*ck warm for the rest of your miserable life. You always were so spoiled.”

The Soldier turned, attempting to get its feet under it, but the strength had left its limbs. It stumbled, boots losing traction in spilled rations, and its chest hit the ground. The air was knocked from its lungs, its head spinning.

“Get the f*ck up, Soldat.”

It felt the impact of a steel-toed boot, on the right side where there were no reinforcements. It could not breathe. The ribs were a bear trap slamming shut around the lungs. The urge to curl into itself was overwhelming, but it would not give in, would not show even more weakness. It struggled, gasping, onto its hands and knees, hair hanging over its face. It had failed him, but he was here now. It could take the punishment, make it right. It could do better. It could be good.

“P-pozhaluysta, Komandir. Prostite.”

“Shut the f*ck up! Jesus. ‘The Fist of HYDRA,’” he scoffed. “Can’t even do the one f*cking thing you’re designed for. Look at me.”

It lifted its head, vision swirling with dark spots and glittering stars. The shadows resolved into solid shapes, trees silhouetted against the shining night sky. The Commander stood before it, all black canvas and lean muscle. But he looked wrong . He was too thin, his torso littered with bruises and sluggishly bleeding lacerations. It dragged its gaze up his body, expecting to find those piercing amber eyes. When it saw his face, its heart stopped dead in its chest. There were no eyes at all, only dark, empty sockets. Flesh hung from his skull in ribbons, the white of his mandible exposed. Somehow, despite half of his face missing, the Soldier could still make out his crooked smile. The stench of rot overtook its senses, and its hands felt sticky with blood.

“You did this,“ he hissed. Skeletal fingers gripped its jaw, forcing it to look at the ragged remains of the Commander’s face. His teeth shone as he spoke, visible through the gaps in his flesh. “Your f*ck up cost us everything.”

A low noise escaped its throat, and the eyes wrenched shut without direction.

“Vinovat, Komandir,” it gasped. He had ordered it to be silent, but it could not stop the words spilling from its lips. Another failure. The hands scrabbled for a hold on something, anything, finding only empty air. “Pozhaluysta. Please, sir. Prostite. Prostite.”

He did not respond. The only sound was the Soldier’s heaving breaths. The icy hand was gone, just the cooling wetness of its own sick trailing down its chin. It opened the eyes, nothing but the vast sky above it, the glow of the city lights obscuring most of the stars. A broken exhale stuttered from its chest, the eyes overflowing with moisture that tracked down its face to join the mess on its jaw. It brought the hands up to its face, searching for the bloodstains, eyes straining in the shifting light. A few dark lines marked the crease of its knuckles, evidence of its self-surgery hours before, but there was nothing more.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. The Commander was dead. He couldn’t be here. It knew death, had dealt it hundreds of times. The dead did not return. The dead did not seek vengeance. It wasn’t real. [Severe cognitive malfunction, report–]

It did not make it to the Harrisburg facility. It did not even make it to the state line. Approximately two hours after daybreak, the cognitive functionality plummeted [twenty-one percent and falling] and the physical functionality was close behind [thirty-seven percent and falling]. The stomach tried to expel its contents three more times, but there was nothing left but bile. The throat burned with it, the scent of sickness trapped in its nasal passages. The shaking in its limbs had become so extensive that the muscles simply locked up, seizing painfully for minutes at a time.

The Soldier was forced to break from its path to find shelter before its condition deteriorated further and it lost consciousness again. There was a road to the west, it could hear the traffic. It skirted the edge of the forest, keeping out of sight of the civilian vehicles, until it came across an abandoned manufacturing facility. The asphalt surrounding it was cracked and overgrown, the exterior marked with graffiti. There were no other facilities within half a kilometer, only forest and unused dirt roads. It would have to do. The Soldier barely had the capacity to complete a perimeter check before breaking in and collapsing into the northeast corner. Judging by the detritus littering the concrete, this had been some sort of… lumber processing facility. Probably. It could not see very well through the gray haze that clouded its eyes.

The urge to retch came again, and the Soldier tried to direct the mess into what looked like a pile of sawdust. Gasping and half blind, it fumbled for a bottle of water. It nearly slipped from the fingers of the flesh hand, and then crumpled in its titanium fingers as it attempted to catch it. It drank down half of the liquid, excess spilling onto its clothing, before darkness swallowed the room.

__________________________________

It became aware of a thunderous, rhythmic pounding. The blinding orange light of late afternoon sunlight reflected off of the rafters of the warehouse. The noise increased in frequency, a dull roar whiting out all other input. Was there another train? The sound did not move closer or further away. The Soldier spent uncounted minutes trying to identify the source before it realized it was the pounding of its own heart, far too rapid to be within safe parameters. It could not hear anything over the noise flooding its ears, no traffic or birdsong or even the scuffing of its boots on the concrete. There was no way to hear approaching enemy agents, and the narrow windows of the building provided little in the way of sight lines. It pressed itself further into the corner, haphazardly pulling scraps of wood and metal over itself to disguise its location.

Weapon. It needed a weapon. It felt the prosthesis ripple through a calibration cycle. It was disconcerting without the familiar sound of the plates settling into place. It took far too long to locate one of the pistols in the disheveled duffel. Even the left hand was unsteady, but it was still more trustworthy than the flesh appendages. The grip of the gun nearly crumpled beneath its fingers before it adjusted its strength.

The chest was heaving, the clothing completely soaked with perspiration. A strange, acrid smell filled its nostrils. It attempted to calm the breathing, quickly checking that the gun was functional and that there was a round in the chamber. After what felt like hours, the thrumming of its pulse quieted and it could once again detect outside noise. No approaching vehicles. No boots coming towards it. No voices coordinating an attack. It focused on the entrances of the building, flicking its eyes to each window and door in turn.

There was nothing. No one coming for it. No one–

It blinked, and the sunlight was gone.

The Soldier was in the same position, left arm extended and weapon raised, though hours must have passed. Every part of the body ached, even the eyes. Had it been conscious through the entire evening, simply not remembering it? It lowered the gun. There was no movement besides the rustling of small mammals, the chirping of bats. It was alone. It was… if not safe, then tolerably secure for the moment.

It attempted to take stock of its current state. [Cognitive funct– Severe– Report–] It threaded a shaking hand through the hair. It felt as if every pore on its body had been dripping, and now the perspiration conspired with the chill of the night to steal any trace of warmth from its flesh. It dug through the refuse to find the jacket, shrugging the worn denim over its shoulders. The pants were stiff where they had dried after being soaked through with spilled water and urine.

It did not know how long it had been unaware of its surroundings. It could not even be sure what day it was, or if anything it remembered from the previous night – nights? – had actually occurred. At least four days had passed since the last dose of pharmaceuticals was administered, probably longer. Without them, the body was failing and its cognition spiraling rapidly into chaos. There was no way to know how long these malfunctions would last. If it could heal itself without the drugs. Or if it was even capable of surviving without them. It was possible they were integral to its functioning.

Where were the handlers? Where was the retrieval team? It required– It needed--

The head fell back against the grimy steel wall. It tried to find the stars, to see some familiar constellation, but there was only the blank gray of the warehouse ceiling. A quiet, desperate thing came clawing up its spine.

It did not–

[The Asset does not want.]

It did not want to die.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Keeping Steve Rogers in a hospital bed was a full time job. Sam had preemptively called in a couple weeks’ leave at the VA as soon as his new bestie showed up at his door, battered and bruised with an infamous spy in tow. He was beginning to think he might have to take an indefinite leave of absence. Because now he was on 24/7 supersoldier babysitting duty.

Sam scrolled idly through his phone, awaiting the next message from Hill or Romanov or whoever the hell had hacked right into his contacts and taken the liberty of texting him at all hours. Palling around with Captain America had its downsides, most notably the complete loss of privacy or a regular sleep schedule. A few folks from work checked in, even a guy from his old unit who recognized him on the news, but so far no reporters had connected his personal number with the mysterious flying man spotted in DC. There were some concerning overtures from SHIELD, the CIA, and of course the Air Force and Army, but Team Cap was still benefiting from the utter chaos in DC. Their vigilantism and theft of classified military technology was taking a backseat to the whole neo-Nazi infiltration of multiple governments and attempted genocide thing.

He’d been contacted by the Widow no less than ten times, via six different anonymized phone numbers, with vague instructions to lie low, stay off of Twitter, and keep Steve out of trouble. The latter had been simple so far, Steve being comatose for the past two days. Sam had taken the opportunity to attempt some enculturation via subliminal messaging (aka playing real music while Steve was incapable of complaining about it). He’d managed a quick sink shower – with the door open to keep an eye on his ward – but he’d had meals and extra clothes delivered. It wasn’t the most thrilling assignment, but he was glad to have some relative down time after the most batsh*t three days of his life. Plus, he knew if he left this room that Steve would tear himself a new one as soon as he woke up.

Speak of the devil. Sam heard the stirring of oversized muscles in starched sheets, then a raspy, “On your left.”

The absolute sh*thead.

“Rogers.”

“Wilson,” he croaked.

“How you feelin’, man?”

Steve worked his jaw for a second, blinking against the diffuse white light of the hospital room. Sam subtly adjusted the dimmer while Rogers completed his self-assessment.

“Ugh,” he decided. “Like I got hit by a tank then tossed in a river. I’ve had worse.”

He tried to scrub a hand through his hair, but the tangle of IV tubing and sensors halted the movement. Steve’s face scrunched up. He was still loopy from the drugs, and the expression of consternation reminded Sam of his college roommate’s attempt to decode his calc homework after a few too many hits. It was kind of adorable.

“Well, that’s pretty accurate,” Sam quipped. “Your boy is basically an animated tank.”

Steve’s face shifted immediately, and he gripped the bed rail tight enough to make the thick plastic crumple. Maybe he’d forgotten for a blissfully drugged-out moment that his long-lost brainwashed buddy was the one responsible for his injuries, and Sam immediately regretted reminding him. Steve mournfully cast his eyes over at him like two-hundred-something pounds of golden retriever staring at a lost ball through the neighbor’s fence.

“f*ck. Bucky.”

Thus begins the longest chapter in Sam Wilson’s new life.

“Yup. The Winter Soldier sure did a number on you, Steven. Three gunshot wounds, multiple organ failure, massive head trauma, not to mention the collapsed lung and occipital fractures. He literally broke your face. I don’t care how in love you are or how fancy your serum healing bullsh*t is, you’re gonna stay right the hell there for at least a week.”

The indignant look Steve gave him might have moved lesser men, but Sam had grown up with Mama Wilson’s deadly eyebrows. Steve Rogers being a stubborn ass barely pinged his emotional radar. He knew exactly what was about to come out of Steve’s mouth.

“No, Sam! I’ve gotta…”

Sam hit the button controlling Steve’s super-morphine a few times, hoping it would be enough to keep him down for a couple more hours. Tony Stark may be a billionaire asshole with an over-inflated ego, but his previous work with Banner and various other enhanced-superfreak-friendly doctors had been invaluable during Steve’s surgery and recovery. And it came in handy in containing the rampaging rhino of feelings that was Cap with his teeth sunk into a mission.

“Gotta… gotta find him…”

Steve faded out, eyes thankfully falling closed without much fuss. Sam turned back to a particularly interesting Twitter thread about river otters and prayed to any god that was listening – besides Thor. He didn’t need any more dramatic entrances this week, thank you very much – that Steve would be under for another twenty-four hours.

In the end, he stayed pliant and doped up for five days before waking up coherent enough to yank the morphine button out of Sam’s hand, pull the IV from his arm, and con a nurse into letting him check himself out AMA. The Captain America publicity smile was really getting its mileage in. Steve flirted with all of the nurses and even a few doctors, regardless of perceived gender. Dr. Mahto turned a particularly interesting shade of maroon when those ridiculously long blond lashes blinked in his direction. Steve unabashedly used his status as an Avenger and a national icon to weasel out of the required tests and stumble his way into a wheelchair, ending up half-conscious on Sam’s couch, impatiently combing through his missed emails and the messages from Romanov.

She’d been on the case immediately, despite her injuries. In between her dramatic appearances at Capitol Hill wherein she gleefully publicly eviscerated all levels of the federal government, she was trawling through the data dump and chasing leads across the eastern seaboard. But the Winter Soldier was in the wind. The guy was living up to his legend as a ghost. Even though the SHIELD infiltration now went both ways, it wasn’t very useful. All of the HYDRA comms channels had been abandoned, leaving little for them to glean. HYDRA had probably set up on new frequencies pretty quick after they figured out just now much the Widow had dumped onto the web. There was zero-to-no chance that they’d find the Soldier that way, and not a whisper about his potential whereabouts.

Steve ignored multiple summons from the military police, Congress, and President goddamn Ellis himself, stubbornly refusing to be moved from Sam’s couch. One phone call ended with Steve resolutely telling whoever was hassling him, “If you’re going to arrest me, then do it. But I don’t owe you or SHIELD anything,” before calmly crushing the phone into dust. A replacement showed up four hours later via Stark express courier. This one, miraculously, did not ring all week, until Romanov called them for a super secret rendezvous at Arlington Cemetery in the middle of the day.

Seeing people standing over their own graves would never not be weird. This was Sam’s life now. He had totally, enthusiastically volunteered. Maybe Sarah was right about him being an adrenaline junkie. At least he wore a parachute.

There was some fancy spy posturing from Fury, who tried to recruit them to his latest intelligence scheme. It would have been laughable if Steve wasn’t so obviously infuriated that Fury had essentially handed HYDRA the keys to his armory and said ‘have fun, kids.’

Romanov showed up long enough to drop off a file and give a cursory warning. “You might not wanna pull on that thread.” As if that was gonna deter Steve Rogers. It was like a parental advisory warning before a PG-13 movie – everyone present knew it would be ignored, but she had to say it, just to cover her ass. Sam nearly rolled his eyes, but Romanov met his gaze and somehow silently conveyed the message ‘Take care of him. I can’t do this on my own,’ with less than two seconds’ eye contact, before disappearing into yet another European sportscar. She was probably a witch.

And the goddamn file. Steve pored over the thing for sixteen hours straight instead of sleeping. Sam, being a normal human, with normal human needs, passed out in his recliner while Steve read and reread the documents, looking for any crumb of information about where Barnes might have gotten to. Sam didn’t push to see the file. It was obviously something sensitive, both intelligence-wise and feelings-wise. He just followed where Cap led, which meant storming every HYDRA base in the tri-state area with two operatives and almost zero backup.

Step one was investigating the base in DC, hidden in the heart of downtown in a historic bank. There was some kind of irony there, shadow governments and white supremacists and capitalism and all, but Sam was too tired to be appropriately sarcastic about it. Steve trudged along after the cohort of remaining SHIELD agents on their second run-through of the facility, barely coherent enough to hold his shield. That is, until he saw the nightmare dentist’s chair, after which Sam had to physically restrain him (well, pathetically attempt to try and physically restrain him) from smashing a hole into the concrete once the thing had been turned into shrapnel. He acted like a man possessed, no evidence that he’d been reliant on IV nutrition and supplemental oxygen only four days before. Those baby blues hardened into an icy steel that made Steve look like an entirely different man.

Sam really wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what was in that file.

In a matter of days, Steve tore through every single DC-area facility that Romanov fed them, scouring the city for any evidence that the Soldier had been there, but the closest they got was a spilled pack of protein powder in a moldy bathroom at the bank and an inconclusive boot print. Rogers was running himself ragged, only eating when Sam shoved food directly in front of his face and only sleeping involuntarily when his body just shut down, whether in the car, on the couch, or in the middle of a manic kitchen-table research session. The five hundredth time Sam asked Steve if he was really really sure the guy was worth all this, he was witness to the most insulted, mulish expression he’d ever seen.

“Sam,” he’d said, all intense and righteous. “He’s still in there. The Soldier doesn’t miss. Bucky doesn’t miss. He could’ve killed us ten times over if he wanted to. He had orders to take me out, you and Natasha as well. But he didn’t. He did what he could to save us. I can’t– I won’t let him down again.”

And well, there wasn’t much Sam could say to argue with that, even if Barnes was a few eggs short of a murder omelet right now. There was a bit of relief when Romanov got Hill and her thoroughly-vetted squad in the loop, but Steve kept charging ahead and leaving clean up duty for the SHIELD lackeys. After he stripped every byte of useful data he could find, understandably unwilling to put sensitive information back in their hands.

Most of the bases were abandoned, the rats fleeing their sinking ship before the feds could round them up, interrogate them, and throw them into superjail. A scant few safehouses were sheltering clusters of orphaned HYDRA operatives, a handful of whom ended up in the custody of one agency or other under the not-quite-SHIELD banner. Most of them refused to talk, but a couple of exceptionally stupid ones muttered vague nasty comments about the Soldier, which resulted in Steve’s blood pressure ratcheting up beyond safe parameters even for a superhuman. Which, in turn, resulted in HYDRA goons with a few more holes and a couple less kneecaps. If anyone took issue with Captain America going rogue, they didn’t have the balls to try and stop him. The agents who came to retrieve the trussed up HYDRA agents went from looking moderately annoyed to thoroughly cowed when Steve met them at the door.

They still didn’t have any new intel, and they hadn’t found anyone even close to command level. The goons that talked knew next to nothing, little better than Romanov’s ghost stories, and it was impossible to get a bead on the folks giving orders. He began to doubt any of the guys in charge were even alive. It seemed like a mess of middle managers bossing each other around.

Sam idly wondered if HYDRA still did the whole cyanide tooth thing.

Turns out they didn’t need to. Steve Rogers was not on a reconnaissance mission. When they came across the first fully-staffed ‘research’ installation outside of Philly, the base turned into an abattoir within twenty minutes. The last vestiges of Captain America’s dignified restraint disappeared, replaced by a vengeful flurry of fists and vibranium. The man had always been made out to be a paragon of virtue, preaching against the whole eye-for-an-eye thing, but when he caught sight of the horrorshow that passed for a medical suite, all bets were off. Sam didn’t even have a chance to get a hit in, as if he wasn't already feeling a bit useless without the wings. In the end, he was just trying to stay out of Steve’s way.

He watched in horrified silence as Steve held the last surviving scientist by the throat, pinned down on a thoroughly bloodied lab table. The voice that came out of Steve’s mouth chilled Sam to the bone. It had all the command of the Captain’s, but the usual timbre was distorted by a cold rage, steel honed to a deadly edge.

“Where. Is. He.”

Each word was punctuated with a violent shake, the HYDRA goon’s head slamming into the table. He gurgled more blood and drool onto the floor in an attempt at a scoff.

“D-dead.” How a dying man still had the balls to laugh in the face of an enraged supersoldier, Sam didn’t know. Fanaticism could only take one so far. Maybe it was the head injury. “The dog is at the b-bottom of the river now, thanks to you, Captain.”

Steve bared his teeth, face contorted into a mask of fury. Jesus, there was blood in his teeth, and Sam was pretty sure it wasn’t his own. His hands twisted tighter into the agent’s collar, turning his already-battered face a nauseating shade of purple.

“Don’t f*ckin’ bullsh*t me. Talk, and you might end up on the Raft instead of joining your buddies in hell.”

Evil Scientist Number Five just gave a creepy-ass smile.

“H-hail. Hy–”

The salute was cut off by a final blow to the head. The guy’s skull actually caved in. Steve let the body drop, shook out his hands, and calmly picked a few bone fragments out of his bloodied gloves. His blue and white suit stealth suit was soaked in red, though the effect was less than patriotic. It took every ounce of Sam’s training not to vomit right there. How much did Cap normally hold back his strength, if he could just punch through a man?

They left the base as it was, calling Romanov to give her the all clear. For a hot second, Sam pitied the SHIELD cleanup crew that had to mop up that mess, but then he reminded himself that SHIELDRA had been housing Barnes and harboring his Nazi captors all these years right under their noses, and he felt a bit less guilty about it. Though he was pretty sure he’d still be seeing the aftermath of Steve’s serial killer rage tornado in his nightmares.

The ride back to their sh*thole hotel de jour was deathly quiet. Steve’s jaw was set, and he was glaring out the passenger window like he was ready to take out his hatred on some passing tree. Murdering several dozen HYDRA agents with his bare hands had apparently not slaked his thirst. There was still blood staining his fair hair, ground into the skin of his knuckles. Sam wasn’t sure how to start the conversation that was desperately needed. So, it seems like you’ve abandoned your entire moral code. Wanna talk about that, buddy?

He didn’t get a chance to try. Steve knew what he was about to say. As soon as the door was shut he started shucking the suit, muttering, “You think I’ve never killed a man before, Wilson?” as he peeled gore-soaked nylon off his arms.

It was ice f*cking cold, and Sam was stunned even further into silence. He wasn’t one for buying into propaganda, but he could admit he’d let the All-American Boy Scout persona fool him for a minute. Steve had seen war. He’d gone up against Nazis, the original edition, outmanned and under-resourced. He’d been in the trenches, maybe even heard about the camps. He’d witnessed men torn to shreds with shrapnel or rotting with gangrene. Cap was gone alright, and in his place was a wrung out, grieving soldier, tearing himself apart to save the last of his unit.

The wall went down, and exhaustion distorted the line of Steve’s shoulders. He nearly slumped into the doorframe before rallying long enough to drop the Winter Soldier file on Sam’s bed and drag himself to the bathroom. The look he gave Sam expressed something far deeper than the usual Captain America is disappointed in you. It was closer to Steve Rogers is baring his soul to you and you better not f*ck it up.

Sam could only read about a quarter of the documents, hastily translated and heavily redacted, but he didn’t need much more than that to get the picture. Romanov’s notes were chilling, describing torture and brainwashing techniques in cool, objective language. Barnes had been through hell. Like eighteen levels of hell. No one should have survived the ‘treatments’ outlined in these reports, and the file only went up to 1989. There was no telling what else had been done to him in the last twenty-five years. He tried not to let himself imagine what fresh atrocities the American branch of HYDRA had cooked up.

But he knew what kind of sh*t power-tripping sad*sts with military training would inflict on others. He’d seen the results in his groups. And HYDRA had the perfect victim. A compliant subject with no memory of himself and a shattered personality. It was a miracle Barnes was still capable of walking and talking, much less highly skilled combat operations. This wasn’t war. It was almost worse, the systematic, intentional dehumanization of one man. God, if someone had done that to Riley… He didn't have the words. Sam quietly rearranged some of his priorities, shifting back into a mindset he’d sworn he’d never use again after he got discharged. He looked up at Steve when he emerged from the shower and gave him a firm nod. They were gonna find this guy, and they were gonna help him.

Of course this was the thing that finally got Steve to read up on the PTSD literature Sam had been pushing at him for months. His own issues weren’t worth more than a cursory conversation, but when Sam mentioned that Barnes would have a hell of a lot of trauma to work through, all of a sudden Steve was ravenous for information. Thanks to his super-brain, he read about three times as fast as a normal guy, plowing through Sam’s entire library in less than a week.

Steve surprised him at first, asking some of the most insightful and detailed questions he’d heard outside of a college classroom. Sam ended up getting back in contact with a few of his professors to get more reading recommendations. It was jarring, seeing the same man who’d mercilessly torn enemy agents apart exhibit such intense dedication to trauma-informed care. But it made a certain kind of sense. Steve had a natural aptitude for psychology. Even if he was sh*t at working undercover, he could read people well, and he was good at seeing patterns and bigger picture issues. And he was rabidly protective of Barnes. The Winter Soldier file revealed a mountain of potential psychological problems (and neurological issues, but Sam was not that kind of professional), but Steve refused to give in to pessimism.

If he wasn’t so hot headed and terrible at hiding his emotions, he’d’ve made a hell of a counselor. Anyone with Steve Rogers in their corner would have a damn good chance of survival. If Sam ever went back to the VA, he was going to cash in on all the favors Steve owed him and make the guy lead a group. He was just so… good, despite the cold-blooded vengeance. He earnestly believed that Barnes could be rehabilitated, and who was Sam to argue in the face of all that love and devotion?

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Time passed, lurching and juddering. Civilian life went by in light and sound and moving vehicles. Small animals skittered in the debris of the warehouse. Noise came from outside the broken windows, from within the skull. Rain battered the steel roof. Sunlight heated the dry, cracked concrete of the floors. The cognition failed. The body did not comply. The Soldier could do nothing but hold position as it shook apart.

The light changed.

It woke freezing, too cold to even shiver. It pulled the jacket, the tac gear, the duffel, any bit of material it could find over the body, fingers barely able to grasp the objects. The joints locked in place. The hands shook so badly that it could not hold a weapon. The teeth ground together, hard enough to hurt, hard enough that it feared they would crack. They had cracked, before, in the cell, and then– [Steel spreading the lips, hands in the mouth, blood pooling in the back of the throat–]

It consumed another bottle of water, hands uncoordinated, tongue sticking in the mouth. The eyes were dry and inflamed, the lips cracked, the limbs heavy with fatigue, throbbing and overheated. Like an infection. Like a fever. But it did not get fevers, that was… [Gotta sweat it out– Gotta stay awake– Can’t let you–]

The light changed.

The Commander returned, hale and whole, carrying the scent of gun oil, cologne, and tobacco. His hands caressed its face, warm leather scrubbed against the delicate skin of its jaw. His voice lilted, words sweet and bitter at once. That’s it, kitten. You know how to be good for me. It stumbled to attention, desperate for the touch, for any scrap of praise.

The Commander returned, rotting and rank with the odor of blood and sick and fear. His hands yanked at the hair, tearing it from the root. His boots took it back to the floor. He spat in its face, cursing its failure. It begged. It wept. It could be good. It could be useful. It would hold still. It would–

Mission report. Target evaded initial engagement. Secondary vantage required. Target eliminated. It was seen. Pursued. Metal on metal and pain in blue eyes and– Two targets, level six. Targets engaged, but– So many witnesses. Screaming and running and cameras, the body captured in their lenses. Mask clattering on the asphalt, the face exposed. The man on the bridge, his lips forming the word, the name, the–

[Bucky?]

Mission failure.

The Secretary’s voice echoed in the darkness, honey and razor wire. Your work has been a gift. His quarters, sumptuous and warm and treacherous. His hands, skin thinned with age and dotted with freckles, smoothing across the leather vest. A reward, it was supposed to be a reward, but– He was younger, hair like flax and eyes clear and blue as winter skies, but not the right blue, not– He smiled like a knife.

Wipe it.

It woke burning. The head throbbed, the throat full of sand and fire and pain. It twisted and writhed, flinging the coverings away from the body. The skin felt as if it had been held to an open flame, as if it would slough off with too much movement. No, it was not fire. It was acid, eating away at the flesh, burrowing into the bones, destroying it from the inside. The Soldier tore at the clothing, desperate to remove the horrid sensation from its skin.

Handler Davis, scowling his disapproval. Its limbs were affixed to the table, heavy restraints tearing at the joints as it seized. The nostrils filled with the putrid smell of its own innards. The throat convulsed around bloodied bile. Data. He needed more data. Data extracted from the body, data from pain. Tubes and vials, latex and rubber and glass glinting, light distorted through tears but it did not, it never–

Mission report. Target eliminated. Cold and dry and tires squealing on the asphalt, smoke against the stars, gray diluted into the black of the night. Minimal interference, enemy agent incapacitated. She was red. Red and black against tanned earth and she–

The light changed.

It stumbled from the chamber, boneless and weak. Every part of the body burned as the cells came back to life. The eyes stung, even the dimmest of lights a painful assault. It retched, expelling viscous liquid from the lungs, the stomach, choking around tubing and bile. Hands on the body, moving it, feet dragging across concrete as the head spun. Hands forcing it into the chair, frigid skin clinging painfully to leather and steel.

Open. Bite.

Pain, lightning in the skull, the stench of burning cryofluid and fresh urine. Ammonia and ethylene. Ozone and metal. It seized, half-thawed muscle convulsing, the body tearing at itself, flesh run through with a thousand blades.

The Colonel, words harsh but eyes gentle, leading it from the briefing room. Mission success. A warm cot, a full belly, naked hands in the hair. The mouth fell open, but he only pet it, thumb passing gently over the lips. Something sweet and soft on the tongue, sugar and gelatin sticking to the teeth. Leave it. Our Soldier has done well.

Mission report. Target eliminated. Collateral approved. Samples retrieved. Targets did not die on impact. Hand on the throat, titanium closing around supple flesh until– Dark and quiet and no mask, the face exposed, the camera placed just so. Evidence required. Target incapacitated, dragged back to the vehicle, lethal blow to the skull. Fine wool and gravel dust and he smelled like cigars and bourbon and pomade, smelled like– [Sergeant Barnes?]

Wipe it.

The Madame, face like stone, voice echoing in the bare halls. The girls, tiny fingers stripping rifles far too large for their bodies. Faster. Faster. No excuses, no mistakes. Polished wood and strychnine smiles. Quick hands and sharp teeth behind pink lips. Poison pink, baby pink, silk and taffeta and daggers in the skirts and they never cried, never broke, not like–

The light changed.

Mission report. Data extracted. Detonation successful. One witness left alive. Message delivered. Voices raised in the dark, screeching, howling, the scent of charred meat and burning hair and Hail Mary, full of grace.Report to rendezvous. Excellent work, Soldat.

Another body, next to it, pale freckled skin and soft and warm, and– She was red. Red Room, red hair, red lips, red on the white tile and red on the snow and– There’s been another incident. They took it. They took–

Wipe it.

The General, lips curled in disdain. Heavy cane echoing on marble. Hands on the body, pushing down, pushing– They touched it, they never touched it, but now. It was almost– But it wasn’t– Change in protocol. Make a choice, Soldat. It failed. It had never failed. It must comply. Serve its function. Hail HYDRA.

It woke gasping, a silent wail caught in the throat. It could not make noise. It could not be discovered. It was not safe. They were here. They knew.They would come for it. They would come for– Shadows shifted, enemies looming in every corner. It fumbled for the gun, hands unsteady and arms heavy. They were close, closing in on its position. At least a dozen, heavy boots on the snow. The door slammed open, light breaking into the storeroom. It discharged three rounds into the nearest figures. The sound of steel on steel clanged through the empty space.

The light changed.

Handler Thompson. Her dogs, teeth glinting, jowls stained with gore, ripping the chains from the wall in their frenzy. Her boots, impeccably polished, coming down on its hands, its back, its teeth. Got a new toy for you, Soldier. The batons, lighting it up as if it was in the chair.

Mission report. Infiltrate and destabilize. Targets eliminated. Hot and wet and leather sticking to the skin as it ran. Thick forest, choking vines, climbing and waiting and rainy season, they’ll be pinned down north of the river. Gun jammed, use another, prosthesis overheating, hands slipping on wet steel flash of the muzzle flash of the bombs sickly sweet nectar and burning oil. Extraction delayed. Fever hot and vision blurred and–

Wipe it.

Herr Müller, watching in silence, every line of his body a message, every gesture an instruction. Every misstep, another hour in the hole. It cannot go back. Every mission parameter met, every witness eliminated. It spoke. A simple question, Where is… He sends it back. Knife to the cervical spine, no need for restraints. Flesh flayed from the back and gravel in the wounds. The rats came, clawing at its feet, its groin, its neck, its eyes. The rope was right there, only centimeters from its grasp, but it could not move, could not–

Mission report. All targets eliminated. Timeline exceeded by three point two minutes. The hands would not– There was a child, sir. Acceptable collateral, but the body did not comply and the wind shifted and it had to–

The light changed.

It ran, feet bare in the snow and the dogs at its heels. Rifle fire cracked across the frozen plain, shattering the silence in a staccato of lead and powder. Pain ripped through its right leg. It kept moving, limbs numb and chest burning. Steel tore under the left hand, the fence slowing it only for a second. The treeline was close. Just another hundred meters. Blunt force to the sternum, the cracking of ribs, then blinding agony. Crimson stained glittering white, hands scrabbling at the wound, trying to stop the flow and the dogs could smell it now, came down upon it with animal fury, teeth rending flesh. It heard men only meters in front of it, saw boots emerging from the forest. A trap. It was a trap and they would drag it back and–

Wipe it.

It woke screaming, hands over the mouth, not its own. It screamed and nothing changed. It screamed and no aid came. It screamed until the throat bled and the eyes ran dry. It knew this. They had broken it, taken it apart until the malfunction was identified, cut out the noncompliant parts, put it back together with titanium and blood and ice. The right hand clawed at the chest, shredding through fabric and flesh and get it off, get it off, Jesus Christ. It was being broken again, punished for its failure. It would be reassembled, it had to be. It would be better.

It waited. It wailed. It sobbed and screamed and pleaded.

The light changed.

The Doctor, glasses glinting in the halogen lamps, thin lips pulled into a horrid smile. It was awake, always awake. Gloves on the skin, rubber and steel and– The sedative is ineffective, unnecessary. It was awake and it saw and it felt.The glint of viscera, hands tugging at the insides, sickening and slick. Blood and pus and sh*t and bile and it tried to vomit, but the throat was– Metal biting into the bones, in the chest, the spine, the body shaking with the force of the drill. The saw. The torch. The scalpel. The needle. Inconclusive data. Test it again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The light changed.

It woke wet with saline and bile and urine. The smell nearly caused it to be sick again. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. This was more than a malfunction, more than a missed reset. It could not– It had to– Was it dead? It must be dead, otherwise it would not stink like this. Would not be trapped, unable to move the body. Would not be–

Paralyzed, the extremities bitten with frost. The chains cut into the flesh. Ice crept in through the cell walls, up from the floor. The soiled water dish was frozen solid. Every inch of the body was pain, joints pulled out of socket, body hanging lax and nausea juddering through it. They came only to throw the hard, molding bread into the cell. It felt nothing but ice on the flesh, only metal and batons and boots and gloves.

The bread froze to the floor, saturated with water and filth. It could not reach the bowl, could never reach it with its only arm chained and– How long had it been here? Months, maybe, Years. It only knew the dark and the cold and the hunger and the voice. Endless repetitions, English, Russian, German, until the words became a meaningless drone. Until the voice dug into its flesh and built a nest there.It could not escape, even to unconsciousness. Every time the eyes fell closed, blinding white light flooded the cell and wailing sirens shattered the air.

It was dying, but there was nothing to do. No way out. Just gotta hold on. He would come. He always did. He’d come like hell on wings and destroy the entire base in a frenzy of metal and flesh and, and then–

Wipe it.

It was alone.

It was never alone. They watched. They knew. They took–

The light changed.

Ice, shearing metal and unreal blue and red and white, white, white. It died in the ice, was born in the ice, winter buried in its bones, rime encasing the heart, in the skull, ice and white and nothing. Deep, endless nothing, hollow inside, carved out and spilled across snow and the throat ragged the body broken the wind the cold the–

The Captain, eyes blazing like copper fire. Hands on the neck, bony and strong, broad and warm. Sunlight on the skin and gold in the hair. The weight of the rifle in its hands. Graphite and coal smoke and cordite, mud and blood and bullets and bandages, tents and tanks. A flash of anger behind his smile. No, not anger, it was…

Wipe it.

The light changed.

The hands shook.

It tried to scream, but the throat was sandpaper and barbed wire.

The light changed.

It burned and froze and sobbed and the pain did not stop, it never stopped.

Hunger and sickness crashed over it in great yawning waves, shrapnel tearing at the insides.

The light changed.

It was silent.

It required– It needed–

Wipe it.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Consciousness swelled and ebbed. It struggled to maintain awareness, clawing its way back to reality over and over again. It spiraled upwards, slipping into disorientation, but recovering its footing and climbing closer to the surface each time. The body ached, every muscle and joint aflame, pain unlike anything but punishment, the batons and the cell and steel-toed boots kicking it down into the hole. When there were twenty consecutive minutes in which the world stopped glitching, it pushed itself up into a sitting position on the filthy warehouse floor.

The Soldier was in a disgusting state. Clothing torn and soiled with every bodily substance imaginable. [ “Ugh, I thought we house trained this thing.” ] Fresh wounds on the flesh, bruises and ragged, half-healed lines where the nails had excoriated the chest. Dirt and debris in the hair, plastered to the skin with days of sweat. It was moderately dehydrated, but the water was gone. The duffel had been torn open, the supplies scattered across the warehouse floor. The last field ration pack was ripped, the powder soaked with unnameable fluids, as if the Soldier had attempted to consume it and abandoned it halfway through. It did not remember attempting nutrition. The rations were now a useless hunk of congealed protein, sour with rot after days of sitting open. It considered consuming them anyway, but the very thought caused the stomach to twist with threatening sensations.

How long had it been lying here? It attempted to access the episodic memories. The empty bases. The museum. The river. The Commander and the Secretary. The failed mission.

It seemed so strange now. The Soldier was created to operate in the shadows, to complete its mission and leave no trace behind. No evidence, no witnesses, except for a few strategic exceptions. But in DC it had been in full view of innumerable civilians in broad daylight. There were hovering helicopters with large cameras. The face was exposed, after the Captain… The man on the bridge, he had…

[“You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time.”]

A sudden blinding pain shot across its temples, lightning behind the eyes, causing the Soldier to grit its teeth as its body seized. That wasn’t– When had the Secretary said that? Before the wipe. It wasn’t supposed to remember– Wasn’t supposed to–

The stomach filled with lead when it understood.

One more time.

If Project Insight was successful, HYDRA would have complete control of the global security apparatus. They would have no need for a single asset eliminating targets one-by-one. No need for a hand in the dark. The Soldier would be obsolete. It had heard the technicians complaining, seen the disappointment on the Secretary’s face. Its maintenance was becoming untenable, the resets too frequent, the malfunctions too severe.

It was supposed to have been decommissioned.

It recognized the flare of anger in its chest, the coil of fear in its gut. It was a good weapon, despite its malfunctions. It had never failed a mission before Insight. It had never– And the Secretary had been planning to throw it away. Had the Commander known? He would not have let it be decommissioned. It did not always understand the Commander’s motivations, but it knew he would want to keep it, if only for his own use. It was… He called it… [“It’s not a toy, Brock.”] The Secretary would never have allowed that. But now the Secretary was dead, and his men scattered.

For a brief moment, the sensation of a smile played across its jaw, though the muscles did not move. A sparking giddiness flooded its head. It should not– It was unthinkable. Quite literally. As it prodded the edges of the idea that, perhaps, some aspect of his death might be positive, it felt as if there was a cattle prod at the base of its neck.

[Outside of a mission, the safety of the handler is the Asset's highest priority.]

Gasping, the Soldier reoriented itself.

Under the roiling sea of pain and malfunction, there was solid ground.

The Secretary was dead.

He had wanted it dead or broken.

And it did not want to die.

Beyond all of the protocols, the imperatives, the damned malfunctions, it was a living thing. A weapon, yes, but one of flesh and bone and blood. Its instincts were still present, even if they were only ever used in combat. They were screaming at it now, clashing with the programming in a discordant uproar. Nutrition. Water. Rest. Safety. It had to find someone who could correct the malfunctions and provide proper maintenance.

It required a handler.

There were things that always persisted through the wipes. Memories that, intentionally or not, curled up like roaches in the debris of its mind and came skittering back once the chair had done its work. It remembered how to break down and reassemble weapons. It remembered the give of flesh under its hands. It remembered the shape of language, the calculations for trajectory and force. It remembered some of the missions, and all of the punishments. It remembered the chair, the ice, the fire, the water, the whip, the scalpel, the baton. It remembered the men, and the women, with hungry hands and glinting teeth. And it remembered the handlers.

Before the Secretary there had been others. There would be others after him. The banner under which it operated did not matter. Its obligation was to the handler, the mission, not to HYDRA.

Rumlow and Rollins were gone. Davis was in the wind, if he had survived SHIELD’s counterattacks. He had only wanted it for his experiments, anyway, never once putting it to proper use in the field. The General was dead. [Dark eyes fixed on the far wall. Guards at each side, heavy restraints on the limbs. Biting wind, boots on cobblestone. The handler, he was, it had to– A volley of rifle fire, and he fell. The Soldier howled and rammed its shoulder into the nearest guard. “Get it under control!” White fire, ozone, then darkness.] Few of the Soviet officers survived the collapse of Department X, except Karpov. He had hated the Americans. It could not remember why. It recalled his final words as its handler, preserved through all the resets as part of his standing orders. Don’t let them put you to waste, Soldat. It had never known how to fulfill that order. It did not know if he was still alive, or where he would be if he was.

There was another option. Something had shaken loose in the days of delirium. It could recall only a few of the phantom images with any accuracy, but it knew it had seen the Captain again, heard his voice. If its mangled mind could be trusted, then the information at the museum was confirmed. It had known him, though it could not remember more than the vague noise of battle and the blue of his eyes. Blue like…

It doubted he had ever been HYDRA. His earliest missions, with the Soldier at his side, had been to destroy their European installations. But he had been the Soldier’s field commander. One of its very first handlers. He had been… [I’m with you–] He would know what it needed. He would use it well.

It had to find the Captain.

It shoved itself upright again and made use of the remaining intravenous nutrition, right hand trembling violently. It changed the bag when the first ran dry, absently wondering if the substance would be useful after so long without refrigeration.

At the very least, the hydration seemed to be effective. After uncounted days of shaking, vomiting, hallucinating, and losing time, the body stabilized enough for the Soldier to regain some semblance of functionality. It stared out across the debris-ridden space, considering the potential avenues of action. It could still recall the starry map from Baltimore with acceptable accuracy. It felt foolish for not making the connection sooner – the white stars. They were his symbol, his calling card. They indicated locations to which the Captain would be deployed. It was unsure why SHIELD would store such delicate information on the compromised channels, but it would not waste the opportunity. It could be a trap, but the Soldier saw few other options to find the Captain without interference.

It attempted to count how often the light had changed, how many cycles of cold and dark had passed, but it was impossible to make sense of the haze of hallucinations and fever. It was…ten? twelve? days since the helicarriers fell. The Captain would already have made his way through many of the nearby facilities.

The Captain’s physical capabilities equaled its own, at least at full functionality. It remembered his surprising strength and speed, easily diverting its strikes and restraining even the prosthetic limb. Few others were able to hold their own in close quarters combat with the Soldier. Only the failed candidates from the secondary Winter Soldier program and the– the girls, the– [invalid data]. He would be able to clear the facilities quickly, possibly even multiple sites in one day. It mentally crossed off the first dozen bases, Norfolk to DC to Philadelphia.

Without access to communications equipment, there was no way to determine when and where he would be deployed next. It had to aim further afield. The long arm of the spiral laid out to the southwest, ending at the bunker in Oak Ridge. It was a major base of operations and a vital weapons storage facility, likely still staffed. There were enough targets between the coast and Oak Ridge to keep the Captain occupied for another week. If it moved quickly, it could intercept him there. How possible that was at its current functionality, it did not know. But it had to try. It would not be decommissioned. [Cognitive error, insub–]

A shuddering breath left the lungs. It pulled the cannula from its arm. It was acceptably functional for travel. [Cognitive functionality: forty-two percent. Physical functionality: thirty-nine percent. Prosthesis functionality: eighty percent.] There was no more intravenous nutrition solution, no more field rations. By now, the HYDRA caches had likely been discovered and raided by federal agents. The Soldier would have to locate another medical facility.

It packed away the remaining supplies. The time was approximately 1000, the autumn sun just cresting the trees to the east. The limbs still shook, and the cognition was only intermittently effective. It would be incapable of operating a vehicle in this state. And the civilian transportation networks, clattering trains or crowded buses, would only invite malfunction. That was not an option. It had marched further, and in far worse conditions. In a few days’ time, the Captain would be in Oak Ridge. It could still find him.

The Soldier recalled how close he had been, only twenty paces down the hospital hallway. It could have– No. No, there had been security personnel, federal agents. It would have been captured, interrogated, it– [water in the mouth, the lungs, can’t breathe, vision black, pulse elevated, can’t–]

Focus.

It required nutrition. It required clean garments. It could not travel stinking of its own excrement. A change of clothes and a communications device would be ideal, but even a stream in which to wash the clothing would be an improvement. Moving during daylight was not optimal, but it could not afford to wait any longer.

The Soldier surveyed the empty lot surrounding the warehouse, waited until there were no vehicles on the road, and strode quickly into the nearby greenway. There was water, a tributary of the river it had followed before. It contemplated simply wading into the creek and walking itself dry, but the area was far too exposed, only a thin line of trees shielding it from view.

Civilian habitation would become less dense as it moved away from the coast, and then it would be able to travel more directly. Soon, the city gave way to rolling hills, cultivated fields dotted with residential buildings and storage facilities. Machinery trundled across the landscape, stirring up clouds of dust from gravel roads and dry plant matter being cut. [Great fields of rice and sugarcane, blackened by the bombs, ash falling like rain.] The Soldier adjusted its course, traveling at right angles to stay in the shadow of unharvested maize. The plants loomed tall, papery leaves rustling in the wind.

It came across a residence that appeared unoccupied, though there were signs of regular habitation. No vehicles present, no cameras, doors and windows closed. Midday. If the occupants were employed elsewhere, there would be no one on the property. A line of garments hung from a rope strung across the front lawn. Something about the sight tugged at its chest, but it disregarded the sensation. The Soldier took the opportunity to acquire fresh clothing, ducking behind a barn to slip into a sun-warmed cotton shirt and stiff denim pants. It retained the gloves and jacket it had stolen in DC. They were still serviceable, despite a small tear in the seam of the jacket’s left shoulder. If it could find a needle and thread, it would be easily repaired. [Med kit, where was the med kit? The bleeding did not stop. It had to–] Had it done that before? Irrelevant.

The soiled clothing could not simply be discarded. It would leave evidence of the Soldier’s presence. But it would not contaminate the other supplies by putting the garments into the duffel. It tucked the bundled fabric under the right arm, carrying it until it found a suitable place to dispose of it. The next farm had a large refuse pile in a far pasture, broken furniture and dry plant material stacked high in preparation for burning. It buried the clothes deep within the pile. If they did not burn, they would decay there.

With fresh clothing, it could travel closer to the roads, but the Soldier took cover whenever it heard an approaching vehicle. A stranger in such a small community would still be notable. Very few passed, mostly pickup trucks carrying civilians to some agricultural errand. It moved as quickly as possible without breaking into a full run. Under-nutriated and malfunctioning, it was better to conserve its energy.

It kept the mind occupied with observation, calculation. It tracked the movements of the birds, flocking south and gleaning maize from the fields. It watched for vehicles, noted the position of the sun, and adjusted its path accordingly. The sky was blindingly clear, wisps of cloud providing no relief from the light. It thought of the goggles stored in the duffle, but if any civilians were to see it, that would no doubt arouse suspicion. The ambient temperature never rose above nineteen degrees. Late autumn, October most likely. It could have determined a more accurate time if the stars were visible.

It grasped at what few threads of memory it could. There had not been a specific date given after its activation. It had to have seen something, in the news reports, on the computer monitors, on the– The Commander’s death certificate. It had been dated October fourteenth. It was nearing the end of the month, then, if it had tallied the passing days correctly. There was still time, before winter came and the Soldier’s current equipment would be insufficient.

After four point eight hours of travel, it came to the edge of a small town. A roadside market provided additional water. It left enough cash to cover the cost of the supplies, tucked under the register while the shopkeeper was restocking the refrigerated cases. Theft would stand out more here than in a large city, and it could always acquire additional currency. With four liters of water weighing it down, the duffel felt strangely heavy. [One casualty. Extraction required. The weight of a body over the shoulder. The heat of fresh blood seeping through its suit.]

The malfunctions were becoming louder, more frequent. Some item, some sound or scent, would spur them at random. But it could still discern what was real and what was simply a malfunction, and the body was obeying its commands. It walked on. Agricultural land gave way to residential developments, then back again. The fields became too open, the road too exposed. There was no cover when the next vehicle approached. The driver slowed, head inclined in curiosity. The hands itched for the gun. The Soldier turned its face away and ignored their gaze, and they moved on. Soon it was able to divert to another riverbank, following the flow of water southwest, but the density of residential structures began to increase. It was approaching another city, a moderately sized one judging by this neighborhood.

There were houses butting up directly to the riverbank, and the Soldier would be trespassing across the back yards if it continued on this path. It could easily evade civilian notice, but it was unpredictable which structures might have security features, dogs, motion-sensing lights. It should search for supplies, try to equip itself for the remainder of the journey, but it would not have enough cognitive function to approximate human behavior for long.

It broke to the west. Another belt of trees led away from the city, connecting to a large swath of forest. A large ridge rose up from the landscape, blanketed with vegetation. It could take cover there, evaluate the terrain and determine if there was a suitable facility from which it might acquire nutrition. As it ascended, the weight on its back seemed to grow. The slope was not nearly steep enough to challenge the Soldier’s physiology, but what should have been a simple exercise caused the heart rate to increase and stutter out of rhythm.

It assessed the status of the body for the first time in hours. It had been lost in the steady cadence of walking, distracted by the constant monitoring of the environment and the strange sensations from the malfunctions. The ever-present pain in the skull had not ebbed. The tongue was dry, stuck in its mouth like the desiccated corpse of a small mammal. Intermittent pain shot through the legs, the muscles cramping with each movement. Dehydration, moderate to severe. Highly irregular. It knew it was capable of functioning for days without water. [Fourteen tally marks, ragged nails scoring into the brick. Not much longer. They would come, they would not let it die here, it–]

It paused to retrieve a liter bottle from the duffel and carefully drank half of it. There was enough elevation now to see most of the small city below it, though the view was obscured by the red-orange foliage of the maple forest. There was sufficient distance from roads or trails to avoid detection, and there were no vehicles within earshot. It found an acceptable specimen, a low-limbed pin oak, and scrambled up until the branches became too thin to hold its weight.

As darkness crept over the valley, the city lit up. It could trace the lines of highways, the regular patterns of residential developments, laid out like the squares of a quilt, stitched together at the edges with dots of light. A quilt, like… like… [calloused hands, fresh baked bread, lilacs in her hair.]

There, just past the main road, it could see a large facility, all concrete and hard angles. It boasted an expansive parking area and a small helipad. A hospital, though not nearly the size of the one that had held the Captain. It would have to do. The Soldier descended, noted the location of this tree – the only pin oak amid a stand of pine – and stowed the duffel in the crook of a larger branch.

It took stock of its appearance as best it could. The clothing was relatively clean, only the dust of the road marring the hems of the pants. The autumn wind and hours of sunlight had eliminated most of the odor that clung to it, though it knew it must smell of sweat and sickness still. That would not be out of place in a medical facility. It ttuged at its knotted hair as it gathered the unruly mass under the cap.

Down the ridge, back through the greenway, then onto the roads. The city was not so small that civilians avoided moving at night. Vehicles passed. Music and chattering speech spilled out from storefronts and restaurants. [Piano and cigarettes and red lips, the target had a predilection for gambling and dark haired women, he would be–] It attempted to shift its gait, to blend into the landscape, but the body was stiff and the cognition saturated with constant tracking of the civilians. It pressed on, crossing the highway and approaching the rear of the hospital at an angle. It was late enough that the shift change was already complete, and the staff entrance was silent, lit only by a single halogen light.

The security camera captured a shadow at the edge of its field of view, then went dark.

The Soldier readily found a sterile paper mask, pocketing a few more for future use. [White light, disinfectant, mask and glasses and the saw the scalpel the–] The supply cabinets here were small, the materiel divided between multiple caches. It did not disable the internal security cameras. The face was hidden now, and another patient, another visitor, would not be noticed as long as its unusual entrance was not documented. It took three attempts, dodging the meager security force and walking with purpose, as if it knew to which room it was traveling, to find one with the appropriate nutrition. There were the intravenous bags, and on the same shelf, nasogastric kits. Those would allow for more calorie-dense nutrition. Three IV packs, one NG kit, and two bags of the appropriate solution were tucked into the jacket. It was all the Soldier could carry without distorting the line of the garments too badly.

Exfil was uneventful. The Soldier took a different route back to the ridge.

Forty minutes in all, and it had acquired enough nutrition to sustain the body for several days. It retrieved the duffel and stowed the supplies. The bag was now more populated with its refuse than with usable stock. It should have located a receptacle for the empty water bottles. An oversight. They did not significantly contribute to the weight of the pack. It continued westward, eyes trained for acceptable shelter. The nutrition routine would take half an hour, perhaps more, and it would need to be undisturbed.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

The forest was silent save for the expected sounds of animals in the underbrush, the calls of birds of prey. It stumbled upon a road, which soon led to a structure of rough-hewn logs. The building was secured with a single chain and padlock, signage indicating that it was ‘closed for the season.’ There were no security cameras, no floodlights. The lock was easily disabled, the left hand pulling the shank from the body with a muted snick. The Soldier removed the chain with care, minimizing noise, and left it coiled around one of the door handles.

The inside of the building was well-kept, if cluttered. Signage dotted the walls, photographs and text outlining the history of the park. Almost every surface was made of wood, giving the impression that the entire structure had been carved from a single massive log. The Soldier found refuge in an interior room, an office by the looks of it, and tucked itself under the desk.

[“Keep quiet, Soldat. There’s a good boy.”]

[“Stupid thing, every damn time. How the hell does it still have a gag reflex?”]

It choked around the intrusion in its throat, forcing the muscles to work against the instinct to retch. The tube did not move. It applied more pressure. The Soldier gagged, unable to prevent the coughing fit that overtook it. The chest ached with the violent heaving of its diaphragm, and the movements pushed the tube back up into its sinuses. It took several minutes for the coughing to pass. The shoulders hitched, the entire body shuddering. Bile and mucous dripped from its chin. It paused, listening past its own heaving breaths for any outside noise, any indication that its reaction had attracted attention. There was nothing.

It tried again.

Relax. Breathe through the mouth. Swallow.

It gagged, and the stomach rebelled. It barely had time to locate a waste bin before bile rose up in its throat. It removed the tube, reaching for a bottle of water to try and clean its face. Unacceptable. Pathetic. The Soldier drank a few mouthfuls, rinsing the vile taste from its tongue.

It applied the rest of the lubricant and reinserted the tubing.

Swallow. Breathe. Swallow.

It nearly collapsed in relief as the tube passed the back of the throat, but another round of ragged, choking coughs caused the esophagus to seize painfully around it. The Soldier felt the scrape of hard plastic in the back of its mouth, an awful burning sensation bringing moisture to the eyes. It pushed again, trying to swallow. Another full-body muscle spasm. The right hand shook uncontrollably. In a fit of unacceptable impatience, it ripped the tube from its nose. The end came out tinged pink, bloody mucus clinging to the plastic. [Hands on the body, voices above, yielding flesh under the prosthesis, the crack of bone against concrete.] The Soldier let out a growl, cursing its incompetence, and flung the device across the room.

It had to get some sort of nutrition if it was going to continue this journey. It tore through the duffel to find one of the liquid ration bags, ripped off the tubing, and poured the contents directly into its mouth. The thick, chalky substance clung to the tongue and irritated its abraded throat, but the Soldier choked it down. The stomach roiled, cramping in complaint. The Soldier ignored it. It drained the bag steadily, suckling at the thing like an infant, and washed the rations down with more water. Gasping, it dropped the empty bottle and let the head fall to its knees. Nausea threatened to undo its progress, but it kept its breathing even and swallowed steadily until the sensation passed.

This was untenable, intolerable. It was… [“You’re f*cking useless.”] The body could not fail, not before it found the Captain.

An inescapable emotional response came over it, chest burning and limbs vibrating with the force of it. It hastily collected the supplies and left the building, not bothering to fix the doors. It had to keep going, had to move. The Soldier doubled its previous pace, fueled by directionless rage.

The last quarter moon had risen over the horizon at some point during its fumbling, and the soft white glow was a balm after hours of harsh sunlight. The wind was growing stronger, blowing in steadily from the east and beating at the Soldier’s back. It broke into a run, disregarding the objections from its body, ignorant of everything but the pounding of boots on the forest floor. It deftly cleared fallen trees, moving nearly silently in the gloom. [Moonlight silver on pale hair, branches scratching at the face. The target never saw it coming. It ran much faster than she could. A knife in the heart before she could even scream.] This was good. This was familiar.

The forest ended, opening into another expanse of cultivated fields. There were homes scattered across the hills, lit up against the darkness. The legs cramped with every stride. The damaged throat burned with the force of its breathing. It did not matter. It kept running. It could easily clear a hundred kilometers before the sun rose. It had to keep going. It had withstood much more challenging conditions. It had run on a broken leg for thirty kilometers to an extraction point under heavy fire. It could reach the target location in five days if it just kept going.

The Soldier ran for nearly two hours, when the light of the moon was suddenly obscured. The wind whipped up into violent eddies, nearly taking the cap right off of the Soldier’s head. It spared a glance at the eastern horizon. The clouds sat low and heavy, deeper and darker than the night sky. That second of hesitation cost it its footing.

It sprawled onto the grass, air leaving its lungs with a muffled grunt. The impact did little to assuage the Soldier’s anger. How incompetent was it, tripping over nothing like some sort of uncoordinated child? [“Get up, dog!”] It shoved itself onto its knees. The nausea was back, worse than before. The exertion had only exacerbated the agitation in its stomach. It tried to resist the urge, but before it could stop itself another portion of rations was lost. It spit into the mud, glaring at the wasted nutrition as if its ire could reverse this damnable reaction. The Soldier got to its feet just as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall.

The sensation of cold water against its face cooled some of the anger, but it still smoldered in the Soldier’s throat. It should not have left the park shelter. It should not have risked unapproved rations. It should have paid more attention to its environment. It should have gone to the Captain days ago. It should have let SHIELD put it into a deep, dark hole.

It resumed its travel at a more reasonable pace, angling for the high forested area on the other side of the valley. But the storm was moving faster than the Soldier. Within minutes, frigid rain was sheeting down so heavily that it could barely see three meters in front of it. It kept moving, running across fields and through backyards, vaulting fences and scrambling up drainage ditches. [“C’mon, boys! The Krauts ain’t gonna wait for sunshine!”]It ignored the roads, the lay of property lines, and pressed directly west, or as close to west as it could determine through the downpour. Mud sloughed off the exposed fields in thick sheets. The boots lost traction several times, slipping through soil so saturated that it had become liquid. The Soldier caught itself, grabbing for any available hold, thorny branches piercing the flesh of the right hand through the leather of the gloves.

The ridge loomed in front of it, a great black shadow rising from the horizon. The forest provided little cover from the violent precipitation, the wind buffeting the trees and blowing rain sideways under the canopy. Visibility was abysmal. The Soldier had to slow its pace lest it run face-first into a tree. It was soaked through, water flooding the boots and probably seeping into the duffel. [There goes another pack of smokes.] It spared a thought for the guns, likely rendered inoperable by the moisture. It searched for some sort of shelter – an upturned tree, a leeward bough, anything at all.

Lightning broke behind it, illuminating the landscape for a brief second. There, to the south, a geometric form among the ragged shapes of the foliage. It might have been hallucinating still. The Soldier stumbled towards it, leveraging itself against the trees as it ascended the slope. A structure emerged from the gloom, outlined by the spatter of rain bouncing off of the roof. Another park shelter, the white chinking between the logs nearly glowing in the dark. There was no door, no lock, only a wide opening on one side. It was not ideal, but it was better than drowning in the mud.

The Soldier threw itself into the furthest corner, only noting that the shelter was unoccupied after its backside had hit the dirt. Sloppy. Un… unacceptable. The chest heaved. The extremities were nearly numb. Nausea and headache spun up into full-blown vertigo. It idly considered that it should remove its boots [ rot your feet right off ], but the world tilted and its vision went black before it could even lift its hands.

______________________________________________________________

“ –think he’s a hiker? Don’t look too good. Maybe we should call somebody.”

“No, no police, dear. We cannot know his story.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ cops, just–”

It came to consciousness with violence, knife in the right hand, the left raised defensively. The voices were close, within two meters of its position. They were not known to it. They had seen the face, they would know, they would–

“Whoa, whoa, hey there, buddy. You’re okay. No one's gonna hurt you.”

A man [one-hundred-eighty-eight centimeters, approximately one-hundred-ten kilograms] perhaps in his mid fifties, his unkempt hair and beard speckled with gray, stood before it. He held his hands open, his shoulders loose, in a posture proclaiming no-weapon no-threat. But not surrender. His eyes were sharp, outlined in delicate wrinkles. He assessed the Soldier’s posture [curiosity, caution.] He did not appear to be an active agent. There were no weapons on his person besides a utilitarian boot knife, though his bearing indicated military training.

Even in its current state, it could easily dispatch him. The sidearm was within reach. It could put a bullet in his skull in less than three seconds. If the gun failed, knife to the carotid, exsanguination in less than a minute. Elbow to the sternum, force the ribs into the lungs, dysregulate the heart, three minutes. The left hand around his throat, sever the spine, three seconds. Asphyxiation, four minutes. There were no orders. It did not move.

“Kakova vasha tsel'?” it hissed.

“sh*t, uh… Prosto khochu… pomoch.'” He stumbled through the words, the language heavy on his tongue. “Menya zovut Bear .”

Bear. Bear was not a name. It was an animal, of that it was sure.

[“Mishka, Mishka! Mishka rasserdilsya i nogoyu top!” ]

The Soldier’s grip on the knife tightened until its hand ached. It did not lower the weapon. The man… Bear. Did not retreat. His gaze flicked up and down its body, brows softening. He looked to his right, a question written in his expression. Another voice came, higher and softer.

“Nikakoy ugrozy net. Ty v bezopasnosti. Menya zovut Katya. Ty govorite po-angliyski?”

English. It was supposed to speak English now. A woman stepped into its line of sight, [one-hundred-sixty-five centimeters, fifty-three kilograms] hair and eyes dark, skin tanned. She was of similar age to Bear, but she held herself with grace, her slim shoulders easily supporting a large bag. [ So small, they were so small, but not to be underestimated. ]

“Da. Yes.”

Katya set her pack onto the ground and knelt in front of the Soldier, the carpet of pine needles softening her movements. She did not attempt to approach, staying half a meter outside the reach of its blade. She presented no threat. They both appeared to be traveling by foot, carrying heavy packs, clothing marred by dust. This location was removed from the city. It would be simple to hide their bodies.

“Do you know where you are, friend?”

[You’re my…]

Did it… It did not know. It remembered the storm, stumbling into the shelter, then darkness, both external and internal. It allowed its gaze to leave the strange civilians for a second, assessing its location. The wooden shelter looked worse for wear in the daylight, beams worn down with age, roof pitted with small holes, abandoned birds’ nests tucked into the eaves. It could hear vehicles nearby, traveling at high speeds, approximately four hundred meters away, but the road was not visible. Forest pressed in on all sides, and a well-trod path led away from the shelter to the north and south.

It would be unwise to alert unknown persons to its lapse in situational awareness. It said nothing.

“You’re on the Trail,” Katya offered. “Just outside of Greenbrier.” Her inflection was familiar, somehow soothing, though it was sure it did not know her.

Bear stepped closer, placing a broad hand on her shoulder. His movements were very purposeful for such a large man, as though there was hidden strength in his limbs. The name seemed more and more appropriate. It was irrational, but something about his bearing put the Soldier at ease.

“You southbound, bud? Best be, this time of year. Y’ don’t really look like you’re geared up for much of a hike either way.” He gave a nod, indicating the ragged denim jacket clinging to the Soldier’s shoulders.

It should not reveal its target to civilians, should not present these strangers with an opportunity to interfere with its travel. They could easily communicate with law enforcement. They had seen its face, possibly even… it looked to the left arm. A thin sliver of titanium was visible between the glove and the sleeve of the jacket. It cautiously lowered the prosthesis, letting the denim fall across its wrist, keeping its gaze on the civilians. It was not enough to warrant their elimination. There was no fear in their posture, no sign of defensiveness. They were not targets. They were not enemy agents. They were…

It thought of the child, however many days ago in DC. It thought of the Captain, its left arm locked around his chest, its legs fighting against the churning of the river.

Help. They’d offered help.

It was highly irregular to accept mission support from civilians, though not entirely outside of protocol. Civilians were more familiar with local customs than the handlers, especially moreso than the Soldier. It had made independent tactical decisions before, but never about how to involve civilians in its operations. The sheer volume of options was overwhelming, every choice spiraling into hundreds of potential complications.

But this was not a mission. Of every operation it could remember, this was the most irregular. There was no briefing, no orders, no one to report to. This was… it was survival. Its functionality was nearing critical levels, and it had to find the Captain, the first handler, at any cost. Its base instincts were almost as forceful now as the programming. Instinct had driven it from the warehouse, across the state, through the storm and the malfunctions, into the shelter. And instinct told it that these civilians could be trusted, despite the lack of concrete evidence. It was worth the risk.

“Y-yes. South.”

Bear broke into a wide smile, ruddy cheeks bunching up with the force of the gesture. [“ That mustache ain’t regulation, Du–” ]

“You can walk with us if you like. We’ve got plenty of food, a spare blanket or two. No need to freeze your ass off out here. Whattaya say, bud?”

There was a trail, Katya had said. A clear route south. And these people knew the way, were equipped for many days’ travel. It could move much faster than the civilians. If necessary, it could disappear into the forest and leave them entirely before they’d even noticed it was gone. If necessary, it could kill them without making a sound and take their supplies. It lowered the knife. The right hand had begun to shake again, and the tremor was not exactly intimidating.

"Affirmative."

“Great! Sorry if we woke you. We don’t mind waiting if you need to pack up. We’re about due for a break anyway.”

Bear removed his pack and settled onto the floor of the shelter. He kept his distance, still outside of close combat range, but he gave the Soldier his side, facing out towards the forest. By all indications, he was simply observing the landscape.

Katya was wiser. She remained standing, moving to the open wall and keeping one eye on the Soldier as she went through a physical training routine – mostly stretches. It would be highly effective to prevent muscle damage during an extended march. The Soldier had not completed its physical training in weeks. It had… There had been no time, and then the malfunctions had disrupted any attempt at routine.

It made no move to prepare itself for travel, just studied the civilians as they went through their ‘break’ protocol. Bear dug into his pack, pulling out several small rectangular packages. He looked to the Soldier, offering one of the rectangles.

“Granola bar?”

It shook its head in the negative. Even if it had been permitted to accept rations from civilians, it was unlikely that the stomach would tolerate them. It had had enough vomiting.

Bear shrugged. “Suit yourself. You got a name, pal?”

It answered without thought.

“It has no name.”

He started, then let out a short laugh. Katya did not react, though it was sure she had heard the exchange. It could have given a false name, could have supplied the old designation, the codename from the museum, but that seemed… wrong. Not for it. This was not a mission, and it had no specific cover identity. It had lost all ability to communicate properly with civilians. It took all of the Soldier’s focus to simply assess and respond to the situation, no cognitive function left to devote to mimicking human behavior.

There were no more questions, only the noise of Bear consuming two of his field rations and Katya’s regular breathing. After eight point two minutes without suspicious activity, the Soldier reached for the duffel. It withdrew a half-empty bottle of water, keeping its eyes trained on them as it drank.

The clothing had dried somewhat, but the feet were still sodden, boots and socks soaked through from the previous night’s downpour. It should remove them, allow them to dry. It could defend itself without the boots. But that seemed an unacceptable point of vulnerability at the moment, in front of these unknown people. The Soldier elected to ignore the issue. It packed the few items that had escaped back into the duffel and made itself ready to move.

The civilians took their time. Bear stretched and let out a disturbing noise, as if his lungs were suddenly clamped in a vice, before heaving himself up to standing. Katya moved nearly silently, retrieving her own canteen and retying her hair before shouldering her pack. She looked towards the Soldier with an unreadable expression, but then her gaze went soft. It had no metric against which to gauge her emotional response. She was strangely opaque for a civilian.

“You ready, bud?” Bear asked through another grunting yawn.

It gave a short nod.

The strangers gave it their backs, walking blithely ahead with no indication that they understood the threat lying in wait behind them. The Soldier hung back, allowing them a few meters’ distance before it got to its feet.

It had lost all sense of direction, only stumbling vaguely west, wrestling against the buffeting winds and its own failing cognition. The position of the sun confirmed that the civilians had not been false – they were traveling south along a marked trail, blazes and intermittent “AT” signs indicating the correct path. The Soldier heard them speaking softly to one another, but it did not strain to make out the words. It would follow until it had its bearings. It was likely these travelers had a map in their possession, which it could easily acquire when they stopped to sleep.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Steve had an eidetic memory. He’d read the Winter Soldier file twenty-eight times.

He was on his sixth cup of coffee in as many hours. Caffeine didn’t do much for him, but the taste was one of the few things he still found comfort in. He was about to start re-read number twenty-nine when Natasha showed up with the newest batch of intel, breezing into Sam’s kitchen like she owned the place.

So far they’d cleared every base from DC to Philadelphia, with a bit of help from a very select team of the remaining loyal SHIELD agents. New York would have to wait. They didn’t have enough trusted reinforcements to hit the larger bases there. Even the NYPD was still riddled with HYDRA moles. Steve hoped Tony would be able to fix up Sam’s wings and join them with the Iron Man suit once he’d been read into the situation. Sam had been excellent backup so far, patient with Steve’s wavering moods, precise and professional in the field, but Steve knew he was feeling antsy. Being grounded so soon after getting his wings back had to be frustrating. He’d taken a few days to visit family in New York, and Steve was glad of it. Sam was wearing a bit thin lately, trying to keep up with Steve’s rapidfire revenge-fueled assault. He deserved some time off.

Natasha was kept busy doing background checks and trawling the Insight data to make sure they didn’t have any double agents in the new SHIELD cohort. When she wasn’t triple-checking every operative that got within a yard of Steve, she was digging through what few files they’d deciphered to try and find out more about HYDRA’s recent projects or pick up a lead on Bucky. So far, there was nothing to report. The encryption was nigh impossible, and without access to Tony’s technology they were at a standstill. Steve had been putting off that particular phone call, but he knew he’d have to break down and talk to Stark soon.

He’d taken out his frustration on the HYDRA agents that were stupid enough to remain at their posts, but base after empty base was beginning to grate on his nerves. They still had no idea where the bastards were regrouping. If their exit plan was in the data dump, it was well-hidden, along with any additional information about the Winter Soldier project. Steve glared down at the files, willing himself to make any sort of connection, to parse out the patterns in the data. He used to be good at this. He felt so goddamn useless right now.

Natasha’s hands appeared in his field of vision, cupping his where they held his coffee mug in a stranglehold. Steve loosened his grip before he shattered it.

“Think it might be time for a break, Rogers?”

He glanced up. She was blonde today, but that wasn’t the only thing that made her look different. A placid smile barely disguised the concern on the Widow’s face. The same softness he’d seen a few weeks ago – when she’d found out SHIELD was just another corrupt master – was there in her eyes. It was a gift, he knew. A glimpse of her core, the exhausted woman hidden under all the layers of sarcasm and subterfuge. But he didn’t have it in him to surrender now. He was going to slam himself against this wall until something gave. It wasn’t graceful, but it usually worked for him if he kept at it long enough.

“I can’t, Nat. I’m sorry. There’s got to be–”

“Steve,” she insisted. “Even you need rest.”

He shook his head, extricating himself from her grasp so he wouldn’t hurt her as he clenched his fists.

“I have to keep looking. I already lost him once. I can’t– I won’t let it happen again.”

Natasha looked at him with something so naked and vulnerable he found himself growing suspicious. There was no way she was letting her guard down this much just to get him to take a break. It had to be an act, but for what purpose he didn’t know. Was there something there she didn’t want him to find?

Her eyes fell to the table as she said, “He wouldn’t want you to run yourself ragged like this.”

Steve snapped. None of them had any idea what Buck would want. No one knew him. Even in their time, no one had known him like Steve did. No one else had seen him fall apart time and time again and been there to pick up the pieces. It was lower than low for Nat to try and use Bucky’s memory to manipulate him.

“What the hell would you know?” he spat.

He couldn’t help but move, pacing the short distance between the table and the door of the kitchen. Natasha persisted. She intercepted his path and took hold of his arm. He glared, letting the anger and frustration bleed through in his expression. She met it with infuriating patience.

“You love him.” It wasn’t a question. “I’m going to assume he cares about you, too. Or he used to, at least. You’re not treating yourself like he’d treat you.”

Steve couldn’t hold back a derisive scoff. If she was going to play dirty, well, he could too. “I thought love was for children.”

He tried to shrug her off, but her grip stayed steady. She was always stronger than he expected. Steve waited for the usual acerbic comeback, but Natasha was quiet. Long seconds passed, the only movement the ticking of the clock and the twitching of tense muscles in Steve’s back. Something shifted in Nat’s eyes, but it was impossible to read. Eventually she let go, stepping over to the table and busying herself straightening papers. Steve was ready to bully his way back into the research, until she broke the silence.

“Did I ever tell you the story of how Clint brought me in?”

He shook his head, only a little thrown by the sudden change in topic. He’d grown used to Nat’s habit of coming at things obliquely. Her back was to him, but her voice was so carefully pitched that Steve knew she was angling at something important.

“Haven’t heard that one.”

“He tracked me for months, all the way across Ukraine. Safehouse after safehouse. I nearly killed him about ten times. I thought he’d been sent to eliminate me. He had, actually, but he changed his mind the second time I concussed him.”

Steve held back the obvious comment about Clint’s decision-making skills being affected by multiple head traumas, but Natasha turned and must’ve seen it on his face. She leaned back against the table and gave him a knowing look.

“But I didn’t know that. He kept trying to talk to me, bringing me coffee as a peace offering, and I just kept shooting at him. By the time we got to Lviv, he was full of bullet holes and my best leathers were ruined from all the damned arrows. After that, he got smart. Left me alone for three weeks. I knew he was still in the city. I’d been tracking SHIELD’s transportation networks. But he didn’t come after me again. Eventually my curiosity got the best of me, and I broke into his hotel room and tied him to the bed before he woke up. It was one of the most disappointing interrogations I’ve ever conducted.”

Steve huffed. He could just imagine Clint, befuddled and bleary, when he woke up in the Widow’s bondage. Nat’s face fell, growing serious.

“I don’t think it’s going to work, chasing the Soldier. He’s good. Maybe better than me. If he thinks you’re hunting him, he’ll never stop running. He needs to come in on his own. You’re not exactly hard to find.”

He kept his mouth shut, clamping down on the argument that was trying to climb up his throat. He didn’t like it, but he knew Natasha was right. If he’d been in the same position, Steve would fight to his last breath to avoid enemy capture. And it was untelling whether Buck understood that they were trying to help him. He thought Bucky had recognized him for a second on the helicarrier, but after everything he’d been through, he could still be real mixed up.

Natasha was fidgeting with her hair, her gaze fixed to the floor somewhere to the left of Steve’s shoes. She was seeing something far from here. Steve tracked a minute twitch of her arms, the restrained impulse to cross them, to make herself smaller. She regrouped, straightening but still not meeting his eyes.

“I knew him.”

“Yeah, you said–”

“No,” she cut him off. “Before Odessa. I met him in Moscow. It was… a few years, I think.” She shifted her weight, the nervous movement making her look far too young and unsure. “It’s still kind of fuzzy. He trained some of the Widows, and… we were together.”

The words sat heavy between them, Steve struggling to absorb what she was saying and integrate it into his internal timeline. It seemed impossible that their lives would be so intertwined, spanning continents and decades. He’d suspected that Natasha wasn’t exactly a baseline human, and even she didn’t know how old she really was.

For a moment he wondered if she might be messing with him, but he cast that ungrateful thought aside. They’d seen so much of each other the past few years. Perhaps ironically, she was one of the few people on his SHIELD team with whom he’d felt comfortable letting his guard down. Natasha knew the real Steve Rogers – at least what was left of him after the propaganda tried to erase him and Buck’s death had nearly eaten him alive – and he thought he’d gotten pretty close to her real self as well. She understood how important Bucky was. She wouldn’t lie about something like this.

It was odd that she’d waited this long to tell him, though. Steve wasn’t sure if this was another strategically placed breadcrumb, or if it had just taken her a while to work up the nerve to share something so personal. Natasha spoke again before he could reply, almost defensive.

“I loved him, Steve. There are still a lot of false memories, but I know this one is real.”

He took a breath, trying to settle himself. This was the most he’d ever heard her speak about her past beyond veiled references. He’d given her the dignity of privacy, not prying into whatever information might have been revealed in the data dump. She wouldn’t say it outright, but he knew she’d been subjected to something similar to the wipes used on Bucky. His heart ached, though he couldn’t put a name to the emotions welling up inside of him, pushing against his ribs like the expanding gasp of a bellows. This was not his fellow operative. This was his friend, showing him an old scar. One shaped quite similarly to some of his own. He said the only thing he could think to say, the thing that Peggy had repeated to him so many times, that he still didn’t really believe.

“It’s not your fault.”

She finally looked up at him, her expression shifting back towards practiced neutrality.

“I thought you deserved to know. I swear, I had no idea who he used to be, until DC. He told me his name was James, and he spoke English with an American accent, but that was all we had apart from the identity Department X cooked up for him. I know this is personal for you. It’s personal for me, too. I promised him that I’d come back for him, and I–”

She stopped suddenly. Steve almost expected to see her break, to find tears on her cheeks, but she held herself together. He felt like a heel, taking his frustration out on her when she’d been trying to reach out. He stepped forward, softening the tense line of his shoulders and opening his arms. An offer to hold her close and let her feel the same broken promises weighing him down. She took it, tucking herself against his chest, small and warm and far too strong for her own good. This must’ve been what Bucky felt like, trying to rein in Steve’s younger self. He cautiously rubbed a hand across her back. As much as she liked to flirt and tease him, this was the most open he’d ever seen Natasha, and he didn’t know where her lines were right now.

“Tell me about him?” he asked. “The… the man you knew.”

She huffed against his chest, something between humor and disbelief.

“Which one?”

Steve wasn’t sure if she was being facetious, so he waited for her to go on. Natasha pressed her forehead into his sternum, her voice muffled by fabric and flesh.

“He was different every time I met him. As strict as the Madame when he taught us. Cold and efficient in the field. But then…” she hesitated, toying with the hem of Steve’s shirt. “When he was out for longer, he’d change. The girls called him Mishka. Little bear. He would braid our hair. Tell the younger ones stories. What he could remember of them, anyway. I think he made up the endings half the time.”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh, Nat’s head bobbing as his chest hitched. Buck had done that before, when he got bored of the same old fairy tales. He’d made his sisters squeal in delight and indignation, having knights befriend dragons or Rapunzel plan her own escape with her shorn hair.

“He was a lot like you. Wouldn’t let us get away with less than our best. Didn’t accept any excuses. When we… I was older, when he came back as a field agent. After our third op together, he took off his mask and just gave me this look…” She shook her head, unable to put words to the patented Barnes panty-dropping smile, Steve figured. “He was good to me. Sweet, thoughtful. He’d bring me gifts, little trinkets he managed to pick up on his missions. He was the one decent thing in that damn place. Even when he was different. Even when they made him hurt us. He was never cruel. I could see that he hated it, but his leash was even shorter than mine.”

Steve resisted the urge to blurt out what he was thinking. To elaborate on how very Bucky that was, to find little pieces of beauty even when he was hurting. To take care of others when he didn’t even know himself. For a moment it seemed like Nat might pull away, her body taut with potential energy. Then she sagged further into Steve, trusting him to take most of her weight.

“We were going to run.” She spoke in a whisper, as if it was unsafe to say it even now. “We had a plan, a safehouse set up, passage out of the country. But somehow they found out. They took him from me. I didn’t know where, or what they’d done to him. Every piece of evidence that he’d ever existed was erased. The apartment. His gifts. His memories, and parts of mine. I knew he was still alive, but all I could find were whispered reports of his hits. They kept moving him. Turned him into a bogeyman to scare the rest of us into line. I looked, after I got out. I looked for years. Even after Odessa I couldn’t–”

Her voice finally failed. Steve curled around her, massaging her back and letting his cheek rest against the top of her head.

“I know. God, I know, Nat. I’ve let him down too many times. I swear, we’ll figure it out. We’ll bring him home.”

She nodded, hair scrunching up against his shirt and falling from her messy bun. Steve comforted her as best he could, feeling too big and clumsy. After a while, she straightened and slid out of his arms. The mask didn’t go back up, but she reigned in her emotions with impressive speed.

“I’ve put some feelers out, and I’ve got a few old contacts to check in on. They have intel that might help us, but I have to wait until the heat dies down. We can keep taking out HYDRA installations. It needs to be done, and I know it makes you feel better,” she grinned.

She knew he needed something concrete to throw himself at while they waited for a sign from Bucky. And each new base they hit was another potential cache of information, another chance at getting one of those assholes to talk. If Steve left them alive long enough, anyway. He took a moment to gather himself, assimilating all the things Natasha had revealed. It was humbling that she trusted him with so much of her story. He owed her that trust in return. So he pushed down the frustration and bottled it up in his near-overflowing reserves, saving his fury for the people who actually deserved it.

“Alright,” he said. “What’s our next target?”

Natasha raised a perfectly contoured eyebrow.

“Lunch.”

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

The civilians moved so slowly it was nearly intolerable. The further it traveled, the greater the irregular emotional response became. It knew they were not capable of moving as quickly as it was, but they acted as if their destination was entirely irrelevant, ambling along and speaking casually until they came to a particularly difficult slope. It kept pace twenty meters behind them, watching their movements for any sign of subterfuge or threat. There was only the regular thump of boots on soil and the occasional pause to point out some feature of the landscape. [“Eyes front, Soldat!”] The Soldier timed its water consumption with theirs, taking a sip every other time the civilians stopped. The increased hydration required it to pause twice along the journey to empty the bladder, but it never allowed the civilians to move out of earshot.

It gathered from their conversation that this trail traversed most of the eastern part of the continent, beginning in Maine and ending in Georgia. They meant to hike little more than half of it, having begun at the northern terminus a few months ago, planning to end the journey at a place called Shenandoah. They had taken their time, stopping often to resupply and meet with their associates. The still-warm fall weather allowed them to continue despite the setbacks in schedule. They traveled this route often and were very familiar with the terrain. The journey was undertaken for… enjoyment? Perhaps some sort of training.

Though they had slowed its progress, their knowledge of the trail was valuable. Its internal map of the region did not include footpaths outside of metropolitan areas. The Soldier was highly skilled in urban operations, but this route was an optimal choice in its current state. It was not required to speak to civilians, besides the unlikely guides. It did not have to constantly assess high buildings for counter-snipers. Very few of the trees were suitable for cover, half of them nearly bare as the changing season stole their foliage. There was much less noise, no cameras, and no glaring lights obscuring the sky, and far fewer sources of input to trigger the malfunctions.

A few others crossed their path, but never for very long. When the Soldier heard approaching footsteps, it ducked into the forest, traveling parallel to Bear and Katya fifty meters off the trail until the area was clear again. Those two had already seen it, the damage was done, but it would avoid other witnesses as much as possible. Casualties would attract attention eventually, even in such a remote area. Families would come looking, and– No. No, this was not a mission. There was no handler. No civilian deaths had been authorized.

They stopped for another meal, two ‘rest breaks,’ and a pointless conversation with another traveler. The Soldier found itself losing patience. It was inured to long days awaiting targets, but having to keep pace with civilians was not a common mission requirement. At one point it left the trail to scout three kilometers ahead before circling back to find Bear and Katya happily trodding along at the same speed as before. If they noticed its absence, they said nothing. [“–the f*ck have you been? Get your ass back in the van!"]

It could have gone ahead, easily losing them in the thick woods, but it was unfamiliar with this route. These people had much-needed intel, and they… the Soldier was strangely intrigued by their behavior. It was not the time for curiosity, but something about these civilians commanded its attention. [Broad shoulders, bright blue under stormy skies, always at his left, he never guarded–] Its cognition was unreliable, too easily influenced by strange impulses. In any case, it knew it would damage itself further if it attempted to resume the frantic pace of the previous night. If it could allow the body to recover slightly, it would be capable of moving much faster once it had access to a map.

As dark drew over the hills, Bear and Katya sped up, aiming for another shelter at which they would sleep for the night. When the structure came into view, Bear called back to it.

“You gonna bunk with us, pal?”

It regarded him for a moment. He had no authority over it. He was– It shook the head. The body was functioning tolerably [Thirty-four percent.] It had barely exerted itself since its last period of… unconsciousness. It was not exactly rest, but it had marginally improved the cognitive functionality [Thirty-eight percent.] The Soldier was hydrated, if not nutriated. It would not make use of the IV nutrition packs while the civilians observed.

“Alright, suit yourself,” he shrugged.

Bear and Katya unburdened themselves and set about making camp for the night. They had simple bedrolls, but no tents, relying on the open wooden building to shelter them from the elements. Bear retrieved a small cooking pot and portable stove from his pack while Katya performed another sequence of stretches. The Soldier observed from a distance, but was forced to retreat further into the forest when three other travelers appeared from the south. They made themselves at ease in the shelter as Bear and Katya had, chatting amiably over the food. [Bitter coffee, hushed voices, “ Rabbit again?”]

It did not know what to do. It was perfectly capable of traveling without its inadvertent companions. From what it could tell, there would be no civilians on the trail after dark, making movement even more appealing. But its limbs did not shift, hesitation weighing it down. The opportunity to acquire a more precise map should not be discarded. All of the travelers on this route kept their belongings in tightly packed rucksacks. There was no way to pickpocket unless they were highly distracted or deep asleep. With the additional civilians crowding the shelter, it would be difficult to access Bear’s pack without waking them. It would risk further observation, or retaliation.

The Soldier assessed the surrounding area for an acceptable vantage. The sky was clear, the barometric pressure steady, and the wind carried no hint of moisture. It slung the duffel onto the lower branch of a hemlock and quietly ascended the tree, settling itself into the vee of a sturdy bough. It was nearly dry after the day’s steady winds. After two point three hours, the noise of the camp died down and the lights were extinguished. The forest swelled with a chorus of sound: insects, birds, and small mammals shuffling through the dry leaves. The saaah-wheet call of an owl echoed across the hills. It was too far from the shelter to detect breathing or heartbeats, but it could hear the sonorous snoring of at least one of the travelers.

At approximately 0300, an odd restlessness came over it. It attempted to track movement in the night, but the shadows appeared and disappeared in irregular patterns. It was seeing things that were not there again. It thought that the hallucinations had ended, but the darkness brought the ghosts lurching back. It had to find some way to focus its failing mind.

The Soldier withdrew the P220 from under its clothing and stripped it, pocketing the ammunition and balancing the components on its crossed legs. It had not taken time to find a cleaning kit before leaving the city, but it should at least determine if the weapons were functional. The unfiltered moonlight was more than enough for its eyes. By some impossible fortuity, the gun had dried with minimal damage. What little mud had gotten into the barrel was easily removed. There was some residue on the spring, but it hadn’t been wet for long enough for rust to take hold. It scrubbed at the metal with the hem of the stolen shirt until it was satisfied. A discharge would attract attention even during the day, so the Soldier made do with dry firing, listening intently to the mechanics. It would suffice.

It hooked the strap of the duffel with its foot, carefully navigating the hefty pack up from the lower branch with minimal noise. The faint must of mildew wafted from the pack when it was unzipped. Everything had been soaked with rainwater and had not dried properly. It inspected the ammunition. At least one case was still water-logged, unable to dry in the enclosed duffel. It shoved that box to the far end of the bag. Two more were middling. There was a nonzero chance of failure with the rounds therein. One case was still reasonably dry. It loaded the P220 with fresh rounds and tucked it back into the waistband of the pants.

The Soldier repeated the process with the other weapons. The Glock was only slightly worse for wear. After a bit of polishing with the shirt and a makeshift brush cut from a hemlock twig, it was functional. Accuracy would not be optimal, but there was no interference with the firing mechanism. The Soldier made a note to acquire oil as soon as possible.

The Derringers… It exhaled silently. They had been submerged in the Potomac, stuck in the duffel for over a week, and then languished under wet leathers for a day and half after the storm. There was too much corrosion to deal with without a wire brush and solvent. It did not have surplus ammunition for these, anyway. They were never meant to be primary weapons.

The knives were in far better condition. Only a few showed signs of disrepair. It passed the blades across the heel of the left hand until the corrosion and nicks were smoothed away. The Soldier had no dry cloth in which to pack them. It considered airing the tac suits in the branches, but if it had to move quickly then it would have to either leave them behind – incontrovertible evidence of its presence – or waste valuable time to pack them back up. It had no way to clean them now, either. There was no leather conditioner in its standard inventory. It tucked a knife into its boot, two into its pants, and rolled the rest into the sleeve of the drier tac jacket before repacking the duffel, taking care to arrange the empty water bottles and other refuse so that they would not make noise as it moved.

______________________________________________________

Bear and Katya woke twenty-three minutes after first light, prepared another meal, and silently left the other travelers at the shelter. The Soldier allowed them to see it fall in behind them as they crested the first hill. It kept pace as it had previously, circling ahead a few times to ensure there were no obstacles or threats on the path ahead. The second day of travel saw a slight increase in speed, but it was still far slower than the Soldier would have moved alone. The terrain was much the same.

Nine kilometers south of the shelter, they came upon a small town. The Soldier hung back, observing as the civilians purchased rations and supplies. It was forced to follow them out of cover when they crossed a small river. There were two bridges, one of them an aged steel-girder rail crossing, the other a plank footpath along a vehicular route. It allowed Bear and Katya to clear the crossing before slipping under the head of the pedestrian bridge and maneuvering itself along the underside of the structure. They did not look back, trusting that it would follow or unconcerned if it did not.

There was another river crossing barely a kilometer away. This one was wider, and the traffic on the bridge more dense. The structure was new, solid concrete with very few handholds underneath. Moving during the day was highly problematic and presented far too much risk for detection. Again, it waited until the civilian foot traffic had dissipated and there were no watercraft visible on the river. Then Soldier slipped over the side of the rail and clambered across in the shadow of the concrete sidewalls. [Pain, pain in the shoulder and the spine. Fire howling and artillery cracking, too close, too loud. Fingers digging into concrete, metal and flesh nearly slipping on the thick coat of ash.] The prosthesis held its weight easily, but by the time it finished the second crossing, the right arm was trembling constantly and blackness edged around its vision.

It was becoming imperative for the Soldier to make another attempt at nutrition. It had been almost three days since its failed consumption of the human-standard nasogastric solution. It estimated that it had absorbed approximately thirty percent of the substance before the body rejected it. The stomach had stopped its complaints days ago, but pain still shot through its abdomen at random intervals. The incessant headache had grown slowly worse, exacerbated by the unfiltered sunlight. And now its musculature was beginning to atrophy. It would find a way to make use of the intravenous solution once the civilians had bedded down for the night.

The rest of the day’s travel was less eventful. Only a few road crossings interrupted the trail, and it was simple enough to wait until the vehicles had passed. The road led west. It could follow the highways, perhaps… No. This path was feasible. The Soldier spotted one traffic camera at a large intersection and made sure to hide its face under the cap as it cleared the road.

During one of the civilians' rest breaks, Bear attempted to give it another ration bar. It declined. He then insisted on including the Soldier in their conversation. [“It’s not like it'll remember anything.”] There was a long, somewhat disjointed story of how he met Katya decades ago while serving the United States Army. She had been a translator for the Soviets, negotiating with Bear’s superiors as the USSR began their withdrawal from Afghanistan. He had, apparently, been immediately enraptured by her physical appearance and skill in subduing unruly operatives.

“She shut down three drunk greenies with a single sentence. They cried,” he said, eyes growing misty. “It was beautiful.”

“They deserved it for the nonsense they were spouting,” Katya interjected. She nudged Bear with her elbow. “And then this strange American started trying to give me gifts. Horrible stale candies. The ugliest flowers I’ve ever seen, stolen right out of Afghani gardens and dried out by the sun.” [Sunflowers, shriveled and brown, but he wouldn’t throw them out. He always–] She laughed, reaching up to pat at Bear’s thick beard. “I thought he was a very incompetent spy until our unit got home without interference.”

Katya rubbed his hand indulgently. It was obvious she wanted to say more, but she only rolled her eyes and put away her water bottle. The Soldier observed her closely. Her cool, graceful exterior suddenly seemed suspect. If she had served the Soviets, had willingly come to the United States…

[Defectors are to be eliminated with extreme prejudice.]

It shook its head sharply, trying to dislodge the sensation of nakedness, to prevent her words taking root in its mind. She was wrong. They would know. There was always punishment. It was not– No. She was wrong.

It retreated into the treeline in order to avoid further disorienting chatter. Katya was not a target. Not an enemy. It did not recognize her from any mission or training. Her face did not set off the same spark of unease that the technians’ did after it was wiped, the mind empty but the body recoiling. It was disturbed by her perceptiveness, but at no point did she present a threat. It would have seen, would have heard if she sent some form of transmission. Unless one of the other civilians on the trail was… No. There was no sign of duplicity in either of them. It kept close watch on her as they traveled, but she only spoke of idle nothings with Bear, sparing no attention for where the Soldier had gone.

It diverted itself from the irrational thoughts by cataloging the plant and fungal species as they traveled. There were not many fruits remaining this late into the season, but the landscape was plentiful, with many varieties of nuts and acorns in full flush. [“Go and fetch us some blueberries, Misha.”] There were remnants of fruiting bodies of Hericeum and Pleurotus, but the specimens it found were far too old for consumption. It automatically noted the location of a healthy patch of Rubus canes, and another of Ribes, though it was highly unlikely the Soldier would retrace this path in their fruiting season.

Bear and Katya continued walking even after the light faded. They activated small headlamps, slowing somewhat when the sun fell behind the treeline. The horizon lit up gold and copper and crimson, a riot of color from both the sky and the foliage still clinging to the trees.

There were no other travelers at the shelter when they arrived. The Soldier selected a tree in which to make its nest and slung the duffel onto a low branch, but then returned to observe the civilians' behavior more closely, to identify the best method of obtaining access to a map.

Bear consumed another plastic-wrapped ration bar as Katya prepared the evening meal. They spoke quietly to one another, relaying the events of the day. Bear effused about how beautiful the river had been. The Soldier thought for a moment it had misheard him – he called it the Potomac. They were still relatively close to DC, and they had been moving steadily south. It would only make sense that the river originated from the west. More than sixteen days and hundreds of kilometers, and it had just crossed the same waters that nearly claimed the Captain’s life.

[Water in the mouth, the nose, the throat. Metal and fire crashing around it, debris causing and unpredictable currents. The Captain’s dead weight in the left arm, his bulk adding to that of the prosthesis, conspiring to pull it under. He wasn’t breathing. The Captain was–]

A wave of dizziness almost sent the Soldier to its knees. It righted itself, adjusting its posture to allow for better circulation. As it scanned the surroundings again, it inadvertently met Katya’s eyes. Her gaze was too sharp, too knowing, making it feel oddly vulnerable. It looked away. There came the clatter of cookware and the soft shuffling of feet, then her slow, easy breathing drawing closer. She was within range of its fists, its knives. Her hand moved, but quickly returned to her side. No weapon. No threat.

“You look so pale, friend. Please, come and share our dinner.”

It shook its head.

[Ration allocation is at the discretion of the–]

“There is no need for modesty. I know you must be hungry. You have not eaten all day. I think you will like this. I made shchi. The ingredients were all dried, but it tastes much the same. And it is good for nervous stomachs. Come.”

She was insistent, the set of her mouth demanding obedience. [Dark hair, lilacs, the pop of the needle through muslin.] It found itself following her to the camp stove. Bear was watching with raised brows and a barely-disguised smile. They had identified a flaw in its cover. People ate multiple meals per day. They did not know it was a weapon, not a person. It stood between them, hesitant and disoriented. Katya shoved a bowl at it, forcing the Soldier to take hold lest it fall. It was blue, made of lightweight polymer. The substance inside warmed its flesh through the glove. Chunks of pale meat and vegetables swam in dark broth, the rich, spiced scent permeating its senses. The hands were shaking. The salivary glands responded, flooding the mouth with moisture. It swallowed compulsively.

“Sit, sit, you cannot digest like that.”

Katya herded it into the leeward corner of the shelter, dropping a wooden spoon into the bowl.

“Sadis' i yesh'.”

It obeyed, momentarily stunned into compliance. It should not– She was not a handler. There was no handler. It could easily– No. It had no orders. It would not–

It could not think. The heat of the bowl and the fragrance of herbs and meat had overridden its ability to withstand coercion. Was this torture? Placing such an appealing substance right into its hands, when the Soldier knew that it would only cause further malfunction? It had endured so much worse than this. Was it so weak over a simple bowl of soup?

The stomach emitted a low, painful noise.

Katya was staring at it, at once stern and encouraging. It had to maintain cover. It had to– It lifted the shaking right hand to the spoon. It could consume the broth. That barely qualified as nutrition. The Soldier ladled some of the liquid into the utensil and cautiously brought it to its mouth.

A symphony of flavor burst across the tongue. It could barely process the input. It closed its eyes, attempting to reduce the amount of sensation from the outside world. Salt and fat and bitter and sulfur and heat and, and– [“Here, Soldat. A reward for your hard work.”]

The face was wet.

It took another sip without conscious direction. The second taste was no less devastating. The shoulders shook as saline flowed down its cheeks. It could not determine what had caused the malfunction. It did not care. It could not stop itself. The spoon moved steadily from the bowl to its lips. It swallowed pieces of meat and vegetable whole. Each wash of warm, salty liquid another wave of pleasure, of debilitating pain in the chest, tightness in the eyes. The tongue swept across the lips, chasing each drop. The rich broth mingled with the saltwater dripping down its face, coating its skin in bright mineral flavor. It was– It was so–

The scrape of wood on plastic jolted it from its fugue.

The bowl was empty.

It looked up, chest heaving, to find Katya observing it with tears shining in her eyes, her hands pressed to her mouth.

“O, moy mal'chik.”

A wave of nausea conspired with the sudden jolt of pain in its head to bring the dizziness roaring back. It felt sick in a way that was unrelated to the unapproved foodstuff congealing in its stomach. The bowl and spoon clattered to the ground. The Soldier lept to its feet, adrenaline driving it from the shelter at superhuman speed. It ripped the duffel from its nest and dove further into the forest, stopping only when the inevitable gastrointestinal response caused it to expel the meal.

The bitterness of bile obliterated the precious taste of the shchi. Another portion of rations – worse, a gift given freely to the Soldier – would now feed the insects. It barely contained the urge to scream. The tears did not stop. The lungs ached. The entire body was shaking.

It had been so foolish. So weak. So greedy.

It stumbled a few meters further before shadow edged into its periphery, deeper and darker than the gloom of the forest. Shapes in gray and black danced across its vision. It felt the ground shift beneath its boots and heard the high whine of charging batons. The Soldier fell to its knees, prepared to submit to the well-earned punishment.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

It was shivering. Cold and wet and exposed. The Soldier lifted its face from the ground, dry leaves sticking to its sweat-soaked hair. It slowly maneuvered itself up to sitting, fighting the heaviness of its limbs and the nausea that swelled in the gut. The headache had returned full force, powerful enough now to impair its vision. The stars wavered before settling into a legible pattern. Approximately 0200. It was in a forest. Somewhere… temperate, probably. It was…

The events of the day came trickling back, one piece at a time. The trail. Bear and Katya. The shchi. It had blacked out three hundred meters east of the shelter, face first in the dirt. It attempted to scrub the debris from its hair, but that only made the tangled mess worse. A frustrated exhalation gusted over salt-chapped lips. The malfunctions were worsening again. The rancid taste of vomit lingered on its tongue. Water. It needed water.

The duffel was a few meters away, secure and untouched. Condensation clung to the dark canvas, the little dew drops mirroring the shining constellations above. The Soldier moved to retrieve it, but a noise caught its attention before its hand closed around the strap. Something heavy moving across the forest floor, like the scuffing of boots in the dirt. It stilled, breathing slowly through the nose and scanning the trees for the source of the sound. More shuffling, and then a grunt.

A shadow shifted. The Soldier nearly dismissed it as another hallucination, until it realized that the shape was the source of the noises. It was one point five meters across, its movements rolling and ponderous. Moonlight glinted off of thick, dark fur. The figure turned, and the Soldier made out the features of its face. A bear. An actual bear, of the ursine variety. [Immense pressure on the chest, claws tearing at the skin. “Vstavay, Soldat!”] It looked… different than the Soldier expected. It was odd that the animal was not hibernating already. It appeared to be investigating the site of the Soldier’s failed meal. The smell of food must have drawn it from its den.

The bear was entirely uninterested in the Soldier. It kept watch on the creature as it withdrew a bottle of water from the duffel. It… She? It was so small, likely female. Her ears twitched at the sound of the zipper, but she continued her pursuit of the second-hand food. The Soldier cautiously drank down half of the bottle, returned the rest to the pack, and zipped it closed. She lumbered around the area for a moment, preparing to move on, but then her head swiveled to the west and she huffed into the wind.

The shelter. She would smell the remnants of Katya’s cooking, the other foodstuffs stored in their packs. Even if she did not cause them harm, the civilians’ belongings would be damaged, and they would be left without rations until the next resupply point.

The Soldier slowly stood and began circling to the north, keeping itself downwind of the animal. She was moving lazily, weighed down with the instinct to feed and sleep as soon as possible before winter. It scanned the forest for something with which to distract her. There were several heavy stones around the base of the shelter, but a painful injury would cause undue aggression. A gunshot might scare her off, but it would also wake the civilians and potentially arouse interest of any nearby residents. There was no fruit on the trees with which to lure her away, but the ground was littered with overripe hickory nuts. It gathered a handful and placed itself on the east side of the shelter, between the bear and the civilians.

As she moved closer, the Soldier drew itself up, squaring the shoulders and staring the creature down. She could smell it now, and she co*cked her head, eyes flashing in the silver light as she studied the interloper in her territory. The bear gave a low chuff and made to continue on her path, unimpressed with the Soldier’s display. It waited until she was within ten meters of the shelter, her goal unmistakable. The Soldier lobbed a hickory nut directly at her rump. She startled, turning to inspect the site of impact. It threw another, hitting the trunk of a tree a few meters behind her. The bear looked toward the noise, visibly torn between running, investigating the movement, and continuing her pursuit of the civilians’ rations.

A third and forth nut landed against her backside, the fur of her flank rippling as her muscles twitched. A fifth cracked against another tree trunk, this one less than a meter from her head. She snorted loudly, finally fed up with the annoyance, and loped off to the south. The Soldier held position until she was out of earshot, listening for a few moments to ensure that she did not return from another angle. There was no sound from the shelter aside from Bear’s snoring and Katya’s even breaths. They had not stirred once during the confrontation.

This task, at least, it had completed successfully.

Cloth, woven and felted. The checked pattern was barely discernible in the darkness. A blanket. Someone had left behind a blanket. It was not damaged, and the Soldier did not recall seeing the previous evening. Had one of the civilians left it out and forgotten about it? It carefully removed the dried leaves and dirt and rolled the fabric up, placing it inside the shelter where it would be seen in the morning.

It slipped back to the eastern side of a large oak, ensuring it could not be seen from the shelter if anyone were to wake. The Soldier considered the one remaining bag of nasogastric solution, then decided against it. The stomach seemed determined to reject anything more dense than water, and it would be far too sensitive after the failed attempt at civilian foodstuffs. There were two bags of intravenous solution remaining. It removed the jacket and made use of one of the bags, keeping watch for any movement in the forest. It was not an ideal location for the procedure, but it had to mitigate the malfunctions somehow.

The solution did not provide nearly as much relief as it had previously. The Soldier could have made use of the second bag immediately, but there were still many days left in its journey. If the solution remained stable at ambient temperatures for that long. It could not be certain, but there did not seem to be any ill effects from the previous portions.

It removed the cannula and put away the refuse. The nutrition routine had taken thirty-seven point three minutes. There was still sufficient time to locate the map and depart without notice before the civilians would wake.

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Bear’s pack was in complete disarray. It could not believe that this man was experienced in wilderness survival. There were clothes, cooking supplies, rations, toiletries, and random useless items all scattered throughout the compartments. The only thing in any semblance of order was the tightly rolled tarp hanging from the straps. At least fourteen socks – all separate from their mates, all in varying stages of cleanliness – were tucked into various pockets. The Soldier stared at the mess, momentarily baffled, before opening the flat pocket in the rearmost lining. It would be the most logical place for storing documents.

An assortment of plastic candy wrappers tumbled into the dirt.

If the Soldier were programmed for more conventional forms of communication, it might have loosed a string of expletives into the darkness. [What the hell are they teaching you kids in basic?] Something broke within it, and before it could contain itself it had upended the entire pack onto the ground. A small power bank thunked out of the bottom, landing atop the rest of the supplies. The Soldier replaced the device. It re-rolled all of the garments, taking care to match the socks before securing them into Bear’s previously unused waterproof bag. The cookware was placed on top of the clothing, the weight precisely balanced so that the pack could be carried with ease, and the dehydrated meals on top of that. The toiletries were rolled into a clean towel and tucked along the side.

The ration bars that Bear called ‘granola’ were moved to the outermost front pocket for easy access. The other items – bits of foliage, plastic trinkets, oddly shaped rocks, woven rope bracelets – it placed in the smaller side pockets. They must be of some importance to Bear if he allowed them to contribute to the bulk of his pack, but they served no obvious function. Refuse was placed into another side pocket. The Soldier sat back on its heels, considering its work. The pack was now approximately thirty percent more compact, and there were eight centimeters of free space at the top for additional materiel.

A low chuff broke the silence. The Soldier’s head snapped towards the noise to find Bear’s big brown eyes trained on it. With all of its limited cognitive function focused on the task, it had not taken notice of the change in his respiration. It froze. He would assume it was attempting to steal from him. It did not answer to this man. He was not in its chain of command. But if he was angry, he could negate his offer of assistance. It would have to divert back to the highways until it found a recognizable landmark. It would lose even more time in its search for the Captain. It had to correct this situation before it spiraled out of control.

“The supplies were inefficiently organized. Nothing was removed from your possession.”

It spoke as quietly as possible while still vocalizing within standard human hearing range. The Soldier was prepared to bolt, body angled towards the tree where it had secured the duffel. Bear slowly levered himself up to sitting. He shook his head, eyes crinkling and shoulders hitching. He was… he was laughing. It did not understand this response at all.

“Y’know,” he whispered, “you’re not the first to criticize my packing technique.”

There was no tension in his posture, no suspicion or anger in his expression. Bear quietly extricated himself from his bedroll and eased across the shelter to where the Soldier had imposed upon his belongings. The padding of socked feet on the wooden floor, then the soft, animal smell of a warm body after a long day’s march. He stopped a half meter from it, his joints cracking as he lowered himself to sit.

“Lookin’ for something in particular, Sarge?”

["Nice shot, Sarge!" "Hey, Sarge, you comin’?" "We’ll make it out of this, Sarge. Those bastards won’t break us."]

The Soldier had no rank. It was a tool, a weapon to be wielded by its handlers and their allies. It shuddered, foreign sensations tugging at the mind. The left hand flexed against the leg, and the pressure of metal on flesh dragged it back into the present. Bear was utterly calm, the soft lines of his clothing lit by the glow of pre-dawn light. Heat rose to its face. It had miscalculated badly, had allowed its scattered cognition to lead it to distraction when it was supposed to be gathering intelligence. Wasting time with this inane fixation on a civilian’s supplies. And it had been caught.Absolutely unacceptable.

If it had a proper handler, they would have beaten this deficiency out of it immediately. It found itself tensing in anticipation of a punishment that would not come. It managed to rein in the response. Bear presented no threat, could not physically overpower the Soldier. He might still provide assistance.

"A map," it exhaled.

"Oh. Oh yeah, of course."

Bear edged closer and reached for his hip. The Soldier’s eyes locked onto the movement, and the prosthesis whirred, ready to deflect an attack. He slowed his hand, raising the other in a show of deference.

"Just my phone. We have a satlink and a few downloaded maps. Here."

The thing he pulled from his pocket looked more like the satnav units STRIKE used than a civilian cellphone. It was encased in heavy plastic and silicone waterproofing, equipped with an oversized battery pack. Bear unlocked it and navigated to the appropriate program before turning the screen towards the Soldier. It cautiously reached for the offered device.

"We've got signal right now, so that map is live. You can navigate around the whole Trail and see the shelters along the way."

It had to switch hands to hold the phone in the left. Touch screens did not respond to the titanium fingers. It pulled the glove from the right hand with its teeth and used the flesh fingers to manipulate the screen. A small icon indicated their current location. Sam Moore Shelter. They had been walking for two days and had barely crossed the Maryland state line. The northern edge of Shenandoah was approximately three days' travel at their current pace. Oak Ridge was much further, at least sixty days at this speed, and the trail did not pass directly through it. The Soldier would have to leave the civilians behind as soon as possible and travel non-stop if it meant to intercept the Captain in time.

"How far you headin'?"

Bear showed no sign of impatience as it studied the map. His voice revealed only mild curiosity, and he made no move to retrieve his phone. The Soldier’s functioning was truly impaired, because it answered immediately and truthfully.

"Oak Ridge."

He let out a low whistle.

"That's a long hike, bud, especially without gear. You got someone to meet you there, get you home?"

It felt the brow crease as it considered the question. [“You got a sweetheart waiting back home, Sarge?”] It no longer had a home base. But the Captain would have one, surely. Even if it was a SHIELD facility. He would not allow… It would…

It did not realize it had spoken until it heard its own voice crackling through the shelter again.

"The Captain will determine the next assigned post."

A frisson of fear locked its jaw and stiffened its spine. The Soldier never broke. It was too well trained. Bear had not even employed standard interrogation techniques. He had just. Asked. And its mouth had moved without volition, twice. It was giving away far too much information. Its cognition was deteriorating beyond control. Accepting mission support was one thing, but revealing the target was not acceptable. The heart rate increased as it pictured the sort of punishment it would earn for this infraction. Witnesses were to be eliminated, but Bear was providing assistance. He was…an ally. But still, it had to– There was no handler. It considered exacting punishment with its own hands, but that had not been authorized.

The Soldier forced itself to calm. It looked up at Bear, assessing for any sign of suspicion, any hint of contrivance. There was only the same serene, unnerving patience. The man did not seem to have any ulterior motives, no personal stake in its actions whatsoever.

"Good.” Bear reached for the phone, and the Soldier surrendered it. He adjusted the map, zooming in on the area around Knoxville. “There's a local trail here. You leave the AT at Buck Gap and follow Gregory to Gold Mine. It'll take you close to town, then you can hop on the roads. It's not too far, one day’s hike from Buck Gap if you’re quick. You might be able to catch a ride in Top a’ the World, but there aren’t many trail taxis running this time a’ year."

The Soldier took note of the coordinates and landmarks, memorizing the path and adjusting its travel time assessment. Approximately fourteen hundred kilometers. Six days if it did not stop.

"There's a freight line runs down that way too. Buddy a' mine hops it pretty often. I could hook you up with his crew if you wanna get there a bit faster. It's gonna get cold soon. Bad time to be roughing it, though at least you're heading south."

It shook the head definitively. No more trains. No more civilian contact. It could complete this operation as it was.

"Alright, alright. Not trying to pressure you. Just want to get you where you're going in one piece."

Bear heaved himself up to his feet with a low grunt. He found the cooking pot and dehydrated rations easily in his newly-organized pack and set to making their morning meal. As it sat puzzling over his strange, accepting attitude, it heard Katya stir.

She blinked awake, taking in the scene in silence for a moment before rousing from her bedroll. It briefly considered retreating before she engaged. It had wasted her gift, shown such weakness in front of her. But it would be even more inappropriate to run while she observed it. She diverted to the doorway to collect the abandoned blanket and approached the Soldier.

“Dobroye utro." [Gotov-] "Here, it is cold today.”

Though her words were perfunctory, Katya did not sound upset. It saw only the remnants of sleep in her eyes. She placed the bundle on the floor a meter from where the Soldier sat, and then turned to press her lips to the top of Bear’s head and begin her stretching routine.

The Soldier studied the item before it. She must have set it out last night, assuming that it would make use of the blanket. The flesh hand almost moved, the urge to run its fingers over the fabric stronger now than the urge to run. But it could not. The hands were filthy, and it did not deserve… It had already ruined one of her gifts. It would not insult her further.

“Kak spalos'?”

It glanced over to see her bent at the waist, head hanging between her knees as she spoke. She was looking directly at the Soldier, and Bear’s Russian was horrible. Katya was addressing it. After its offensive behavior last night, it should attempt some form of acceptable interaction. Her inquiry was innocuous, and the answer would not jeopardize its current operation further. Its brief period of unconsciousness was similar enough to sleep.

“Ochen' malo. Byl medved'. ”

Katya smiled. Her face was still upside down, giving the expression a strange effect. “Yes, he does tend to snore.”

Bear’s head whipped up from where he was stirring the food, and he pressed one hand to his chest. “Who, me?”

The Soldier clarified. “Negative. A bear. An animal.”

“sh*t,” he said. “I thought it was late enough in the season we didn’t have to fuss. I’ve been getting lazy with the food.”

He pulled his pack closer, digging through it to assess the state of his supplies. They were perfectly in order, but the Soldier did not not know his exact inventory and could not confirm that it was up to standards.

“Huh. Everything’s still here. Katya, did you…”

She straightened and went to check her belongings.

“My bag is fine.”

They both looked at the Soldier.

“Sh-she was easily deterred,” it reported. “There was no damage.”

Katya tilted her head curiously. Bear broke into another wide smile. He reared back as if to strike the Soldier. It did not flinch, but the eyes widened minutely. It was due many punishments, but this man was not authorized to mete them out. He had shown no aggression at all so far, though the Soldier’s erratic behavior might have finally worn through his patience. Bear’s hand fell quickly to his lap, and his face contorted into something…

“Sorry, sorry. That’s great, though. You really saved our bacon. Er, well. Our granola. Thanks, Sarge.”

The head twinged again at the irregular form of address, but the Soldier managed to contain the echoing voices before they interfered with its functioning. It nodded to acknowledge his statement, but did not vocalize again. It could not trust the mouth not to spill more information.

It watched as they consumed their morning meal. Katya looked towards it multiple times [curiosity, concern], but she did not insist that it attempt to consume their rations again. They began packing, speaking of the landmarks they would pass in the day’s journey. The Soldier waited until they were both distracted with their packs before slipping back to where the duffel was hidden.

There was no more time. It accomplished the objective of acquiring a map. Two days of slow travel had allowed the body to recover somewhat. [Physical functionality: thirty-six percent. Cognitive functionality: thirty-five percent.] If its cognition did not fail, it would remember the way. Still, as it made to leave the civilians behind, the head twinged as if it had violated protocol. They were not– There was no way to repay them for their assistance, their… kindness. It had prevented their supplies from being disturbed by the bear. Perhaps that was enough. The Soldier slung the duffel across its back, tightened the strap, and turned to the south.

A hundred meters from the shelter, it hesitated, lingering over a fresh flush of Hericeum sprouting from a maple. It could spare two minutes. It could… The Soldier carefully removed the fruiting body from the bark with its cleanest knife. Bear and Katya’s movements were still audible. They had not departed yet. It crept back and left the mushrooms at the mouth of the shelter where they would easily be seen before resuming its intended journey.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

“Capsicle. You move to that horrible swamp, never call, never write, now you remember me, after you’ve attempted a coup? I’m doing fine by the way. Surgery went great, the whole terrorists blowing up my house thing is dealt with. Got some renovations to take care of, but y’know, besides almost dying and Pep dumping me and SI stock tanking, I’m peachy keen. Working on some really fun upgrades for the green energy initiative, destroyed all my Iron Man suits, just a banner year all around, really.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and took a very deep, very slow, very calming breath. He’d heard a little about what was going on through the news, but their careers had taken them in very different directions after Manhattan. It was unfortunate, but honestly not surprising, that Pepper was out of the picture. But now was not the time to catch up.

“I need your help, Tony.”

“Oh? You need my help. I’m shocked, honestly. Stunned, befuddled, maybe even flabbergasted. You come calling after… What's it been, nearly two years? To ask for a favor. Well, I am the largest charity in this hemisphere. I might have a little something to spare for a certain temporally-displaced orphan. Too soon? Probably too soon. I’m not recovering from an extremely delicate highly experimental open heart surgery and actual heartbreak right now or anything. What’s up?”

He ignored the semi-genuine attempts at guilt tripping. Tony probably did need a friend right now, after all of that. Steve didn’t dislike him, as ridiculous as his public persona could be. He would offer his sympathies soon, maybe even go up to New York and keep Tony company for a bit. Once Bucky was safe.

“Have you seen the news?”

“I know, I couldn’t believe Kim’s behavior! You’d think her agent would’ve put a stop to that before–”

“Tony!”

“Oh, you mean the part where SHIELD is a pile of bastards and lied to you for years then stole my f*cking tech for their murderships and Pierce was a secret fascist who had the WSC in his pocket? Yeah I might have seen that mentioned somewhere. Hate to say I told you so. Who am I kidding? I love to say it. I. Told. You. So.”

Steve decidedly did not throw his phone into the garbage disposal. He briefly wondered how Tony hadn’t passed out from lack of oxygen yet, but the man just kept going.

“So who’s your new friend? I gotta say he’s got great taste. The leather really complements the… other leather. And that arm. Is it an arm? Please tell me it’s his actual arm, an armored sleeve would just be so derivative. I’m drooling, Cap, honestly, I had to order puppy pads I’m so excited. Tell me you’re going to introduce us.”

The word ‘sigh’ did not even come close to doing service to the noise that escaped Steve.

“Yeah. It’s his arm. And I will gladly introduce you as soon as we find him,” he growled. He didn’t mean to snap, but, well, Tony tended to bring out the best in him.

“Ooh, a little round of Find the Lady? You’ve come to the right genius. JARVIS?”

The AI’s voice came through the phone as clearly as if he’d been on the line himself. Well, Steve figured, he probably was.

“Yes, sir. I have already initiated a facial recognition scan for the operative known as the Winter Soldier throughout the DC metropolitan area. Expanding to include all major cities in the eastern United States. There may be some interference from law enforcement. He is currently wanted by the CIA, FBI, WSC, Interpol, and Agent Fury personally.”

“Huh. So Cyclops is still alive. I guess that means– ”

“Tony! Please. I just…” Another heavy sigh. This was why Steve had put the conversation off for so long, despite knowing they’d need Stark’s help from the beginning. “I know him. The Soldier. It’s Bucky.”

“Bucky? What kind of a name is– No. No, no, no, no, no. Bucky as in the Bucky? Cap’s best pal? Cute little guy in blue booty shorts? You think the Soviet nightmare with the moody guyliner is your old war buddy? I know you’re getting up in years, Rogers, but the serum is supposed to prevent dementia. You cannot start going loony toons on me right now. I have too much sh*t to deal with, and a delusional supersoldier just will not fit on my agenda. Are you sure Little Red didn’t dose you with something?”

“I’m not crazy. Check the files, there’s pictures. It’s– It’s him.”

“The files. ‘Check the files,’ he says, as if I’m not already ass deep in brontobytes of SHIELD’s dirty laundry. You think just because I’m not in the suit I’ve been slacking? Please. This is the most delicious buffet I’ve seen since the Astoria in oh-four.”

The creaking of Steve’s jaw became concerningly loud.

“This is serious, Stark. Look for Project Winter Soldier.”

“Alright, geez, don’t have a stroke, gramps. J, do the thing.”

There was, thankfully, a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Steve took the opportunity to massage at the tension headache currently building in his temples. He was trying to be civil, but after a few years of not dealing with Stark, the full treatment was a bit much. Was Tony this intolerable because he was actually sober for once, or had he gotten hopped up on some post-surgery medication?

“Holy sh*t. JARVIS, can you get an ear print off of these? Ho-lee sh*t. You are not f*cking with me. How did we end up with a matched set? Barnes should be– oh, no way. Cryonics is a f*cking pseudoscience. Preservation like that should not be possible. The damage to the brain alone would be… f*ck. They juiced him up, didn’t they? Did Erskine give you a two-for-one deal or something?”

“It was Zola. They started the process at Kreischberg. I didn’t realize until… It doesn’t matter. The point is that Bucky is out there with no memory of who he is, and HYDRA is going to hunt him down as soon as they realize he’s alive. Or SHIELD.”

Steve heard something that could be Stark’s knuckles popping, one of those foil packs of berries he always carried around, or the frantic tapping of a keyboard. Steve was pretty sure Stark didn’t use physical keys, just his holograms. He probably considered keyboards archaic or pedestrian or something.

“Yeah let’s not let the feds find him first. Even if SHIELD gets de-Nazified, I don’t trust them not to recalibrate him and put him to work. And that’s best case scenario. If even half of this sh*t is true, Buckaroo has gotta be bonkers. They’ll just as soon disappear him and lock him in one of their abysmally named hidey holes to avoid the PR nightmare when he decides to go on a murder spree. Not unlike his honorable Captain. Nice work, by the way, I can really see the Pollock influences. This can’t be all of it. There’s only like, five medical reports and a few mission summaries. If he was ghosting around for seventy years there would be a much bigger paper trail, even from the spookiest of KGB spooks.”

“Bucky’s not…” He couldn’t say it. As much as Steve hoped Bucky wouldn’t be a threat to the public, there was no way to know for sure. He’d torn through DC like a tank, scything down everything in his way. But there hadn’t been any evidence of violence since then, either for or against HYDRA. “Not everything was in the data dump. There’s paper records, other files referenced in the documents that we haven’t found yet. Black sites and unmarked bases all over the world.”

“You’re hopeless without me, Cap, honestly. You should’ve called before everything went to sh*t.”

“Yeah, well, I was a bit occupied becoming a fugitive, and we exactly didn’t know who to trust. Those ships–”

“Uh huh, Stark design, I know. Because I’ve never been ripped off or had some jackass try to replicate my work before. Couldn’t possibly be that SHIELD f*cked me over too. Anyway I was busy, so I guess it’s jet fuel under the bridge. Oh, look at that. We already have a hit. Your boy was spotted in DC a few weeks ago after your little airshow.”

“We know he was in DC, Tony, it was all over–”

“At the Smithsonian.”

“What!?”

Steve nearly cracked the phone in half. He knocked his chair over in his rush to get up and do something before he realized that there was nothing to do. It was a good thing Sam owned a detached house. Otherwise Steve’s frantic pacing would definitely result in some noise complaints. He could just picture it, Buck seeing all of those photographs of the two of them. Of the Howlies and Peggy. Reading his own obituary. God. Steve hadn’t thought his heart could break any further.

“Yup. Security feeds show a particularly rakish hobo having a breakdown in the Captain America exhibit. There’s no frames of his face, but JARVIS picked up a match for the gait and body type. That arm must be heavy, he walks like he’s got an anvil strapped to his left side. He ran off to the bathroom, then out of the building. After he hit the streets, CCTV lost him again for a week.”

The phone buzzed, vibrating right in Steve’s ear. He jumped, then almost dropped the thing as he fumbled to put Tony on speaker when he saw the incoming message preview. Tony had forwarded the security footage. Steve pressed play as Stark yammered on about something or other, unable to take his eyes off the screen. The resolution wasn’t great and there were a lot of people cluttering the frame, but that was Bucky alright. Not even two days after the carriers went down. Steve had been in a hospital bed just a few miles away, and Bucky–

Steve’s breath caught when the man in the video fell to his knees right there in the middle of the crowded museum. No one knew about them, not like that. Did that mean…? Steve felt his face heat, his palms going clammy around the smooth plastic. It was probably inappropriate, but he couldn’t help feeling proud. Possessive. Then reality slammed back into him, and the glimmer of hope that, maybe, impossibly, Bucky remembered him was quickly dampened by the knowledge of what Bucky had been through. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t put that kind of expectation on Bucky now, not after he’d been abused for so long.

His lungs were aching, struggling to expand in the shrinking cage of his ribs. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to contain himself, to stay mission-focused. Tony was still talking, but Steve could barely understand what he was saying.

“ –then another hit, a hospital in… Frederick, Maryland? Still no face on camera. I don’t see a base out there, not in these records, anyway. Looks like he was stealing medical supplies, but he’s walking just fine. Well, fine for him.”

“Hill cleared Baltimore,” Steve said, mostly to himself. “The base was empty. Nat didn’t say anything about other facilities in the state. Which way did he go after that?”

“No idea. Your Buckyboo evades security cameras better than I do handsy widows at shareholder galas. I’ll keep scanning, but he’s probably already gone to ground. Off the grid. Maybe even out of the country.” Stark’s shrug was nearly audible.

A hospital. Was Bucky hurt? If he needed medical care, they had to find him, had to– Steve hit the mental brakes, recalling Natasha’s warning. They couldn’t start a manhunt without alerting the feds and scaring Buck off. Right now what they needed was information. A way to find whatever safehouse he was using. A potential avenue of communications. An open door.

“We’re not going to chase him. Once we locate him, we can figure out the best way to engage. But I want him to know he’ll be safe with us. We need to distance ourselves from SHIELD, publicly–”

“Oh, I think the Red Menace has already done plenty on that front. We’ve given them several very public, highly televised ‘f*ck yous.’ Anyone watching the news is gonna know you’re a mostly-free agent these days. And my legal team is working on dissolving the remaining SHIELD contracts. The Avengers are going private, baby, sponsored by Stark Industries. If you think he’s gonna come in, just keep waving your flag around, Ol’ Glory.”

Well, Steve could definitely do that. “Sam and I are still taking out HYDRA bases. We’re coordinating with Hill out of courtesy, but I’m not going to stop until those bastards are gone. It’s definitely sending a message. We need as much intel as we can get on their active bases, safehouses, evac plans, where the new Heads might be setting up shop. And anything you can find on the Winter Soldier. I’ve been sending what data I find to Natasha, but she’s hit a wall with the encryption. If you could–”

“Already on it. I’ll have Itsy-Bitsy read me in, she can actually speak computer. Don’t worry your pretty head over it, Spangles.”

It was a good thing that Tony had agreed to help, because if he interrupted Steve with something asinine one more time, he was going to drive to New York and start punching out the support beams of that insult to architecture that he called a tower. He forced himself to unwind a bit. Stark was an ally. A friend. And Steve knew he’d been too short with him. He was so mixed up, feeling like his world had been upended all over again. Tony was probably in a similar place, after all that had happened.

“Okay. I… Thank you, Tony. I am sorry to hear about Miss Potts. She was a wonderful lady, and I know you really cared for her.”

Tony made a strangled noise, somewhere between indignation and disgust.

“Jesus, Rogers, stop that. I like you better when you’re being mean to me. Now get out there and see if you can’t get ET to phone home.”

___________________________________________________

Vasily turned a page in his latest novel, idly stirring the pot simmering on the stove. Stew again, from a can. The Americans had managed to elevate tinned meals into something almost palatable, and the less time he devoted to housework, the better. The conditions of his asylum had been thoroughly shattered by the events at the Capitol. There was much to attend to before the leaked documents revealed his recent activity and federal agents – or rival factions – came right to his door. He knew he wasn’t long for this world, and he wasn’t so dramatic as to insist on some indulgent last meal. He might not die with the honors he was due, but he could at least have some self-respect about it.

Forty years he had served the Department. Forty years, and the Americans destroyed it all in less than forty-eight hours. He’d been a loyal soldier, and a good officer. He’d had to hide, of course, to seek refuge with the enemy when the political landscape shifted like tectonic plates in an earthquake, violently upheaving everything he’d worked to build. But he’d never given them anything useful. He’d kept his country’s secrets. More importantly, he’d kept HYDRA’s. And how had they repaid him? Leaving him to die in ignominy in Ohio of all places.

Forty years. Twenty-five since he’d been stripped of his greatest asset, only to watch the Americans bumble about with it like children handling a grenade. Two weeks since his last hope of earning his rightful place again had been extinguished. One by one his contacts had all gone dark. He’d stopped responding to their desperate pleas days ago. Let them perish. It was the least they deserved for their foolishness.

The front door clicked closed. He had not heard it open. The alarm had not been activated. Vasily closed his book, shut off the stove, and reached into the cabinet. Two bowls, two spoons, two glasses. He fetched the vodka from the freezer, pouring a generous portion for his guest.

“I expected to see you much sooner.”

She said nothing, only inclining her head in some inscrutable insinuation. Still young and beautiful as ever. She was a perfect effigy of grace and power, wrapped in unassuming civilian garb. There were no visible weapons trained on him. She understood as well as he did that he had nowhere to run, no reason left to fight. The Department was gone. HYDRA had discarded him. He had no loyalties to anything but his own interests. And he was not about to embarrass himself by trying to outmatch a Widow at his age. Vasily gestured toward the bowls. It was a paltry offering, but he hadn’t let the West strip him of his manners.

“Beef stew?”

Silence. She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the kitchen wall. Well, if that was the way of things, he would choose to die with a full stomach. He took his seat at the table, joints creaking nearly as badly as his secondhand chairs. Vasily shot down the liquor, refilled his glass, and savored the second portion. Long minutes passed, only the scrape of his spoon against ceramic disturbing the quiet. He finished his bowl, then served himself another. He wasn’t delaying intentionally, but if she wasn’t going to be forthright, he would damn well eat his fill. Vasiliy pushed back from the table and dabbed at his beard with a cheap paper napkin.

“If I’d known you were coming, I would have made dessert. I know how much you enjoy ptichye moloko.”

She left her post, approaching in utter silence. The Widow looked straight at Vasily as she downed the untouched glass of vodka. She wasn’t going to grace him with her usual repartee. Was he not even equal to the treatment she’d given the American politicians? Her little display had been quite scathing. Perhaps the recent troubles soured her mood.

“You might as well get on with it,” he said. “I have nothing to offer you that the esteemed Secretary did not include in his little parting gift.”

Vasily nearly spat at the mention of the man. The pompous ass, placing his trust in a computer system housed within their enemy’s own machines, in the age of information no less. It was a miracle that the errant Widow and her allies hadn’t discovered Pierce’s true intentions long before he’d thrust HYDRA into the light. Wasn’t one of them supposed to be a genius?

She poured another portion of liquor into both glasses. Neither of them drank. The Widow studied him for a moment before her expression shifted. He saw – she allowed him to see – a bit of menace there in the corners of her lips. For the first time in nearly an hour, she spoke, her voice as blank as her face.

“The book.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. This one had always been too passionate. Now that Pierce had so publicly confirmed the Soldier’s existence, she was just one more in a long line of eager takers. Vasily felt the old anger stir, his perfect Soldier wasted on little men with petty agendas, but he was far too jaded to let it move him. The Widow, at least, might understand the Soldier’s true potential, even if her judgment was clouded by childish affection.

“Oh? Still attached after all these years? It won’t help, you know. The Americans ruined him. There’s nothing left of the man you knew. Though if you want a mindless toy, I suppose he could be of some use. Doesn’t seem worth the trouble. I hear they have much cheaper options these days.”

Attempting to get a reaction out of a Widow was pointless, but it was amusing to try. She met him with the same unyielding stare, waiting as casually as if she was in line at the bank. Vasily sighed. His compliance was already assured. If she’d been keeping tabs on him for as long as he suspected, she had more than enough information to make his life very, very difficult, and the connections to expedite his imprisonment. Any leverage Vasily had on her was spilled along with the rest of SHIELD’s secrets. Quite a few proverbial babies had gone with that filthy bathwater.

Perhaps this could be his final gift to the Soldier. He’d always opposed handing him over to the Americans, though there were few other options at the time, the Department so suddenly dissolved. The Widow and her new allies would have the resources to keep him in good health, even if she served the interests of the corporatists now. And the Soldier had always enjoyed her company. They made a formidable team. It was a shame she’d led him astray with her rebellious notions. But the nascent Heads would be no better, if they could find him in the first place. The idiots thought he was dead, but that mistake would soon come to haunt them. Nothing short of an atomic bomb could kill that glorious creature.

“If you insist. In the basem*nt. Lockbox behind the fourth brick from the sink. Help yourself.”

He settled back into the chair, fingers tracing through spilled vodka. It had already taken the finish off of his dining table, leaving rough, naked circles in the varnish. The Widow turned her back to him without hesitation and went directly to the stairwell door. She’d been tracking him for a while, then, and knew the layout of the house. It was only a matter of time before her masters came for him.

Vasily gave her a few moments, listening to the rustle of boxes and the drag of the sledgehammer across concrete. When he was sure she’d found her prize, he retrieved the pillbox from the pocket of his housecoat.

It was the coward’s option, he knew. But, by his estimation, there was some honor to be found in making the choice himself. Let his last act be denying the Americans another notch in their belts. He chased the tablets with vodka and found his place in the novel.

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

It ran. Not a full sprint, but much faster than the previous pace. It kept close enough to the marked trail that it could locate the blazes if necessary, but otherwise obscured itself in the cover of the forest.

Hours passed. The boots pounded through gravel and fallen leaves and pine needles, splashing across narrow creeks and digging into steep hillsides. The legs ached, muscles cramping until the pain faded into merely another external sensation to be disregarded. Perspiration set in after approximately two hours, dripping from the hair and stinging the eyes. The clothing clung distractingly to the back, the joints of the left arm catching on the denim jacket, but it did not dare remove the garment. No civilians, no trail cameras, nothing could be allowed to see the prosthesis and compromise its cover.

It was running towards the Captain’s predicted position, primarily, but some part of it also felt as if it was running from its failures. From the catastrophe of Insight. From the hallucinations and failed rations. From the witnesses left alive, the civilians it should not have engaged with. Putting distance between itself and the evidence of its weakness.

The presence of civilians was infrequent, necessitating that it divert from its course only a few times. Even the Soldier, skilled as it was, could not run silently at this speed in a forest cluttered with dry duff and fallen branches. When it heard approaching footfalls or voices, it veered further west for at least two kilometers before resuming its course. More challenging were the roads that intersected the trail intermittently. It stayed to the west until it was forced to cross them, avoiding the traffic, which included an odd number of out-of-state vehicles. It watched for suspicious movement, but the same vehicles never appeared more than once. It did not know why so many civilians would travel to the wilderness at this time of year, but they seemed content to linger in the parking areas with their cameras aimed at the horizon.

It stopped only twice in the twenty-four hours after it left Bear and Katya. Once to repair a boot lace that had snagged on a rock outcropping, and once to refill the empty water bottles at a trustworthy spring. The water gushed directly from a limestone outcropping, cool and clear, tasting faintly of calcium and sulfur. It was fortunate that the Soldier had not disposed of the refuse before. It was able to fill ten liter bottles at the spring. The weight of the duffel increased, but it had enough water for the entire journey now.

Night fell, and the Soldier increased its speed. Any travelers would be sleeping, or would mistake its footfalls for a deer moving through the woods. The weather cooperated, skies unclouded and stars visible. It navigated more easily in the dark, less concerned with observation or passing vehicles.

The visual hallucinations did not return, but odd whispers and unbidden sensations pressed in on it at all hours. Another heavy pack, a rifle slung across the back, the barrage of artillery fire. It was alternately chilled by arctic wind and drenched by phantom rain. Voices called out in English, French, Russian, Italian, German – orders, panicked prayers, the last words of dying men. Most of the time it was able to discern what was real and what was not, but a few particularly powerful sensations had it tensing, prepared to dive for cover. The sky remained clear, and the earth did not move from under its feet. It pressed on.

It was evident that this route was not intended for travel at great speeds. The elevation changed dramatically, diving from high peaks to river valleys again and again. The trail switched back frequently, working around the steepest slopes and impassable terrain. The Soldier cut through all of it, clearing rocky gaps, plunging through thickets and underbrush, and scrabbling up bald inclines hand and foot.

Approximately thirty hours into the run, the body rebelled again. A sudden change in blood pressure caused it to stumble. Black spots impeded its vision, and the ears rang as if a stun grenade had gone off in close proximity. It slowed its pace long enough to consume another liter of water. Eighty percent of its visual field was still clear. The force of its footfalls crushed most obstacles, and the prosthesis was unharmed by branch or stone. It only had to avoid the larger outcroppings. It did not fall.

[Cognitive functionality: thirty-two percent. Physical functionality: Twenty-nine percent. Prosthesis functionality: seventy-eight percent.]

It was able to lose itself in the movement, when the landscape allowed. Between towns or civilian encampments, the pattern of hill and valley, tree and rock bled into an endless treadmill of green and brown and orange. The mind strayed, chasing fragments of the hallucinations, recalling the images from the museum, puzzling over the behavior of the civilians it had encountered. Doubting its own tactical decisions and behavior.

It could have found another base, tried to use the communications equipment, found better supplies. It could have incapacitated Bear and stolen his phone. It could have stayed at the hospital in DC, surrendering itself to the Captain’s guards. There were so many missed opportunities. It did not matter now. The Soldier had made its choices, however faulty its reasoning. There was a path to follow and a goal at the end of it. Every step led it closer to the Captain. Closer to a proper handler. To nutrition and repairs and the healing nothingness of cryo. The Soldier let the awareness of the body fade, disregarding the throbbing of the feet and the slap of stray branches against the face.

At ninety-something hours, the trail merged onto a highway directly north of another river crossing. Following the marked path would necessitate passing directly through town in full view of pedestrians and drivers. It could not risk attracting attention by taking the road. Even at the late hour, there was heavy traffic. It diverted to the south.

There was an island halfway through the river. The water was deep and moving quickly, but there was no aerial surveillance that it could detect. The highway overpass was raised far enough above the water that it should not be seen by passing vehicles. It placed the cap into the duffel, tightened the shoulder strap, checked the repaired bootlace, and zipped the jacket.

The guns would be soaked again.

The Soldier dove, using its momentum to fight the current. It felt the weight of the prosthesis and implants pulling the left side under. [Blood and gasoline clouding the water. A shimmer of white and gold in the shadows. His weight tore at the damaged shoulder joint, but it had to–] The legs propelled it forward, muscle memory forcing it through the brief moment of imbalance. The movement of the arms was impaired by the strap of the duffel, but it quickly established a rhythm, surging through the water in less than a minute.

It pulled itself to shore on the island, sprinted across the narrow forested strip of land, and leapt into the smaller channel of the river. The crossing should have been faster on this side, but the shallows were jammed with fallen trees. It had to slow down, navigating around branches jutting from below the water’s surface. Halfway across the channel, the left leg tangled in a submerged limb. The Soldier kicked out with a flash of adrenaline, feeling the fabric of the stolen garment give way as it freed itself and swam on.

It scrambled onto the southern bank on hands and knees, dropping onto its backside as soon as it was safely away from the edge of the water. There was enough tree cover to allow it to pause and let the body recover for one-point-five minutes. Darkness edged in. The lungs burned and the heart pounded. It had been sure, for a millisecond, that it would be dragged under and drowned.

It inspected the leg that had been entangled, the world spinning as it moved its head. The denim pants were torn in multiple places, revealing a collection of minor wounds from the thorns and branches it ran through. It was only able to tell which abrasion was most recent due to the sluggish healing of the older marks, much slower than its usual rate. Without nutrition it was… The limb was not significantly damaged. The garment was still functional. It was– It could–

The Soldier felt as if a claymore had detonated inside of the skull. The ears rang so loudly it thought it might be able to see the soundwaves. If it could open the eyes. Were the eyes open? It blinked, trying to discern the darkness of its eyelids from the darkness of its impaired vision.

It was still day. It could feel the heat of the sun on its face. It was lying on its back, the uneven texture of the duffel pressed into its scapulae. It suspected it had lost control of the bladder again. The wetness on the front of the pants was noticeably warmer than the river water soaking the rest of the clothing. The Soldier decidedly did not panic. It was still on the riverbank, hidden by the trees. It took deep, even breaths and flexed the limbs until blood flow to the upper body improved.

The darkness receded enough for it to distinguish the shapes of the trees above it, vague gray blobs that swayed with the wind. The jaw ached in a familiar pattern, as if it had just come from the chair. The right hand came up to the head, patting at the scalp in an instinctual inspection for injury, but it could feel nothing through the leather gloves. There were no tender spots. It did not recall any blunt force injuries to the head, nor any exposure to electricity. It had crossed the river, and then…

Pizdets.

It had lost consciousness. Again. It could not even summon enough energy to be angry at the failing body. The next exhale left the chest as a heavy sigh. It rolled onto hands and knees, groping at the nearest vertical shadow until it found the rough bark of a tree. The Soldier pulled the duffel from its back and leaned against the trunk. It took six… seven point… It took a while for the ringing in the ears to dissipate and the visual input to return to something reliable.

Very slowly, very cautiously, it turned the head to assess its surroundings. Traffic echoed from the highway above, but there was no nearby movement apart from birds.

[Critical malfunction. Report to handler.]

The handler would… But there was no handler. It had to reach the Captain. He would know how to correct this. It had to… There was no way to be sure he would still be there. No way to track his location. It was running itself into the ground with no guarantee that this would work. If it could not find him…

Nutrition. It needed nutrition.

It was far too exposed to risk the IV. The last attempt at the human NG solution had not been successful, but that had been immediately after its… withdrawal from the drugs. Was that what it was? Severe malfunction caused by…

It did not matter. It had to try something. The Soldier tugged the duffel closer, hands barely functional enough to open the zipper. The ration pack was buried under water bottles and combat knives, but it was undamaged. It ripped the plug from the bag. It could not attempt another tube feeding. It had discarded the tubing, and even if it had not, the body was so uncooperative that it would likely result in another failure.

The Soldier consumed the solution slowly and followed every mouthful with a sip of water. The rations hit the stomach like lead. It breathed through the nose, fighting down nausea long enough for its wretched body to actually absorb the substance. It waited for thirty seconds between each swallow.

The process took far too long, but eventually it consumed the entire bag. It swallowed compulsively a few times, the salivary glands producing far too much moisture. It fixed blurry eyes on a point a few hundred meters away and continued slowly drinking water until the stomach settled. The Soldier did not rise immediately. Exertion would only make the nausea worse. Further loss of consciousness meant more delays and potential discovery. It was worth the half-hour to ensure the body would remain functional for the rest of the journey. If its memory of the map was correct, it was approximately halfway to Oak Ridge now. There was still one IV pack remaining. That would have to be enough to sustain it until it reached the Captain.

Visual field nearly back to acceptable parameters, it shoved the empty bag into the duffel, tucked its dripping hair into the hat, and pushed itself up to its feet. Equilibrium only somewhat impaired. It would go slowly for a while, allow the body to digest.

It seemed fitting, then, that the next summit it mounted was taller and steeper than the ones before the river. It perspired far more than necessary, moving at a lethargic jog up the slope. There were more civilians here, despite the cooling weather. They clustered around the rocky peak, staring out at the landscape. It tried to avoid the trail, breaking to the east where it could, but in many points the marked path was the only feasible route. No one took notice.

After an hour of laxity, it resumed the previous pace.

The body threatened to rebel again, but the Soldier forced it into compliance. The rations stayed down. The legs kept moving, if somewhat uncoordinated. The extended exertion caused the temperature of the prosthesis to increase, but it was still within acceptable parameters. The lungs expanded and the heart thudded. The pulse was only minorly erratic.

The further south it traveled, the higher the hills rose. The trail jagged south. Where previously it had followed a ridgetop or valley for kilometers, here it bisected the landscape. Soft, rounded peaks stretched in all directions. [Wind wailing in the ears, ice and snow sliding under the boots, sheer cliffs and jagged edges.] In the daylight, the mountains melted into the sky, the horizon lost in a muddled palette of blue, gray, and purple. In darkness, great shadows loomed on all sides, silhouettes cutting into the stars in sweeping parabolas. It felt so far removed from civilization, so far from any surveillance or communications, that a pang of fear slipped past its internal defenses. It had removed the trackers. If it were to fail here, not even HYDRA would find its body in time.

The weather shifted with little notice, wind winding through the hills and catching in the hollows. It was unpredictable, calm on one side of a mountain and turbulent on the other. Rain came, the clouds nearly touching the earth. It was a fine mist, a veil of ice that soaked through the clothing more from the Soldier’s horizontal movement than any precipitous fall from the sky.

It struggled on, stopping only to empty the bladder and adjust the duffel. The garments stuck in odd places. They were stiff from the mud of the river, the dust caked into the fabric, and the evidence of the Soldier’s malfunction.

It lost track of time, unable to accurately judge its progress or distance traveled. The light changed, night and day skipping like a badly cut film. It fell. It got back up. It kept running.

The trail skirted an artificial lake. A dam kept the water at bay, trapping it in what must previously have been a valley. Ostentatious homes dotted the shore, gigantic things made of rough-hewn logs and wide windows. Not defensible in the least. This was… There had been a safehouse nearby. Not the Secretary’s summer home, but– [Mission success. “You play poker?” Cigarette smoke and stale beer. Quiet, until it was not. The rapport of a shotgun across the valley. Hunting accident, they said. Such a shame. She was a good agent. So young.] The trail plunged back into the pattern of slope and summit, zigging through switchbacks and dark coves.

Another river crossing, over a much smaller road. The Soldier used the designated walking path.

Ridgetop. Valley. Mountains ever higher than the last. Boots losing traction on loose gravel and fallen leaves. Sweat soaking the clothing once again. Its gait was off. Something was affecting its balance. The body went numb, beyond simple mission focus. It could not feel the feet at all anymore.

The tallest peak so far. It pushed harder, climbing ever up. Narrow pines and dry grasses whipped violently in the wind. It was far too open, and there were strange shadows beyond the trees. Some sort of facility. It drew closer, circling the eastern side of the clearing. A huge concrete structure loomed over the landscape, looping in a great spiral up and up through the canopy until it terminated in an observation tower. It looked alien, jarring after days of only trees and rough-hewn rock. [The castle, huge and black and looming like some monstrous beast grown out of the side of the mountain.] The Soldier skirted as far from the buildings as possible, staying under cover of the dense evergreens. It was unlikely there would be a sniper here, but the vantage would allow observation for many, many kilometers. No shots rang out. Nothing impeded its movements but the increasing complaints of the body.

It had to be close. It edged back toward the marked path, looking for signage. After several dozen kilometers, the white blazes veered to the south. This is where Bear indicated it should divert from the main trail, to travel west. Less than one-hundred-twenty kilometers from the base. Only one more day of travel.

The air had grown slowly colder, the wind thick with the promise of rain. It doubled back to the last shelter, planning to make use of it, but there were three civilians bedded down in thick bedrolls there. The Soldier left in silence, picking its way westward into the forest. It found acceptable cover in the lee of a fallen oak. The rough bark and twisting branches would obscure its shape, though it was highly improbable that anyone would wander this far from the trail. The sky was dark, the moon nearly new, and the stars partially obscured by the glow of the coming dawn.

The constellations had shifted. It was probably November by now. That was significant, somehow, but it could not determine why. November meant… it was…

It shook itself, nearly doubling over when the sudden movement caused the ever-present dizziness to crest. Nutrition. That was why it had stopped. It would use the last of the nutrition now, to bolster itself for the final leg of the journey. It had to travel through a city again, to maintain awareness of uncounted bodies and potential weapons and vantage points. The Soldier slumped against the fallen tree, tugging the duffel off for the first time in days. The strap clung to the jacket, partially adhered with dust and sweat.

It peeled the stiff fabric of the right sleeve down. The left arm emitted an irregular noise, but it was functional. Likely grit or water damage in the elbow joint. The Soldier shrugged off the jacket entirely, letting it fall onto the log. The left sleeve was ragged where the plates had snagged, and slightly singed at the joints where overheating metal had touched the fabric. It took more effort than usual to initiate a calibration cycle, then another, in an attempt to shift the interfering material and check the alignment of the plates. It would suffice. [Prosthesis functionality: seventy-five percent.]

The skin of the right arm was filthy. It allocated a quarter of a bottle of water to cleaning the site before it inserted the needle and cannula. Finding a vein was more difficult this time, the hand weak and the vision unreliable, but it succeeded on the third attempt. The bag drained quickly, only taking twenty-four minutes, as if the body was greedily sucking in the sparse nutrition. The Soldier barely felt the effects of the solution, only a degree of increased wakefulness from the glucose.

[Cognitive functionality: Twenty-five percent. Physical functionality: Twenty-one percent.]

That was it. There was nothing left, unless it became necessary to attempt gleaning nutrition from the landscape. It was trained in wilderness survival, knew which plant materials would not cause harm, how to prepare an animal for consumption. But the stomach might not tolerate such substances. It had not employed those skills in decades. That was… before. In Siberia, before it was… [invalid data.]

No time. It was close, so close. It would not become distracted now. Only one day’s travel, and then… It could only wait for some sign of the Captain.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

There were multiple trails leading northwest. The Soldier avoided all of them, relying on the memory of Bear’s map to guide it towards the metropolitan sprawl of Knoxville. Signs of civilization became more apparent. Around midday, the Soldier passed a cluster of worn wooden structures. They were centuries old, but obviously intentionally preserved. The landscape surrounding them was well-maintained, in sharp contrast to the abandoned residences it had stumbled across in the forest. It found the mind wandering, studying the patterns of construction used in the wooden buildings, before it caught itself and pressed on.

It soon passed Top of the World. The town was hardly a blip on the map, centered around a small lake and populated with more recreational facilities than permanent homes. There was a scattering of out-of-state vehicles winding slowly through the hills. It kept to the trees. The Soldier’s appearance was barely acceptable, and the longer it could avoid civilian interaction, the better.

Despite the use of the IV pack, its functionality continued declining. It attempted to slip into the same pattern of endurance that had carried it through the past week of travel, but it was unsuccessful. The Soldier did not relent. [Failure is not an option.] The objective had not been met. But the body did not comply. After losing footing multiple times, it was forced to slow its pace. It stumbled past seasonal residences and small farms, the land sloping ever downward. Small creeks carved gaps in the landscape, providing a guide to the simplest routes through the hills.

In some perverse defiance of the ever-nearing goal, the vision wavered. For a moment, the Soldier thought the sun had passed behind the looming hills. That made no sense. It was nowhere near dusk. Another malfunction. The eyes would not focus. The legs faltered. It lurched toward a sheltered area away from the road, taking cover while it attempted to recover its equilibrium. The blood pressure plummeted again, and it caught itself on a nearby tree. Another liter of water did little to assuage the body’s complaints.

Rest. It did not have time, but–

The body did not comply.

It sagged against the tree. The vision gave out, and the ears rang.

It was so close. It had to–

[Critical malfunction. Report to handler.]

Points of light danced before the eyes, blurred and distorted. There was a regular pattern. Not stars. Too close, too bright to be stars. It tried to orient itself and found that it was lying horizontally. Waking again on the forest floor. It was wet. Cold. Colder than it had been only a moment ago.

The Soldier shoved itself upright. The lights lurched, shifting violently as it changed position. Another bout of dizziness almost sent it back to the ground. What? Where was it? Location. Ascertain… location.

The lights. There was a city nearby. It was… It had been so close. Close to what? The target. Objective…

There was a strange, thin noise. The mind supplied an image of a black bear, but the noise was too high-pitched, too quiet to be a bear. The throat ached. It was… The noise was coming from the Soldier, a crackling whine escaping from its teeth.

It ceased vocalizing.

The head fell back against the trunk of the tree, bark catching on the mess of its hair. It was dark. Night. With city lights below. Had it… Lost time. Or lost consciousness. The result was the same. The hands. It tried to flex the hands. The left responded. Only a weak twinge from the right. The Soldier pressed the left hand into the upper leg. Harder. Harder. A dull ache crept through the haze. It focused on the pain, using it as an anchor while the entire world spun around it. It drew the fingers together, pinching what flesh it could through the denim of the pants. The sensation went sharp, forcing its awareness to that single point.

Focus.

It maintained pressure with the left hand. It wrenched the eyes closed, then slowly opened them. The lights stayed still this time. It could pick out the pattern of a very sparse settlement. Only a few lamps along the streets and residences. Right. The city. It was nearing Knoxville, beyond which would be Oak Ridge. Nearing the Captain’s expected location. It still had no confirmation that he would be there. No way to know if he had already cleared the base and moved on. If it did not find him… The lungs seized, the throat going numb. No. No. There was no time for panic, no time for contingencies. The body was failing. If it did not find him, it would… It did not– [The Asset does not want.]

It raised the head and let it fall back, the skull impacting the tree trunk with a dull noise. Another point of pain, another jolt of adrenaline. It released the grip on the leg, feeling the bruise bloom immediately as circulation returned.

It had to move. It was wasting too much time. It could not allow this weakness to overcome it.

[“Get the f*ck up, Soldat!”]

The body complied.

It stood, adjusted the duffel, and emerged from the treeline.

There was a single road leading west toward the city. It shrank in on itself, becoming as unobtrusive as possible. The involuntary shuffling of the feet lent well to its cover. A vagrant. A drunk wandering home, perhaps. It did not matter. If its appearance invited interference, there was little the Soldier could do. It might be able to eliminate a few witnesses, the first wave of whatever law enforcement came, but in this state it knew it could not resist capture for long. There were only two guns that might be functional, but it had not rechecked them since it crossed the river in… somewhere. Days ago.

It walked on. The lights of the city grew closer, halogen and LED nearly blinding the failing eyes. The road led to a gas station with an attached market. Still operative, though in a state of disrepair. The Soldier paused and considered the water supply. There were… It had lost count. It shifted into shadow and assessed the duffel. It was a mess of plastic refuse, stinking of wet leather and mildew. There were only three bottles of spring water remaining, the others empty. It would have to attempt another infiltration of a medical center to obtain nutrients if it could not locate the Captain. It was unsure if it was functional enough to complete that objective without detection.

The Soldier made to enter the market. The doors were locked. It squinted up at the eaves of the building. Fake security cameras, plastic props set there to deter amateur criminals. It could shoot out the floodlights. Less chance of observation from passerby. And less annoyance from the buzzing, glowing things. No. No, that would make too much noise, attract law enforcement. It could rip the door from the hinges. It could… There was a lockpick kit in the tac gear. Why was it picking this lock? It required… something. It hovered near the entrance, shaking the head dumbly in an ineffective attempt to clear its mind.

The sound of tires on the empty road crackled through the confusion. Civilians. Possibly police. It moved back into the shadow of the building, wedging itself between the concrete structure and a natural gas tank.

A gray sedan pulled into the lot. In-state plates. Two occupants. Their faces were obscured, cut into jagged planes by the shadow of the car roof and the orange glow of the streetlamps. One emerged from the driver’s side door. Dark complexion, eyes hidden by the brim of a cap. [Approximately one-hundred-eighty centimeters, eighty-five kilograms.] Athletic, but his stance was lax. Tired. The body language was familiar. Possibly military. There were several armed forces training centers in this metropolitan area. He displayed limited situational awareness, going directly to the fuel pump after only a cursory visual check of the area. The Soldier shifted, preparing to move on, when it noticed a strange odor. It was a well-known stimulus, but very much out of place in a civilian area.

[Burnt hair and muffled screams. Flames rising up against the night sky. Targets eliminated. No witnesses.]

The scent of gunpowder, plastic explosives, and smoke wafted from the open car. It was fresh. Whoever these people were, they had come from a firefight. Or a weapons manufacturing facility. There were a few nearby, but this… the smell was so strong, like they’d been in the middle of an explosion. The driver did not appear injured. His movements were sure, if sluggish. He might be concussed or simply fatigued. When he finished filling the vehicle’s fuel tank, he approached the market. His face became visible, and the Soldier froze. It knew this man.

[Samuel Thomas Wilson. Known associate of Captain America. Secondary target, level three. Eliminate or incapacitate as mission requires.]

It made no sense. Wilson’s residence was in DC. His employer was in DC. His family was in… Not Tennessee, no. Louisiana? New York? Had SHIELD located it somehow? But there was no way, even if Bear or Katya had–

“sh*t.” Wilson rattled the door handle, then glared at the glass storefront and read the signage posted there. He turned back to the car, raising his voice. “They closed up early. Guess I get to take you to Waffle House after all.”

He was addressing the passenger. The other agent. The Soldier looked again, narrowing the eyes against the glaring lights and the visual malfunctions. Their face was still obscured. It could just make out the silhouette of broad shoulders, a hand lifted to run through the hair, dull yellow in the halogen glow.

“Fine. You win. I’ll eat the corn mush. Let’s just get back so I can get started on the data.”

[“Drop it!” “You know me.” “I’m not gonna fight you.” “Then finish it.”]

That voice. It could not move. It could not breathe. The heart was a wild animal clawing at the chest. This was a trap. It had to be a trap. They were fifty kilometers from the Oak Ridge base. They had no reason to be here. There was no way they had simply stumbled across the Soldier’s location. It was impossible. Was it hallucinating again, its failing mind providing it with an image of the objective in some desperate dying delusion? But the handler was right there. It should initiate contact. Report to the Captain. It should–

The car door slammed, and Wilson pulled away.

It had to stay calm, had to think. They were still within sight. It could not lose them. The Soldier began pursuit.

There was little tree cover here. Residential units lined the road. Streetlamps and floodlights from the houses made its movements all too visible. It waited until the car was nearly out of visual range, then increased its pace. It could not run. In a small community such as this, an unknown person would attract attention. An unknown person with a large pack running after dark would result in civilians alerting law enforcement immediately. More importantly, the body might not be capable of running. It was barely moving past a fast walk, yet the heart pounded like it was sprinting up a mountain. It struggled against the sensation of vertigo, forcing itself forward despite the body insisting that the road was tilting at a forty-five degree angle.

A lone patch of forest allowed the Soldier to draw closer, but it almost lost track of the car when Wilson turned. They were coming into the city proper now, and it took several long, madding minutes for the Soldier’s eyes to adjust to the increased light. The car turned again, to the north this time. It followed, led onto a busier street, still populated with civilians pursuing their evening meals or entertainment. It was nowhere near as crowded as DC or Baltimore, just a quiet suburb, but in the Soldier’s current state it was nearly impossible to evaluate the potential angles of attack or surveillance. It would almost definitely be caught on camera now. It was too impaired to avoid all of them. It did not matter. The Captain was here. The Captain was here.

The reduced speed limit and pedestrian paths worked in the Soldier’s favor. It paused several hundred meters back when Wilson idled at a traffic light. The few nearby pedestrians pointedly ignored it, giving it as wide a berth as the sidewalk allowed. The body should have taken the opportunity to return to baseline. Instead, the lack of movement made the dizziness worse. It walked as slowly as possible, trying to regulate the breathing and maintain equilibrium while staying out of sight.

[Critical malfunction. Report to handler.]

So close. He was right there, only meters away. It could simply walk up to the vehicle and open the door. [Wind whipping at the face, screeching metal, automatic gunfire, the left shoulder screaming in pain.] But the Captain and Wilson were both combat trained. They would surely draw weapons at such an intrusion. It would not be able to remain even minimally functional with a gunshot wound. The light changed. They pulled forward.

Another two kilometers, shoving past lights and noise and civilians in a half-mad daze. They turned into a motel. The Captain remained in the vehicle while Wilson checked in. The establishment was not well-kept. There were no security cameras, and the guest rooms had only one lock and large single-paned windows. It would be exceedingly simple to infiltrate. This was almost definitely a trap.

Wilson returned and moved the vehicle to their assigned parking space. The Soldier found cover behind a large metal trash receptacle as they removed their bags from the car.

“Remind me why we’re hiding out in BFE, man? This place is the nastiest one so far.”

“Take it up with Natasha. She said it was secure. Definitely no prying eyes here, not even the local PD.” The Captain shrugged, turning toward the door adjacent to Wilson’s. “See you in twenty?”

“Fifteen. I’m starvin’.”

They entered their temporary quarters.

It waited.

The ears rang intermittently, making auditory tracking difficult. It scanned the sparse trees behind the motel for hidden operatives. The only movement was that of refuse being disturbed by the wind. The roof was clear, as were those of the nearby buildings. The only visible camera was half a block away and pointed in the wrong direction. Impossible. There had to be something it was missing.

It lobbed an empty beer bottle across the parking lot and immediately shifted to another vantage. Nothing moved. No weapons discharged. There were no trip wires, no motion detection.

Where was the Captain’s backup? His security detail? Surely such a valuable operative would not be housed in an insecure location with only one unenhanced agent to guard him, and staying in a separate room. The Soldier was always kept close to the Secretary when he traveled. Were the malfunctions preventing it from detecting the other operatives? It looked again, waiting for the visual distortions to shift. There was…nothing.

The Captain emerged first, and with him the artificial scent of cleansing agents, carried across the parking lot by the chill autumn wind. It could not determine if he had altered his appearance somehow. Its vision was so impaired it could only see broad shoulders and a dark hat. But it was him. It knew that voice. His attention was fixed on a cellphone as he lingered by the car, completely unaware of his surroundings. He was right there, out in the open, with no security. This was intolerable. It was impossible that it had discovered his location so easily. Impossible that it could proceed further without interference. There had to be–

Wilson’s door opened. Another flood of fragrance, though not the same as from the Captain. Wilson clapped the Captain’s shoulder and returned to the driver’s seat. They left the lot. But their supplies were still in the motel rooms. They would return, after their meal. And then… it did not know. They would likely leave the area, proceed to the next mission. But this is where the pattern ended. The Captain’s next assignment was unknown to it. This was where the pattern ended, or so it thought. Baltimore seemed so long ago, the memory full of empty spaces. Trap or no, this was its only chance. Functionality was critical. Whatever happened now, it would have to live with the consequences, or it would not live at all. The Soldier waited twenty minutes before it began infiltration.

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

Exhaustion had him dragging his feet across the cracked asphalt of the motel parking lot. The last base had been a slog, a massive repurposed nuclear storage bunker full to bursting with HYDRA research techs, unnameable substances, and reams upon reams of data. It had taken them hours to clear. Sam continued to give him Significant Looks whenever he used lethal force, but didn’t try to get in his way. Steve couldn’t bring himself to care. Anything standing between him and Bucky was fair game, and if it wore a Nazi insignia, so much the better. If people sided with HYDRA after everything in DC, they’d already chosen their fates. He’d spared one or two of the senior agents for interrogation, but even that small concession rankled.

Once he confirmed that Nat’s program had extracted everything useful from the servers – and that there was no danger to civilians from the remaining weapons components – they’d blown the place sky high. Steve wished he could’ve stood closer and watched as another of those goddamn electric chairs was turned to rubble, but he didn’t need the lecture from Sam about ‘recklessly irresponsible choices’ and his ‘complete lack of self preservation.’

Now he was stuck in some suburban nightmare in the ass end of Tennessee for a week, laying low until Natasha sent the location of the next target.

His stomach growled. After a hectic mission and a dizzying drive through mountainous highways, the greasy food wasn’t sitting so well. He wasn’t sure if he was still hungry, or if the Waffle House had actually managed to give a supersoldier food poisoning. Grits were… not great. Far too similar to the kinds of things they used to eat when rent was coming due. But Sam loved them, so Steve humored him. Sam had eaten his fill and begged off right after dinner, going to pass out in his room. Steve’s relentless late night intelligence work was becoming too much even for Sam’s patience, so they’d been sleeping separately the past few ops.

Steve was almost too tired to notice the damage around the doorknob of his room. It might’ve blended in with the rest of the dings and scrapes on the abused exterior if it wasn't for the fresh gouges in the cheap aluminum plating glinting under the streetlamps.

His hackles were up immediately. No one was supposed to know they were staying here. Natasha kept opsec watertight. They always chose sh*tty motels with no surveillance and a reputation for permissive staff, and they traveled in a different civilian vehicle every time, frustrating Tony by declining the jet or his fancy cars. HYDRA was continually scrambling to guess which base they’d hit next, thanks to Nat’s semi-random pattern.

He reached for the pistol tucked into his belt, not drawing it, just assuring himself of its presence. It could be another one of Fury’s phantom drop-ins, probably to chew him out for all of the unsanctioned destruction. But Fury wouldn’t be so sloppy as to scratch up his keyhole. Steve eased the door open as quietly as he could on the ancient hinges.

No noise. No gunshots. No movement at all from inside. He stepped into the darkened room and let the door click shut, his hand still on the gun.

They’d been in a fair number of sh*tty motels in the past few weeks. A lot of them stank of stale cigarettes or mold, but there had never been anything like the sour odor that filled the room now. Sweat and dirt, with a hint of woodsmoke that took Steve back to the long marches in ‘44. But another, more pungent smell overlaid it. It was almost chemical. He’d noticed something similar during his few visits to the VA, or on Tony after a particularly bad binge. Detox. It was the smell of a body coming down from some pretty nasty drugs. Had someone broken in looking for a place to crash for the night? He’d be glad to give up his room. It wasn’t like the motel was fully booked.

Steve’s eyes adjusted to the dark, but he didn’t see anything out of place, not even footprints in the grody carpeting. There were no unexplained shadows in the corners, no sign of someone messing with the few belongings he’d left behind. The sensitive stuff was all with Natasha right now, anyway. He risked flipping on the lights, leaning around the corner of the entryway.

For a moment, he didn’t fully comprehend what he was seeing. What he'd taken for the shadow of the bedside table resolved into a crouched, dark figure that looked more like a pile of filthy laundry than a human being.

It hit him all at once. His breath caught in his throat. His heart failed him for the second time this century. He tried to hold it together, to keep up the veneer of control. He'd done it for so long, shut himself off from the pain, put the shield, his duty, between himself and the yawning void of grief. But the sight of this man, on his knees, shivering and hurt, nearly did him in. Steve was drowning all over again, legs pinned under tons of steel, lungs filling with icy water. He forced himself to move, to shake off the terror of disbelief and hope chaining his limbs. He had to remind himself not to leap forward or raise his voice. He wanted nothing more than to wrap that grimy shadow up in his arms, but there was a nonzero chance that would result in another knife wound.

Steve managed a strained whisper, the only word his reeling mind could supply.

“Bucky?"

He was almost unrecognizable, his face streaked with mud and half hidden under a scraggly beard. His lank hair vibrated with the force of his trembling, and his spine was rigid, arms clasped behind his back, shoulders drawn tight. He wore civilian clothing, torn and stained with god knew what. The odor of sickness came off him in thick waves, more than just the funk of being on the road for too long. What had HYDRA been giving him? There was nothing about drugs in Natasha’s dossier, aside from a couple rounds of psychotropics during the fifties, though some of the bases had been stocked with a veritable pharmacy’s worth of substances.

Steve risked a step closer, carefully moving his hand away from the gun. Bucky looked up towards him, but didn’t meet his eyes. His gaze fell on Steve’s right shoulder. The usually sharp blue-gray of his irises was cloudy. His breath stank of ketosis. Steve recognized the hunted look, the smell of hunger, both from the war and from some of Sam’s groups. Under the beard, he could tell that Bucky’s cheeks were sunken, and the dark circles under his eyes pointed to more than just lack of food.

“Re-p-porting for reassignment, s-sir.”

He could barely make out the words, Buck’s voice was so thin. He was slurring a bit, like he was just clinging to consciousness. Steve hadn’t expected Bucky to be all there when they found him, but this… this was bad.

This was not the Fist of HYDRA, not the menacing nightmare in smoke and kevlar. Nor was it the Bucky Barnes that Steve had known, all bravado and stoic smiles. No. This was a scene taken from the grainy photographs in Nat’s files. The American, after months in isolation. Subject Seventeen, successfully conditioned. The Asset, restrained and awaiting ‘treatment.’ A dog anticipating a boot. Bucky was f*cking terrified. But he was here, and he needed Steve’s help. Steve refocused, trying to bring his strategic thinking back online.

“Buck. Do you know who I am?”

Bucky’s expression was totally blank. Hazy eyes flicked away from Steve, down to the carpet, wavering for a moment. It took a painfully long time for the answer to come.

“C-captain Steven Grant Rogers. P-primary handler. Nineteen seventeen. To nineteen forty-f-five.”

It sounded as if every word was a struggle, Buck’s chapped lips faltering around the syllables. The consonants came out too harsh, the vowels lilting with the same inflection that Nat got when she was pissed off or she didn’t think anyone was listening. It was disorienting to hear Bucky speak, soft and gravelly as always, with such an unfamiliar accent.

The meaning finally hit him. Bucky thought he was a handler. From what he’d read, HYDRA’s use of the word implied far more than the usual handler-agent relationship. He tried not to think about what exactly had led Buck to that conclusion, what memories he might be misinterpreting, why he was calling Steve ‘sir.’ He couldn’t stop mentally replaying the security footage from the Smithsonian. No one else knew the significance of Bucky just… falling to his knees in front of that picture. The conflation of what they’d been with HYDRA’s torture nearly made Steve sick. He wanted to scream, to sob, to turn back around and kill anyone left alive in that bunker. But this was not the time to lose his sh*t. Steve took a few more steps toward Bucky, attentive for any sign of discomfort or fear.

“Yeah. That’s right. I’m Steve. I’m not your handler, though, Buck. I’m your friend. I just… Can I come closer? I’m not gonna hurt you. I just wanna see if you’re injured.”

Bucky’s breathing grew ragged, more strained. His chest began heaving, his eyes going wide and darting around the room. There was a loud whir from his left side, the plates of the artifical arm adjusting. When Bucky spoke, this time he did not stutter.

“Aktivu trebuyetsya kurator.”

Steve’s Russian was rusty at best, but he knew what that phrase meant. It was repeated many times in the yellowed pages of the Soldier’s dossier.

“Hey, hey, Buck, you’re okay. You’re safe here. I just wanna help you.”

He waited for any further sign of recognition, but Bucky’s panic only grew. The trembling gave way to an eerie stillness, every wasted muscle in his body coiled tight, ready for action. Bucky looked like he was about to bolt, but Steve would not let that happen. Not after scouring the country for even a hint to where Bucky had gone and finding nothing. Not with Bucky in this condition. He knew that if Buck left now, they’d be more likely to find a corpse than to stumble across a hideout.

Steve quickly considered his options, trying to determine how to appeal to Bucky’s current state of mind. Bucky wasn’t presenting a threat, and he seemed attuned to Steve’s body language, though it wasn’t clear whether he understood everything Steve was saying. He thought Steve was a handler, or something like it. He’d been without food or shelter for weeks now. Without any structure, after seventy years knowing only strict control.

He knelt down in front of Bucky and reached toward him, slow and sure. Bucky tracked his movements, but he didn’t lash out or try to move away when Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder. Under the worn denim, he felt so damn thin. Steve exerted just enough pressure to make himself known through the haze of panic. He raised his voice, commanding but calm, and prayed this wouldn’t backfire on him.

“Soldier. Breathe.”

That got his attention. Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, his gaze settling at Steve’s feet. His pulse was still rapid, but it slowly began venturing back to baseline.

“Good, that’s good, Buck. Keep going. Deep breaths, c’mon.”

He felt like he was in a funhouse mirror, talking Bucky through the hyperventilation just like he used to do for Steve’s asthma attacks. Unconsciously, his thumb traced little arcs back and forth over Bucky’s clavicle, measuring out each inhale and exhale, moving slower and slower as Buck calmed. When Bucky glanced up at him, he tried to soften his expression, to hide his own clashing emotions. After a few minutes, Bucky no longer looked like he was considering escape routes.

“I’m sorry if what I said was confusing. I… I wasn’t a handler, but I was your commanding officer. We were friends too. I’ve known you my whole life. We had an apartment together, before the war. D’you remember any of that?”

It took all of his self-restraint not to reference their actual relationship. ‘Friends’ didn’t even begin to cover it. Bucky was everything. Bucky was his. But he was far too unstable right now to deal with that sort of thing, if he could even understand it. Steve felt his fingers contract, fighting the impulse to take hold of Buck and never let him out of his sight again. To build a very high, very thick wall and keep him safe from the rest of the world. After what felt like an age, Bucky shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching downward.

“That’s okay. Not your fault, baby–” The pet name fell off his tongue without thought. Bucky didn’t react to it, so he plowed on. “I’m real glad you found me, I’ve been looking all over for you. I was worried sick, Buck.” Steve paused, trying to remember his previously assembled strategy for bringing Bucky in. Think, Rogers. Right, step one: assess for injuries.

“Can you take your jacket off? I need to see if you’re hurt.”

He expected some resistance to the request, but Bucky moved so fast that Steve had to jerk his hand away. Several knives and a pistol were lined up on the carpet next to them. The grimy jean jacket was quickly shucked, followed by the ball cap, the gloves, and a t-shirt that might have been white at some point. Steve hid his reaction to the renewed cloud of stink that rose up when Bucky disturbed the fabric, breathing shallowly through his mouth. He’d have to get Buck cleaned up before they went home, lest the smell attract civilian attention. Or vultures. Chest bared, Bucky locked his arms behind his back and returned to rigid attention.

“Okay, good, that’s good, Buck. Thank you.”

There were plenty of scrapes and bruises, but nothing major. It was hard to tell how old the injuries were. Buck couldn’t be healing well, as starved as he was. His color was bad, but the stains on his pants looked like mud, gravel dust. Probably no major blood loss. A few scars stood red and raised, recent knife wounds by the look of them. They didn’t match any damage from the fight on the helicarrier. Steve couldn’t see any sign of a head injury, but that didn’t mean much with the mess of tangled, filthy hair.

What drew his attention, though, was the bloom of yellow and pink radiating from scarring on Bucky’s left shoulder, where the… Weapon. Torture device. The arm, the prosthetic, was attached. It appeared operational, moving with the same uncanny smoothness as before, but Steve had no way of knowing if something was wrong internally. That would require Tony’s expertise, and neither of them were in a state to put up with the manic babbling at the moment. They’d have to work up to that.

The most pressing issue was that Bucky was worryingly thin, wiry muscle stretched over ribs and hips. It’d been less than a month, and he’d dropped about a quarter of his body weight. Even on starvation rations, this was dramatic. His metabolism must nearly match Steve’s. Okay. Step two: shelter and food.

“We’re gonna get some help, alright? I’m gonna call some people, friends, and we can get everything sorted out.”

The trembling started back up, even more noticeable now that he was exposed. Bucky muttered “Yes, sir,” but his eyes went wide. He looked like a spooked rabbit, neck taut, bloodshot corneas shining in the low light of the motel room. Steve could only imagine what he thought was going to happen. Maybe involving others so soon wasn’t the best course of action. Bucky needed professional attention, but after everything he’d been through, anything resembling a medical suite would probably cause even more distress. And, even as weak as he was, Buck’s version of distress would be dangerous for anyone but Steve.

“No one is going to hurt you,” Steve said firmly. “No one else will come in here. Just us, okay? I just need some intel from my team.”

He didn’t get any response to that, not even a nod. He wasn’t sure if Bucky actually heard him. His eyes had glazed over, and he stared blankly into the middle distance. Steve worried he might be having a seizure for a second, but Bucky stayed upright. He dragged his gaze away long enough to center himself and grab his phone.

Natasha picked up on the second ring.

“Rogers. I hope this is mission-relevant. I’m neck deep in encoded HYDRA data right now, and I still don’t have any updates for you on our missing friend.”

Steve exhaled in relief. Hearing her voice immediately soothed some of his anxiety. She would know what to do. Natasha always knew what to do.

“No need. He found me. But it’s worse than we thought.” He hated talking about Bucky as if he wasn’t there, but there was no indication that he was tuned in to the conversation. “He’s coming down from some kind of drugs, sweating and shaking something awful. I don’t think he’s eaten in weeks, and he… he thought I was a handler.”

There was silence on the line for a good while. Steve nearly took the phone from his ear to check that the call hadn’t dropped when Nat’s voice came, quieter than before.

“James is with you right now?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he was in my motel room when I got back from dinner. I don’t know how he found me. I have no idea what to do. He probably needs a doctor, but I don’t think he’d react well to that right now. I thought we could get him comfortable, get him used to the Tower, then maybe Bruce–”

“sh*t. sh*t,” she hissed. “Something came up with Stark. He got into the files before I did, and, well... Howard’s death wasn’t an accident. They sent the Soldier, Steve. Tony is a mess. I’m trying to do damage control, but it’s not safe for James to be around him right now.”

Steve felt like he’d been punched in the gut, stunned into silence. They'd suspected HYDRA involvement, but… f*ck. He wasn’t sure if he was more torn up for Howard, Bucky, or Tony. A dozen different scenarios played out behind his eyes. Had Howard recognized him? Had Bucky? It took him a moment to reorient himself and put his reaction aside. Tony was probably blind with rage and grief right now. With his resources, he could easily hunt them down. They needed a plan.

“Is there anywhere for us to go? I won’t have SHIELD holding him prisoner. I can try and talk to Tony.”

“I’m handling it,” she insisted. “He just needs time, and I don’t think he’d want to hear from you right now. He’s decrypting the rest of the Winter Soldier files as we speak. He’ll see reason soon enough.” Steve heard a soft sigh. Nat must have been exhausted. “Is James injured?”

“Not that I can tell. Just shaken up and malnourished. Really out of it.”

“Alright. If you can keep him stable, get some food into him, he’ll heal. He’s had worse." Steve winced, though he knew just how true it was. And recently, much of it by his own hand. "I have a safehouse you can use until Tony gets his sh*t together. Totally off the grid and unlisted. I can send some medical supplies out there, but there’s no telling what they had him on, and they don’t exactly make Methadone for supersoldiers. We’re still sorting out the information from Pierce’s stint as handler.”

At the former Secretary’s name, Bucky suddenly came back to focus, zeroing in on the phone. Steve squeezed his shoulder, trying to project reassurance. Buck’s hollow eyes and lean frame reminded him of things he’d heard about the end of the war. Some of the prisoners had been starved, and a few of them died when overeager GIs tried to share their rations. He tucked the phone under his chin to put both hands on Buck’s arms, trying to make eye contact.

“Bucky. Soldier,” Steve cringed at the title. Bucky stared past Steve’s shoulder again, hopefully aware enough to answer. “What were they feeding you, Buck? Back in DC.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he absorbed the question. Steve prayed he could remember this much. The reply came, halting but precise.

“T-tube. In the n-nose. IV. Ration packs, in the f-field. Attempted consumption of civ-vilian foodstuffs. M-m-malfunction. M-multiple instances of nutrition p-protocol violation. This asset. Reports for disciplinary action.”

Steve forced himself to stay calm. This asset. Not I. They’d taken his name from him, his personhood. He was enraged all over again at the dehumanization that Bucky had been subject to. He wasn’t even able to eat solid food, probably hadn’t for decades, and he expected to be punished for trying. But Steve’s anger wouldn’t help anything right now.

There was a soft gasp on the other end of the line. Natasha had heard him as well.

“…James?”

She sounded so vulnerable, so young. Steve could only imagine what she was feeling. If it was anything like the maelstrom of fury and grief ripping through his own heart, she seemed to be handling it far better than he was. After a second, the mask of confidence came back.

“Bruce has some connections. I can get famine relief rations that shouldn’t hurt him. Until then, try some sort of sports drink, but slowly. His electrolytes are going to be wrecked. I’ll text you the coordinates and have supplies delivered within twenty-four hours, with more detailed instructions from Bruce ASAP.”

Steve tried to convey as much gratitude as he could over the phone. He could never thank her enough for everything she’d done the past few weeks.

“Thank you, Natasha. I really, just… Thank you. Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

“Don’t thank me. I owe him this. It’s the least I can do until it’s safe enough to see him myself.” He thought the call would end there, but she spoke up before he could put the phone down. “Steve. You need to check him for trackers. I haven’t been able to find anything transmitting on HYDRA frequencies, but we’ve got to be sure before you move to the safehouse. There should be a bug detector in your kit that’ll work.”

“Yeah, got it,” Steve nodded. “Anything else?”

“Just take care of him, Rogers. I’ll be in touch.”

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

“Okay, Buck. –––––– a safe place. Just you and me for now. But I need to –––––––”

The Captain was here. It was not a trap. He was here and he was real, broad and pale and shining in the low light. His voice dripped over its skin like cryofluid, at once soothing and unsettling. He kept using the old designation, the one from the museum. [Your name is…] It took the Soldier a millisecond each time to recognize that it was being addressed.

The urge to comply was nearly overwhelming, but he was not a handler. He said he was not, and he had not initiated transfer protocol. Captain Steven Grant Rogers [former target, former field commander, not-handler… technician? unknown] spoke like a handler, so calmly and deliberately. He held himself like a commanding officer. His presence compelled it to kneel, to obey. Every fiber of the Soldier’s body insisted that he could be trusted, despite the lack of any evidence, the absence of any chain of command.

It had followed the pattern, the fractal painted in digital light, but it was wrong, he was– He was not– It knew him. And it was out of options. Survival depended on receiving the required maintenance. He knew it. He would know what to do, would know the location of the new handler.

The ears rang constantly now, the Soldier’s vision going dim. It tried to attend to the Captain’s voice, but it could not focus enough to fully comprehend his words. It could not delay maintenance any longer. It would comply. So far he was following standard procedure: Damage assessment. Weapons check. Next was cleansing. Then repairs. Nutrition. Pharmaceuticals. Reset. Cryo.

“ –ucky. Buck. Can you hear me? Soldier?”

Focus. It had to focus. Black spots covered forty percent of the visual field. [Critical malfunction. Report to handler.] It blinked back up towards him, eyes bouncing from the Captain’s broad shoulders to his golden hair. It could barely look at him, the slant of his jaw causing the mind to stutter into unhinged chaos. His brow was furrowed, but he did not appear to be angry. Not-a-handler. Not a currently designated field commander. Still… a superior to be obeyed? He asked a direct question. Respond.

“Yes, sir.”

The Captain inhaled slowly through his nose. It had made him repeat himself. The Soldier relaxed as much as it could while maintaining position. It had learned long ago that tensing up only made the punishment worse.

“Are you in pain?”

Pain? There was always pain, it was… Was there pain, outside of standard operational parameters? It did not know, could barely feel the extremities. It had been kneeling in the h– the Captain’s temporary quarters for… some time, lost to the darkness, before he returned. The cold that blanketed its body negated all other input.

“Un-n-known, sir.”

The vocal malfunction was incessant. The Soldier had not spoken in almost a week, and its ability to communicate verbally had degraded. The entire torso shook, the possible causes so plentiful that it could not pinpoint just one. Broad hands spread over the shoulders, unimaginably warm, bare skin against bare skin. [That’s a good boy.] It could not suppress the subtle movements of its body, at first tensing up, then leaning into the touch, desperate for any relief from the cold. It should not– He was not a handler. Hesaid. He said–

The Captain stood and pulled it up with him. The Soldier unfolded from the kneeling position, wavering as the circulation returned to the legs. The visual distortion intensified, and it lost equilibrium. He caught it as it tilted to the left, the weight of the prosthesis pulling against its atrophied musculature.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

One hand on the lower back, one on the left elbow, directing it through the small door on the other side of the room. A cleansing facility. It was close quarters, the space barely large enough for the Captain, much less both of them. It kept the eyes on the floor, avoiding the reflective surfaces.

He instructed it to sit on the closed lid of the toilet, supporting its shoulders until it was able to hold itself upright. It let the gaze fall to the yellowed fiberglass sink, exposing the neck and displaying submission as best it could. The Captain gently – why was he being so gentle? – pushed a few strands of hair behind the ears with his naked hands. No gloves. He was not wearing gloves. His fingertips were at once rough and soothing against the feverish cheeks.

This was… irregular. He was moving as if it was some delicate thing that might bruise with the lightest touch. Technicians were never so soft with it, pushing it from decon to the concrete cleansing chamber as quickly as possible, usually with the end of a catchpole.

The Captain exhaled shakily. It forced the eyes to focus, risking a glance to gauge his expression. His face made the mind falter again. The image of the smaller man from the museum overlaid the scene like a badly exposed photograph.

He looked over its torso, eyes lingering on the left pectoral then trailing down its sides. The blue of his irises was diluted by the sickly yellow lighting, both hues refracted in the moisture gathering at his lower eyelid. His jaw was clenched tight, but that tension dissipated at his shoulders, his hands moving in sure, easily-detectable patterns, only exerting enough force to guide its body. He appeared to be in pain, and, and… It did not have the vocabulary to describe his reaction. It ached with the urge to appease him, to erase that look from his face, but it did not know how. His voice was thin when he spoke again.

“ ——— trackers on you? In your arm maybe?”

“All known t-tracking devices removed and d-destroyed.”

“Good. That’s great, Buck.”

The praise, spoken in that low, firm voice and coupled with his tender touch caused a burst of warmth to bloom in the chest, like an echo of the tenuous reassurance of pleasing a handler, but deeper. Good. It could be good. It would obey, would take its punishment for the failed mission and the uncountable protocol violations, and then it would be good again.

Time jumped. The Captain was in another position now, a device held in his right hand, hovering over the prosthesis. A tool to repair the arm? He looked at it questioningly. Had he spoken? Focus. Focus.

“Buck,” he sighed, his hands ghosting over the shoulders, not quite touching, withholding the warmth. “Is your arm hurting you?”

His face shifted again, but it could not interpret his mood. It answered as quickly as it could.

“Upper right limb. F-f-functional. All d-damage healed. Prosthesis. Seventy-five percent of f-full functionality.”

Another huff of air left his lungs. “Right. I’m glad you healed up —— have to wait –––––– the other arm.”

Healed up… Yes, there was– The Captain had–

It blinked and he was kneeling. Carefully picking apart the muddied laces, removing the boots, and setting them by the door. The socks followed the other fabric items into a plastic bag. His hands lingered over the ankles, hesitant. It looked down and immediately saw what had drawn his attention.

The feet had been numb for days, and the layers of wool and leather had not been enough to protect them from damage. The skin was broken and inflamed in many places, the nails bruised black or missing entirely. Another echo welled up, multiple voices clashing with each other. [Gotta take care’a your feet, Sarge.] It felt the urge to shake the head, shake the noise away, but it had to avoid losing balance again. There was no permanent damage. No frostbite or infection. It would heal.

The Captain’s hands came to rest against its bare skin, the full span of his palms encasing either side of the torso. His touch was like a brand, the heat of his body nearly painful against its chilled flesh. It inhaled sharply, unable to suppress the tremor that moved through it, horripilation raising the fine hairs on the arms. The Captain stilled, tracking the Soldier’s reaction. It took all of its remaining cognitive energy to resist the impulse to burrow into his body. It was suddenly starving in a way that had nothing to do with the stomach. The eyes clouded with moisture. He was so warm.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” the Captain’s voice broke, shot through with more unidentifiable emotion, “—— hands on my shoulders, just hold on to me, okay.”

The Soldier obeyed, cautiously initiating contact. It could feel the flex of his shoulders beneath the thin cotton, solid and hot and real. The Captain kept his gaze on the Soldier’s face as he unfastened the lower garment.

One arm wrapped around the back, thick and sturdy as a steel beam, and the entire left side of his body pressed into it. The breathing hitched. This was highly irregular. The heat of his skin sank into it as he maneuvered it, soft yet unyielding, an unimaginable indulgence. It was, it was–

The knees locked, halting their short progress across the cramped room. The prosthesis flickered through two rapid calibration cycles, plates shifting from shoulder to wrist in waves of nervous energy. He was not a handler, he said– There was no secondary function without a handler, its use was at the discretion of the handler, it was not permitted. He was not a handler, but his skin was on its skin and he was touching it tenderly giving it so many unearned rewards and it could not–

“ –ah, woah, Bucky, breathe. Deep breaths, nice and slow.”

The calloused skin of the Captain’s palm lit up nerve endings across the back as he traced firm circles into its flesh. It shuddered, attempting to bring the breathing back into an acceptable rhythm.

“It’s just ——— Please. You’ll feel much better after. Let me help. You can barely stand up.”

He was correct. Without intervention, the body would fail irreparably within three days. If this was the cost of obtaining further maintenance, then it would comply. It consciously relaxed, allowing him to move it once more. Compliance usually meant less pain during the secondary function. The Captain sighed.

“That’s right, you’re gonna be okay, I swear, we’ll get this done and then ———”

Yes. Just get it done. Just comply, be good, and then… And then…

He kept his hold on it as he operated the controls for the water. When he was satisfied, he directed it into the chamber, keeping the door open. Condensation began to build on the fiberglass walls.

“Just sit down, facing the wall.”

It tried to obey, but the dizziness increased as it shifted positions. His hands stayed at the back, supporting it as it placed itself under the showerhead. [Icewater battering the bruised flesh, harsh chemical scent, rough brushes scouring the skin.] An involuntary exhalation hissed out through the teeth. The floor of the chamber was cool against its backside, but the water was not cold. It was scalding, nearly intolerable against its frigid skin. His retaliation for its recalcitrance. And now it would be punished for vocalizing. Pathetic. It was worthless like this. It would be ideal if the Captain made use of it quickly, so that it could be repaired as soon as possible.

“sh*t! I’m sorry. You’re ———”

He went for the controls. It braced itself for increased temperature, but there was only… warmth. Encompassing, soothing warmth, flowing across the shoulders and down its limbs. It took great effort to maintain situational awareness in the face of this overwhelmingly positive input. Highly irregular.

There was cloth on the back. An artificial fragrance. Cleansing, but so unlike the usual procedure. It might have experienced something like this before... with the Secretary, perhaps. [The patter of water on marble, a low chuckle, rich whiskey. “You are truly a gift, Soldier.”] Its vision faded, gray and then white and then the yellow light of the bathroom. The eyes fell closed without instruction, and it let out a ragged exhale. The sensation was not objectionable, but the edge of anticipation kept the body coiled tight.

The Captain’s hand found its own, skin on hypersensitive skin. He worked the cleansing agent into the knuckles, his thumbs massaging the small muscles of the palm and wrist. The warm water and steady touch softened its mind even further.

“Gonna ——— now. Keep your eyes closed.”

Hands on the face. It focused on breathing deeply, getting what oxygen it could before the mouth was obstructed. The cloth moved in small arcs over the forehead, the cheeks, the nose. He gently directed water over the face to remove the cleansing agent, then repeated the motions. There was no obstruction. It could still breathe. The Captain scrubbed through the coarse hair on the jaw, the pads of his fingers touching the face directly, not even the thin fabric muting the sensation. His hands were so…

When he applied pressure to the mastoid process, the mouth fell open involuntarily, water and bitter foam flowing across the tongue. It did not spit or swallow. It had not been instructed to do either. He rinsed the substance from the face, then directed the head away from the water.

Time fell away as he worked across the body, though the blackness was much more pleasant than the previous episodes. There were no phantom voices, no disturbing images. From somewhere outside of itself, it heard him instruct it to lift the right arm, and the cloth passed over the sensitive skin of the axilla. His hands moved across the neck, down the torso, to each side of the groin. It did not flinch. The genitals did not respond. They rarely did, without the drugs.

A broad hand wrapped around the back of the head. The body went lax.

“Lean your head back.”

It obeyed, awaiting pressure on the neck, weight on the tongue.

They did not come.

Fingers ran through the hair, guiding it all back into a single mass behind the Soldier’s head. The Captain had procured a comb, and he began working through the matted mess. There was no pain, no pulling. The rhythmic motion sent it back into the quiet nothingness. It was good, to be quiet and compliant. It could be good. The Captain’s voice trickled through its stupor.

“ … do this for [——] all the time. You two would come back from some romp… would be a mess, dress all muddied. [——] got so mad. We figured we could at least fix her hair, even if we couldn’t get the grass stains… ”

It did not understand what he was referring to, so it said nothing. Something about the words made the head ache and the gut clench uncomfortably, but it did not dwell on the strange story. Handlers and technicians often talked – usually to each other, but sometimes to themselves – as if it was not there.

Another scent filled the chamber, this one stronger, more artificial. It made the Soldier’s nasal passages itch, though it was distracted from the sensation when the Captain’ blunt nails began massaging across the scalp. Something shattered within it. Despite the imperative to remain quiet, a low noise echoed from its chest. Another malfunction. Another punishment earned. The Captain hummed softly.

“That good?”

The Soldier could comprehend sarcasm, most of the time. Commander Rumlow had employed it often. But the Captain sounded so earnest. Good? This was… it was beyond good. It was indescribable. It could not remember feeling anything like this before. It was better than any of the Commander’s gifts, better than his hands on the back, better than chocolate. Better than shchi. The Soldier could barely hold on to consciousness. If the Captain wished to make use of it, he could easily overpower it in this state. There was no need for him to ply it with such treatment. It did not understand.

“C-clarify. Why… reward?” it rasped.

The Captain’s hands faltered. It heard him take another controlled inhale, but could not see his face to read his reaction. He had instructed it to keep the eyes closed.

“It’s not a reward, Buck. You always deserve to be treated nice.”

His pained tone only worsened the dizziness. The words made little sense. If it deserved anything, it was severe punishment for the failed mission… or the violence against him. That was unclear. Certainly for the extensive violation of protocol, the ceaseless malfunctions. It was beginning to understand why the Captain had been removed from his position as commander. He was so… soft. Unless this was some form of manipulation, gentleness designed to make future discipline more impactful by contrast.

Its attempt to discern his motivations was interrupted by a second round of gentle fingertips tracing through the hair, working the cleansing agent into the roots. The Soldier managed not to vocalize this time, but it could not draw its attention away from the path of his hands as he rinsed the substance from its hair, carefully directing water across the temples and down the neck, cupping the base of the skull as if holding a delicate teacup. Even though his hands had been on its body for uncounted minutes now, every touch still felt like a low electric current traveling through the flesh.

He applied another substance, this one with a less cloying scent, and combed through the hair again. The flow of water stopped, and the Soldier immediately felt the cold creeping into its flesh. The Captain kept one hand on the back as he stood, reaching for something on the other side of the room. It sat very still and tried not to anticipate which implement he might employ.

Soft, dry fabric encircled the shoulders. A towel. He had wrapped it in a towel.

“Hold that one there.”

It raised a shaking hand to secure the cloth – rough and dry and so, so good – and it felt another towel touch the face as the Captain blotted at its dripping hair.

“———— open your eyes now, Buck.”

The first things it saw were pinked cheeks, ruddy from the heat of the shower, a crooked nose, and full lips turned up into a smile, though it seemed forced. [Stevie] The Captain’s clothing was soaked, his cotton shirt nearly translucent. His face, so close to its own, made it feel as if the skull was full of broken glass, rattling around and refracting light into indefinable patterns. It hurt to look at him, twisted something deep in the Soldier’s belly, but it could not pull the eyes away.

“We’re all done. Want a shave?”

[The Asset does not want.]

“Y-your discretion, s-sir.”

“Okay, we can wait on that. It’ll make you less ———— anyway. I’m just gonna ——— real quick.”

He moved out of visual range, returning with a small metal tool. It attempted to relax the body, to prevent additional pain from whatever procedure he intended. The Captain held its hand in his, deceptively gentle. He separated one of the fingers from the others. It fixed the eyes to the far wall, steeling itself for the crack of bone. There was a small, sharp snick, but no pain. He moved to the next finger. Snick.

The Soldier took a cautious breath, glancing down to where he held its hand.

A nail trimmer. It nearly fell over with relief. It closed the eyes, allowing itself to fade back into the nothing space while he completed the maintenance. It was shaking so much that he had to hold the feet between his knees, but the procedure was over within minutes. The Captain turned to wash his hands and put the tool away.

“Grab on.”

Broad, warm hands on the torso. It repeated the previous maneuver, bracing on his shoulders. He lifted it to standing, pausing to allow it to regain equilibrium when the change in position caused the vision to swim. The mirror was fogged with condensation, and the strange shapes reflected there mimicked the visual distortions.

“ ———— use the toilet?”

It nodded in the affirmative. He shifted to support it from just the left side as it completed the procedure.

He led it back into the main room, toward one of the raised platforms. The bed. He was going to put it on the bed. The heart rate increased, and the respiration grew erratic, but it said nothing. It was a severe protocol violation when coupled with unsanctioned recreational use, but he had given it so many rewards, so much positive input. It was only fair for him to take his pleasure.

“Bucky?”

The Captain looked from its face to where its gaze was riveted to the bed. He exhaled sharply, his grip on its rib cage tightening for a fleeting second. He was angry. If it did not comply, he would–

“C’mon, just sit down right here.”

He haphazardly tossed a towel across the carpeted floor. The Soldier was lowered to the ground, knees buckling as its weight shifted. He pet across the shoulders, assessing it. [“Never met a gun with a mouth like that. Open up, sugar.”] There was no expectation in his eyes, no pain in his touch. He crossed the room to dig through a black rucksack, returning with a substantial pile of fabric.

“These are for you. ——— need help, okay?”

Clothing. He wanted it to dress.

“Yessir,” it slurred.

The garments were not unlike those it had acquired after leaving the Vault, though they were softer, care-worn. It eased the damaged feet into the socks. Its trembling right hand made the task much more troublesome than usual. It lost time, coming back to find itself staring dumbly at the carpeting, black fabric tangled in the fingers. Shaking itself, it resumed dressing, shifting the hips to get into the undergarment. Then a pair of thick, soft pants, much warmer than the denim it had worn previously. A short sleeved shirt, followed by a longer sleeved one over top of it. All of them made of flexible, downy cotton. It was like having each part of the body cocooned in the softest blankets. Another unearned reward. It was already so far in the Captain’s debt. It did not understand what he wanted of it. Exhaustion clouded the mind, and the indulgent clothing did nothing to alleviate the sensation.

The Captain had changed into dry clothes and was observing it.

“Good?”

It lowered the head, avoiding his gaze.

“Da, ser. Spasibo.”

“ ‘Course, Buck. I got the details on –––––– ETA thirty-six hours. Ready to relocate?”

“Da, ser.”

“C’mon, up you go.”

Again, it was lifted effortlessly in the Captain’ grasp. He waited for it to find footing, then stepped back. It felt the nerves firing, the body preparing to pursue his touch. It did not move.

“Do you have a bag?”

In answer, it bent to reach under the bed, placing one hand on the mattress to maintain its balance, and pulled out the duffel.

“Good. I’ll go wipe down.”

The Captain quickly decontaminated the room. He handed the Soldier the hat and gloves it had worn before, then knelt to guide its feet into the boots, lacing them securely. It was– He should not– Before it could correct the violation, he stood again.

He tied off the plastic bag with the soiled civilian clothing, packing it away for later disposal. It arranged most of the weapons back into the duffel, arming itself with what it could conceal under the soft garments. One pistol, three knives. The Captain paused as he went to collect his bags. He removed another item of clothing from his rucksack, a well-worn brown leather jacket, faded to a light tan at the seams and elbows.

“Here. This’ll be nice and warm.”

He guided it onto the Soldier’s arms, tugging at the collar to settle the garment properly across the shoulders. [Linen and wool and charcoal on his hands. “Lookin’ good, B–”] The jacket hung loose on the Soldier’s thinning frame, but he was correct. It was well-insulated, easing a bit of the chill. As it moved, the leather released subtle scents. Ivory soap – much less irritating than the substance the Captain had used in the shower – as well as an undercurrent of something earthy, metallic. Graphite, fuel exhaust, and gunpowder. The sputtering ember rekindled in its chest. It subtly turned its face into the material as it shouldered the duffel, inhaling deeply. Somehow, despite it being approximately 0200, the smell evoked the sensation of sunlight upon the skin. For the first time in... weeks, months, years, it did not know, the tenuous feeling of safety took root in its bones.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

Bucky nodded off – or maybe just passed out – about five minutes after they’d gotten on the road. He’d inspected the car silently, nearly fell over from dizziness, yanked a black box off the rear axle, crushed it, then curled up in the passenger seat with his hat pulled low and his face tucked into Steve’s coat. Steve couldn’t even imagine how exhausted he was. It looked like he had walked all the way from DC, his boots and pants caked with mud. The state of his feet supported that theory. How he’d known where they would be, Steve had no idea. It was the least of his worries at the moment.

He kept glancing over to where Buck slept. The road was nearly empty at this time of night, and if it wasn’t for all the switchbacks and steep curves he would’ve just stared at Bucky the entire time. Bucky had always looked younger, more peaceful when he slept, but now, even unconscious, he was coiled and tense, lines creasing his brow. It was untelling if it was from pain, paranoia, or a mix of both.

He looked… f*cking awful. Bucky had never been so thin, even after Kriechberg. And the fear in his eyes as Steve took him to the shower or went to put him on the bed… Steve hoped that he’d handled things appropriately. It was hasty, he knew, to have Buck be vulnerable and naked within half an hour of finding him. He’d tried to keep it perfunctory, impersonal. He had to check for injuries, and if Bucky had stayed in those clothes any longer they might have permanently fused to his skin with all the grime and sweat. He’d seen Bucky scared before, but never of him. Like he expected to be beaten for every minor mistake. Like Steve was one of his handlers.

With the way Buck had obeyed, cowering and hastily following his commands, despite the obvious pain and dizziness coloring every movement, Steve might as well have been. But he’d looked downright rapturous when Steve touched his hair, as if he hadn’t felt simple pleasure in ages. He’d made that same face, before, when Steve would…

f*ck.

It took every ounce of his self-control not to tear the steering column out of the damn car. Buck had been abused in inimaginable ways, was terrified of even basic human comforts, and now he was f*cking starving right in front of Steve’s eyes, but Steve couldn’t stop thinking about that. He was losing his damn mind. The pleather of the steering wheel complained under his hands, and he realized he was going about twenty MPH over the speed limit. He forced himself to take a deep breath, focusing on getting them out of the hills and back towards a road that wasn’t like a damn rollercoaster.

He turned west, toward the interstate. He hadn’t risked leaving a digital trail by putting the coordinates into the GPS, instead checking the maps just long enough to memorize the major roads. After sending Nat an ETA and texting Sam ‘I’m safe. Don’t follow,’ he crushed his Starkphone. If Tony really was out for revenge, he could easily hunt them down with his own tech. And if HYDRA found out Buck was still alive, it would only be a matter of time before they exploited the same option.

He felt bad about leaving Sam with no transport, but there was no telling how Bucky would react to an unknown agent. Steve didn't want to put Sam's safety at risk. Nor Bucky's stability. He hardly recognized Steve, though he seemed willing to trust him, at least for the moment. Adding more people to the mix would only complicate things and increase the probability of being discovered. And some desperate, jealous part of Steve simply did not want to share him quite yet. Buck had spent the better part of the century being poked and prodded and abused by innumerable strangers. They needed time – time to heal, time for Buck to come back to him, just f*cking time – before dealing with the attention of the entire team.

Steve briefly considered making a detour to Memphis. There was another base there. Maybe it would still be staffed and he could get a little stress relief in before they holed up in the safehouse. His hands itched for the shield, a gun, just his bare knuckles on some Nazi’s skull, f*ck, anything. But he wouldn’t. Buck needed him right now. They had to get somewhere secure, then get something more substantial than Gatorade into him.

It was a good thing he’d broken the phone before he had time to think. Every few minutes he felt the impulse to call Tony and try to talk some sense into him. But he knew Tony wouldn’t tolerate it when he was angry. If he was hurting as badly as Steve figured he was, he wouldn’t be able to listen to anyone, much less his emotional rival for Howard’s attention. He’d interpret any attempt at empathy as condescension. Tony was probably belligerently drunk at this point, smashing up his latest project. Steve couldn’t really blame him. He wished he could still get drunk the first time he saw those files. He just prayed that Bruce and Natasha – maybe JARVIS too – could keep him in line. Rhodes was still off on assignment, sucked into international diplomacy immediately after DC. Without him or Miss Potts around, Tony was already volatile. This might send him over the edge. The edge of what, exactly, Steve didn’t know.

About thirty minutes down the road, Steve found a convenience store that was open all night. For a second he was worried about how to wake Buck up without setting him off, but as soon as the car changed trajectory Bucky’s eyes were open, sharp and assessing.

“Hey. We’re okay. I’m just gonna grab some food. Is there anything you need?”

Steve could barely make out the hoarse voice coming from the bundle of leather and cotton in the passenger seat. “N-negative, sir.”

“Alright. Wait here. Keep your head down. You can lay in the back if you want to sleep some more.”

“Ackn-nowledged, sir.”

Buck’s teeth were chattering, despite the mild weather of Southern autumn. Steve cranked the heater up before he shut the door. Bucky had come to him. He could trust that his car wouldn’t be stolen and Buck halfway across the state in the four minutes it would take to find some protein bars and Gatorade. He doubted Buck was even capable of driving right now. Steve gave one last glance, taking note of Bucky’s glassy eyes and shaking shoulders, before he centered himself and attempted to walk casually into the store.

He was deeply grateful for the bored disinterest of third shift gas station clerks. A lone teenager sat behind the counter, scrolling through her phone. She barely looked up at him as he checked out, even though his purchases were a bit odd. Two cases of Gatorade, two jars of peanut butter, and an entire display box of protein bars. He had some in the car, specifically designed for his metabolism, but dammit if he wasn’t getting tired of chalky fake chocolate after a few weeks on the road. He threw in a couple of packs of jerky, a large coffee, and some assorted candy. He wasn’t going to risk it right away, but if Buck could keep down the sugary electrolyte stuff, maybe some soft chocolate or licorice would work out as well. Licorice used to be Buck’s favorite. Keep it together, Rogers.

The cashier didn’t even blink when he loaded up everything in his arms, balancing the coffee precariously. Steve gave the requisite pleasantries and got out of there as quickly as he could.

He felt a nearly overwhelming surge of relief when he saw Buck still in the passenger seat, eyes scanning the parking lot from under the brim of that battered cap. Steve dumped what he could in the back and grabbed two Gatorades and a couple snacks to go with his coffee. He held out one of the bottles for Buck as he got back into the car.

“Drink this very slowly.” Steve considered Bucky’s current state and amended, “One swallow every two minutes. If it bothers your stomach, stop and wait ten minutes before continuing. If you feel sick, tell me and I’ll pull over.”

Bucky stared at him like he’d been speaking Farsi. No, Buck knew Farsi now, along with about two dozen other languages. Like he was a damn alien, then, chattering at him in unintelligible gibberish. Steve just waited, patiently holding the drink and trying not to force eye contact. Bucky co*cked his head to the side, then enunciated very intentionally, as if Steve was a bit stupid.

“R-ration allocation. Is at the d-discretion of the h-handler.”

Of course. Of course those bastards had made it so that even the basest of bodily functions required outside approval. Bucky had panicked something awful when Steve insisted he wasn’t a handler, and it had taken him a good five minutes for Steve to calm him down enough to check his injuries. Steve hated to lie to him, but if he didn’t get some kind of food into Buck, even pure sugar, he would only get worse.

“It’s not rations. This is for hydration. It’s medically necessary.”

Another long, suspicious stare, broken for a moment when Bucky’s eyes drifted and went cloudy again. Then he was back, glaring at the bottle in Steve’s hand like it was a live grenade.

“It is… p-p-purple.”

Steve snorted, torn between crying and laughing. It was dizzying to find something funny in the middle of this godawful nightmare. Purple. He’d thought the same thing when he saw row upon row of ‘enhanced water’ and ‘sports drinks’ the first time, like a palette of watercolors trapped behind the glass doors of the bodega cooler. It was ludicrous how much nonsense folks added to plain old water these days, as if they didn’t know how to make switchel or have a damn apple after playing ball. Though he couldn’t be too cynical, since it was the only thing he had to offer Bucky right now.

“Yeah. It’s got vitamins in it. It’ll help you feel better, I promise.”

Steve opened the bottle and took a long swig, demonstrating that it was harmless, and offered it back. He prayed Bucky would believe him, and that he wouldn’t get the bottle thrown at his head once Buck tasted the sugar and figured out Steve was bullsh*tting. After a full minute of suspicious squinting while Steve gave his most trustworthy smile, a metal hand snaked out from the folds of Steve’s jacket. Bucky struggled with the cap for a second, his right hand trembling and slipping off the plastic. Steve was about to offer to help, but Bucky finally managed it and took a cautious sip.

He had to suppress another laugh at Bucky’s expression, screwed up like he’d just bitten into a lemon. He looked so much like himself, despite the stringy hair and beard. Steve allowed himself seven entire seconds to wallow in nostalgia before he got his sh*t together. Buck was still glaring at the plastic container as Steve started up the car and pulled back onto the highway. He really hoped reading modern nutrition labels hadn’t been part of HYDRA’s training. But Bucky wasn’t stupid, and anyone could figure out what an ingredients list meant. Steve breathed out a silent sigh of relief when, exactly one-hundred-twenty seconds later, Buck swallowed another mouthful.

____________________________________________________________

The strange purple substance stuck to the tongue and made the teeth ache. It tasted so artificial that the Soldier could not determine what might be in the solution besides glucose. It could not determine if the Captain had lied intentionally. This was not like any ration pack it had encountered before. The caloric content was so low that it would require forty portions simply to meet minimal daily functioning needs. The Soldier drank it anyway. It had already displayed enough insubordination to merit additional punishment, and it would be foolish to further test the Captain’s patience.

Unconsciousness had claimed it shortly after leaving the motel, and it had to continually fight against another lapse. It monitored the other vehicles around them, trying to discern suspicious movement despite its vision wavering. They were traveling steadily northwest. The Soldier did not know the location of this safehouse, only their ETA. It must be quite far to merit such protracted travel time.

Once they left the winding roads of the mountains, the Captain consistently violated civilian vehicle safety parameters. He was already risking the attention of law enforcement, and the sun wasn’t even up yet. It silently calculated how quickly it could get itself into the trunk, or the potential ramifications of simply shooting the police officer that might attempt to subdue them. Probably not worth the risk. It still had the gloves, which obscured its most distinctive feature, but it did not have any documents to serve as legal identification.

Two minutes elapsed. It took another mouthful of the liquid. The stomach had not yet rebelled, and it already noticed an improvement in functioning. The ache behind the eyes eased, and the tremor in the right hand abated minutely. This was more than hydration. The spring water had not affected it this way. If this was some new form of rations, each swallow was another tally in its long list of protocol violations. At least in this case the Captain might share some of the punishment.

After an hour, the Soldier had consumed the entire bottle. It could feel itself responding to the substance, limbs buzzing as its starved cells came back to life. The ringing in its ears faded to a tolerable level. The visual distortions diminished. The stomach was calm, but the rest of the body felt like it had been hooked up to a car battery. The Soldier’s legs trembled, knees involuntarily bouncing against the dashboard. The fingers of the right hand twitched as if reaching for a weapon, and the eyes flicked rapidly from the Captain, to the window, the vehicles behind them, and back. Had he adulterated the drink with something? No, he had opened it in plain sight, even consumed some of it, and he exhibited no symptoms.

The Captain took note of its erratic behavior, co*cking an eyebrow as he looked it over. “Y’okay, Buck?”

“Irregular b-bodily response. T-to provided substance.”

He laughed softly. “You’ve probably got a sugar high.”

There was no mockery in his voice. The man seemed genuinely amused by the entire process. He would likely be much less amused once they reported to the handler. It did not know who that would be, if it was not the Captain. Perhaps someone higher in his chain of command. Had it spent weeks avoiding SHIELD just to be delivered into their hands? But they were going west. Did SHIELD have a base on the Pacific coast? It could not remember.

“You’ll be alright,” the Captain said, “but tell me if you start to feel sick or have palpitations, ‘kay?”

It assessed the heart rate. No more erratic than it had been the previous few days, if somewhat elevated.

“Yes, s-sir.”

“Y’know,” he huffed, “you don’t have to keep calling me, sir. You can just call me Steve.”

Highly irregular. It would do no such thing. The Soldier knew well the results of disrespecting superior officers.

It studied the Captain as he drove. It was becoming less troublesome to look directly at his face, though the line of his zygomatic bones still set something in its cognition at odd angles. This was the correct operative. It knew him. He recognized the Soldier, even if he used outdated designations. He had initiated something similar to standard maintenance procedures. But he was… Not wrong. Off. The nose was the same, crooked and sharp. The brow, the lips, the eyes. It was sure this was the correct operative. But he used to be smaller. It knew this, knew that he had been enhanced. It had seen the documentation. But it could not stop itself from pulling at the threads, trying to discern what it was missing. He was smaller, before, when he was…

The headache returned.

The Captain pressed another bottle into its hands. In between sips, it returned to its observation of the surroundings, ignoring the nausea that rose up at the flashing colors and bright light. Signs flew by, but it could not make out the words. Traffic increased until they were caged in on all sides by civilian vehicles, then faded as they traveled away from the city. It watched the shape of skyscrapers as they passed, geometric figures in steel and glass gleaming against pale blue sky. The landscape flattened, leaving the rolling hills behind and smoothing into an open plain. The Captain reached for the control console, and quiet voices came from the radio, narrating a weather report and irrelevant news stories.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

This mode of transport was highly, highly negative. [The Asset has no preferences.] The vehicle was far too small, completely unarmored, the windows untinted. The Soldier was trapped in the passenger area and visible to every passing civilian. The belt strapped across its torso chafed at the skin. The voice on the radio needled into the ears. It could not avoid looking at the Captain, too tall and too broad for the cramped space, his large nose and stubborn jaw highlighted by the incessant sun. The endless empty fields and the huge, garish signs were unsightly. The too-soft clothes itched, and the glare of light in the rearview blinded it, and the insipid little birds bouncing along the highway made it nauseous with their movement.

It knew it was malfunctioning. It had withstood far more challenging conditions without issue, but the emotional response was impossible to suppress. It required a reset. It required the pharmaceuticals. There were still hours left in this journey, and no way to know if the Captain would attempt to subvert protocol in other ways. The traitorous body was at once flushed and frigid, every muscle vibrating. The mind spiraled into useless tangents, flashes of memory and discordant echoes cluttering its thoughts. The prosthesis itched to shift into active mode. The fists clenched in the pockets of the sunshine-smelling jacket with a creak of titanium and leather, and it ground the teeth together to keep from ripping something apart with them.

The Captain leaned across the Soldier’s left side to reach into the back seat, one hand on the wheel. The expanse of his chest came dangerously close to its face, the smell of his soap and skin complicating its anger with… something. It did not move. It did not jab the titanium elbow into his solar plexus. It did not tear out his throat with its teeth. He settled back into his seat and held out another bottle of the sugary purple liquid.

“You’re gettin’ squirrely on me. Have some more to drink.”

It did not take the bottle. They were rations. He had lied, coerced it into violating protocol, and now it would be punished. They would send it to the hole, knock out the teeth, cut into the tongue. They would–

“Bucky,” he said more firmly. “You’re crashing. You need to keep your blood sugar up.”

[Cold, bony hands. Furrowed brow. “You’re not my ma, B–”]

“Ration allocation–”

“Is at the discretion of the handler,” the Captain interrupted. “I know. But there isn’t a handler here right now, and you’re going to be in even worse shape if you don’t drink this.”

It attempted to glare, but the body was malfunctioning so badly that it could not keep the eyes focused. The right hand was shaking again, worse than before. His logic was not entirely flawed. Without a proper handler present, a concession could be made for continued emergency protocol. He was not even an approved temporary handler or a field commander. But it could not reach the Captain’s superiors, whoever the new handler would be, if it became nonfunctional. Still, it was not right. It was another infraction. It was–

“Drink, soldier.”

The Soldier let out a low growl, but it complied.

It followed the previous protocol for consumption of the purple substance. Ten point two minutes after the first swallow, the tension in the chest unwound by degrees. Breathing came easier. Cognitive function returned to something manageable. It almost regretted its behavior. Almost. Even if the Captain was correct about the physiological response, it did not mean his orders were acceptable.

It began to doubt its instinctual draw to this man. It had known him, that much was true. But it was wrong about his position. It had been so sure he was– The body knew. It had fallen to its knees at that image. No. It was likely an impression of receiving discipline, nothing else. Field commanders were authorized to perform disciplinary action. The new handler would have answers. Once it was properly transferred, the new handler would administer punishment, reset it with any change in protocol, give it a mission.

Twenty minutes into the third [protocol violation] hydration routine, the eyes grew heavy. The Soldier had lost consciousness too many times already. It could not allow itself to do so again. It curled the fingers of the right hand, digging the nails into the palm until it nearly broke flesh. The small pinpricks of pain held its awareness for a while, but soon it was unable to maintain proper tension in the muscles of the hand. The thoughts wandered again.

This was nothing like the usual transport. It was not bound or muzzled. There were no guns or batons trained on it, no one observing its movements. The Captain’s gaze was fixed to the road, and he appeared to be smiling, as if ignorant to the potential threat less than a meter away from him. He was right to do so. It was useless like this. The handler would fix it. Soon. It only had to tolerate the Captain’s strange behavior for another day.

It attempted to focus on the environment, estimating speed and distance of the passing vehicles. There were so few buildings. Only trees, agricultural fields, and the occasional sign. The warmth of the sun on its skin, the steady rhythm of the engine, tires on concrete, wind rushing past – every sensation conspired to lull it into complacency. The eyelids drooped again, and the Soldier forced them back open. It had to keep watch. But… There were no tails from the motel. There had been no suspicious movement for hours. The Captain did not have a phone, and the Soldier had destroyed the trackers. No one was following.

The sunlight heated the leather of the Captain’s jacket, intensifying the scent of clean sweat and graphite that rose from the material. Safe. Surely they were safe. The sky was so bright, and the light made the Soldier’s head throb. It should put on the goggles. But they were in the trunk. It let the eyes fall closed, just for a moment. The Captain had not corrected it for doing so before.

Perhaps it was…

Warm. It was so warm, leather stuck to the skin with perspiration and blood. The van rocked violently as it clattered over rough dirt roads, but the Soldier paid no mind. It was safe here, under the benches, caged in by pillars of black canvas and heavy bags, the limbs contained in familiar steel. The mission had been a success, even though it had been damaged. The Commander said “Good work, Soldier” and touched the shoulder as he loaded it into the transport. It let itself drift, basking in the heat and the memory of his praise.

Pain lanced through its damaged abdomen. The unmistakable sensation of a steel-toed boot to the stomach. The bullet was still in there, lodged in the lower intestinal tract. The Soldier felt it intensely now, every infinitesimal shift, every millimeter of knitting flesh itching and burning, newly torn by the shifting projectile. Healing was often more painful than the injuries themselves.

“Get up.”

It attempted to comply, but it could not move against the restraints. The jaw was fixed shut with the maintenance mask. The arms were locked behind the back, and the ankle cuffs affixed to the wrists with a short chain. Every attempt at righting itself caused another spasm in its gut, another gush of blood from the wound. It had to comply. The Commander was already disappointed that it had sustained an injury, and now it could not–

“Move, Soldier. Mission ain’t over yet. You’ve got work to do.”

It writhed, working itself out from under the bench with its elbows. Another kick, to the head this time. The world spun. Then warm, soft leather on the face.

“C’mon, kitten. You got an hour til we hit base, and my boys deserve a treat. You’ve been so good for me today, don’t let me down now.”

This was a test, it knew. The restraints were designed for the Soldier. They held fast. It stopped struggling long enough to think, then shoved the right arm against the floor, trying to leverage itself up. It faltered halfway and fell, the polymer of the mask cracking against the steel grating and jabbing into the tender flesh of its face. Several of the men laughed. It tried again, putting more force into the movement. It would not fail, would not disappoint the Commander further.

__________________________________________________

He was not going to laugh again. Bucky looked more annoyed (murderous) every time he let a chuckle escape. Steve was probably cracking up. He was going on forty hours with no sleep, coming from a huge HYDRA raid, then he’d discovered an assassin in his motel room. Just found Bucky there, waiting for him, after weeks of panic and worry and… And they still had a thirty hour drive ahead of them. But, Christ on wheels, even after seventy years of torture, even on the brink of starvation, Bucky Barnes was still a raging asshole when he had a sugar crash.

Thankfully he’d relented and taken the Gatorade. Bucky finished about half the third bottle before he passed out again. He was sleeping heavily, completely still apart from his chest heaving. His breathing sounded ragged. Not anything worse than it had been in the motel, though. With the serum, it was unlikely to be a respiratory infection. Just exhaustion and heightened emotions. Steve engaged the cruise control and let his mind wander as the wide highways guided them further west.

Easter of twenty-six, when his ma brought home extra candy from the clinic. He took a whole basket to the park to share with Buck, who had ‘rescued’ Steve from high blood sugar by doling out one piece for Steve for every three for himself. And then they’d spent the rest of the afternoon arguing instead of playing because Bucky was alternately hopped up on sugar or pissed off because the candy was gone.

Bucky’s sixteenth birthday, when they both spent weeks saving and scrounging to get two of the biggest ice cream sundaes they could find. Bucky had eaten all but half of one, which he graciously allowed Steve to share. After that they ended up at a speakeasy that Buck’s cousin ran lookout for. Five bootleg beers and three pounds of custard and syrup combined to make one very ornery Barnes. That barfight had been talked about for months. Mrs. Barnes refused to believe Bucky when he said he’d started it, not Steve, even though it was actually true that time.

Christmas of forty-three when Buck cheated so bad at cards Dugan nearly shot him in the foot just to keep his chocolate ration. By that time Bucky was usually just as happy to settle for cigarettes, but he needled Dugan into bartering his sweets for Buck’s stolen schnapps anyhow. It was a nice evening until the ill-gotten sugar ran out, and not even Steve’s sweet talk could get Bucky to settle down. He eventually kicked Bucky out of the tent to go take second watch and walk off his bad mood.

Then there was the time–

The passenger window exploded.

Steve swerved violently, attempting to evade the assault. For a second he was back in DC, HYDRA bearing down on him and a masked figure aiming a rocket launcher at his chest. He double-checked that the road ahead was clear and hit the gas, gunning to get them away from whoever the f*ck was attacking. If it was Tony, they were screwed. Even with the shield, he could only hold out so long against the Iron Man armor. But Tony said he’d destroyed those…

He glanced over to see if Bucky was injured and was met with a horrified expression. Buck was sitting bolt upright and gasping like he was dying. But he wasn’t looking at the road, or any potential assailants. He was staring straight at Steve, abject terror in his eyes. Steve whipped his head around, checking to the left, then behind them, but he still couldn’t identify a threat. The wind tore through the remnants of the window, roaring so loudly that he could barely hear himself think.

“Buck!” he yelled, trying to be heard over the noise, “What happened?”

Bucky’s lips moved, but Steve couldn’t make out the words. He checked their surroundings one more time, then slowed back down to a reasonable speed. No one was chasing them. No second volley came. He finally picked out the rasping voice over the wind.

“S-sorry. Sorry. Please, sir. S-sorry.”

Steve felt a bit desperate. Had Buck somehow led HYDRA to their location? Was this some elaborate trap?

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry. Please. D-damage to vehicle. Unintentional.”

“Unin– Did you break the window?”

He was still yelling a bit. It was like being on the Harley, trying to talk while going seventy with no helmet mic. Steve couldn’t tell if Bucky was nodding or just shaking. He was pretty sure he heard him say, “Yes, sir.”

It took him a minute to understand what the hell was going on. Just an accident. How had Bucky… It didn’t matter. There was no incoming, as far as he could tell, but Steve was still ramped up on adrenaline, ready for a fight, his eyes scanning in all directions for threats. The Midwest was horrible. There was no cover anywhere, just naked cornfields and highways and the yawning, open horizon. He felt like the sky would come crashing down on his head at any moment. They had tornadoes out here, didn’t they? How the f*ck do you avoid a tornado when there’s no cover?

He couldn’t deal with the noise anymore, and the temperature outside had grown colder as they traveled further north. Buck was shaking like a leaf. They couldn’t keep driving like this. Steve silenced the radio and put on the turn signal, breathing a deep sigh of relief when he saw an exit with an actual town attached to it for the first time in an hour. They pulled off into an abandoned gas station, Bucky muttering apologies the entire time, never once taking his eyes off of Steve’s hands.

“S-sorry. Prostite. Prostite, ser.”

“Hey, hey, take it easy. Breathe, Buck.”

Bucky obeyed, but didn’t calm down. The apologies started right back up as soon as he exhaled. He looked like he was about to shatter into a million pieces. Steve wanted so badly to wrap himself around Bucky, to hold him down and make his presence known until the fear melted away. He reached out, just to take Buck’s shoulder and reassure him. Bucky flinched, and his eyes widened with fear.

“Woah. It’s alright. It’s okay. We’re safe. Can you take some more breaths for me?”

Steve dropped his hand and put his back to the driver side door, trying to make as much space between them as he could. This car was already too small, and it definitely wasn't built to contain a panicking supersoldier. The shaking intensified for a few minutes, then all of a sudden Bucky was utterly still. His chest rose and fell in a deliberate rhythm, gaze fixed to the floor. When he spoke again, any hint of emotion was stripped from his voice.

“Apologies, sir. This asset submits for disciplinary action.”

Despite Bucky’s shift in attitude, there was no comfort. Buck wasn’t calm, he had just… shut down. Accepting his fate. Waiting for Steve to hurt him. Nausea and guilt welled up again, but Steve pushed them away.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

The same blank, robotic tone. “This asset experienced involuntary muscle movement due to cognitive malfunction. Unintentional unconsciousness and visualizations. Reset required.”

Steve squinted as he tried to sort out what all of the technical jargon was supposed to mean. Unconscious visualizations… Bucky must’ve had a nightmare or flashback or something like that, and struck out. Guess he hadn’t been sleeping as peacefully as he’d looked. They would save the ‘reset’ conversation for later. He reminded himself of the godawful maintenance chair he’d smashed in DC, and the one they’d blown up yesterday in Oak Ridge, and he felt a little better. Okay, Rogers. Triage and handle it.

“Are you injured?”

Bucky had to think about it, glancing down at his right arm, which was covered in little tetrahedral bits of safety glass, before gluing his eyes right back to the floorboard.

“N-negative, sir.”

“Alright,” he sighed. “No harm done. We needed to switch cars anyway.”

No response. Buck sat perfectly still. Steve didn’t know how to help him out of this spiral. His previous methods of comforting Bucky were definitely not appropriate right now, and Steve was too worked up to think of anything else. He tried to remember what he’d read in Sam’s books, but his thoughts were just a panicked mantra of Bucky’s hurt Bucky’s upset Bucky Bucky Bucky. He focused on what he could fix right now, restarting the car and pulling out to look for a good place to grab a new vehicle.

There was an auto repair shop half a mile down. He parked the Camry at the far end of the lot. No one came out to ask questions or do customer service at him. It looked like the kind of place you’d find in any small town – a grimy garage owned by a burnt-out middle aged man who was probably on his lunch break at the moment.

“Stay here,” he said to Bucky. He amended, “Please,” before getting out.

He spotted a decent-looking truck that was hopefully in the ‘fixed’ pile and not waiting for service. It was old enough that it didn’t have built-in GPS and hotwiring it would be simple. With all the unearned confidence of a six-foot-something white man, Steve calmly opened the door and adjusted the seat. When he bent under the steering column to remove the casing, he nearly poked his eye out on the keys sticking out of the ignition.

God bless the Midwest.

He pulled around next to the Camry and switched the plates out for the spares that Nat had included in their exfil kit. The truck was innocuous enough that it shouldn’t attract police attention if it was reported stolen – a small black pickup with no stickers and enough rust to blend in with the other farm trucks out here. There was no trunk, no camper cover on the bed, so they’d have to stow their bags in the back seat. It was probably a good idea to keep Bucky where he could see him anyway.

After transferring their luggage – Buck’s duffel bag was stuffed full, but oddly light – Steve tossed the truck owner’s personal effects into the Camry. He thought about leaving cash, but it was just as likely to get stolen as to reach the owner. Hopefully they had good insurance. Glass tinkled onto the asphalt when he opened the busted door to retrieve Bucky.

Who was still sitting, rigid and vacant, in the passenger seat.

“Buck.”

Steve went to shake him, then thought better of it. Buck was facing the driver’s side, which meant Steve was in his blind spot. He would really rather not get another metal fist to the face. He tried to move into Bucky’s field of view, but it was awkward in the narrow space between the car door and the truck.

“Bucky, hey. We gotta go.”

Nothing.

Steve hated this. He hated it so f*cking much, ordering Buck around when he was scared out of his mind. But the longer they sat here, the greater the chance someone figured out that they were about to commit grand theft auto and cross several state lines with an international fugitive.

“Soldier. Move.”

Bucky’s back somehow went even straighter, and he unfolded from the car, rising to his feet in one smooth motion. He stood directly in front of Steve, nearly chest-to-chest, with his gaze fixed over Steve’s left shoulder. Despite the veneer of composure, Steve clocked the minute movements of his limbs. His right hand was shaking, and he was flexing his calves alternately in an attempt to remain upright. Not great, but at least he hadn’t immediately fallen over like in the motel.

“C’mon, we gotta get in the truck.”

There was no “Yes, sir” this time, not even a nod of acknowledgement. Steve went to the other side of the truck, glancing behind him to be sure Bucky was following. He was. When Steve opened the passenger door and co*cked his head toward it, Buck slid inside. Steve carefully shut the door and grabbed the last of their things from the Camry. He had to remind himself not to pull out like a bat out of hell, keeping his speed down until they were back on the highway.

He really owed Sam an apology. The breathing stuff did kind of help.

Bucky was dead silent. Steve debated turning the radio back on, but decided against it. There was nothing out here but NPR and the sorry excuse for country music that had evolved in this century. Not that he didn’t appreciate public radio, but the news would just stress him out more.

He gave it half an hour before he tried to get Bucky’s attention again. Hopefully Buck would… realize that he wasn’t in trouble? Recover from the nightmare? Steve didn’t know what would help him calm down. They settled back into the flow of traffic, the sky growing heavier the further west they went. sh*t. Was it going to snow? They still had to cross the Rockies. At least he’d found a vehicle with four-wheel drive.

Steve offered the half-finished Gatorade over, keeping his eyes on the road. “Here. Gotta keep drinkin’. It’s helping, isn’t it? Not making you sick?”

No response. Steve summoned whatever semblance of patience he had and just held the bottle there. It wasn’t one of his virtues, but any sign of frustration might be mistaken as anger and set Bucky off again. He watched the dashboard clock. It took four minutes for Bucky to reach out and take the drink. Buck was moving slowly, carefully, like he was scared of his limbs moving of their own accord again.

But he drank, one sip every two minutes. Steve leaned back to find his sunglasses in the chaos of the back seat. They were driving directly west now, and the sun was right in his eyes. After another long half hour with no reaction from Bucky, he cautiously relaxed. It looked like this serving was going down with less fanfare. Hopefully he was adjusting to the sudden influx of sugar.

Chapter 21

Chapter Text

The Captain was angry. He was so angry that he had sublimated it into detached composure. That was the worst type of anger, the kind that simmered beneath the surface and built and built until the hand– Until the Soldier was disciplined.

It had damaged the vehicle, risking detection and slowing their progress. It had argued with him about the rations. It had caused him to repeat himself multiple times. All in addition to the innumerable violations of the previous weeks. He was strong, enhanced like it was. He would be capable of inflicting severe damage, even without the usual implements.

The Soldier involuntarily retreated into the quiet, empty place in its mind. It obeyed his orders, but could not vocalize. Handlers disapproved when it did that. [“Speak up, dog! Are you broken so easily?”] It was supposed to be responsive, to be fully present for the disciplinary sessions. When it did not vocalize, there was no confirmation that the punishment was being fully felt. When it went to the empty place, the disciplinary exercises were not as effective, and they had to be repeated.

It could not move from rigid attention. Every limb was held tightly in place. It forced the eyes open, forced itself to remain alert. The back ached and the skull throbbed. It resisted the impulse to recalibrate the prosthesis. That was often interpreted as a threat. The legs itched to fold, to send the Soldier to the ground where it belonged. To kneel in front of him and submit to his discipline.

But that was wrong. He was not the handler. The Soldier had been wrong. And now it was in a vehicle with an unapproved agent going to an unknown location, to be delivered into the hands of, of…

The respiration rate increased until it was dizzy with the oxygen imbalance. The skin prickled with perspiration. The heart beat erratically. The right hand was numb, the face too hot, the stomach threatening to rebel. The body was failing again. It could not lose consciousness. It could not risk another malfunction, another involuntary movement. It attempted to calm itself, but the body did not respond.

No. He was not an enemy agent, it reminded itself. He was not a target. Not any more. It knew him. And he knew it, even if his understanding of protocol was severely outdated. He had initiated maintenance. He had touched it and provided clothing and he was the Captain, and the Captain was… [sunlight and gold and warm and laughter] The Captain was–

The Captain’s hand left the steering wheel, slowly, clearly telegraphed. He glanced over to ensure that the Soldier had seen his intention. The limbs did not comply, and it could not coax the muscles into laxity. Tension meant more pain. Even in the confines of a moving vehicle, he could easily break its leg, or its teeth, or hit hard enough to cause organ damage, or–

Warmth on the left knee. Solid, unwavering warmth. Gentle pressure, fingers squeezing briefly before releasing, the width of his palm across the soft pants and soft and warm and there, not moving, not hurting, just. Touch.

“Hey. Hey, it’s alright. You gotta slow down, baby. You gotta breathe. Count with me, okay? Eight seconds in. Hold it. Eight seconds out. Real slow.”

He demonstrated. It saw his chest rise, felt his thumb tapping out a regular beat against the knee. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Pause. His chest fell. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Again. Rise, eight. Fall, eight. The eyes locked on to his hand, engrossed by the visual coordination of his movements with the sensations on its skin. The body complied without thought, the lungs matching the pattern that the Captain set.

“That’s right. That’s good, Buck. Keep going.”

Good. It had to be good. The tapping continued even as the Captain’s respiration returned to the normal autonomic rhythm. It followed the counted breaths for six cycles. The heart rate decreased. The nausea abated. Rise, eight. Fall, eight. Again. The rigidity of the body eased, dissolving into uncontrollable tremors. His thumb stopped, then smoothed over the knee, back and forth in a slow arc.

“You’re alright. You’re safe. It’s gonna be okay.”

His voice was so calm, so even, betraying no emotion except… It could not name it. Something soft, attentive. There was no sign of the anger that must be lurking beneath the surface, no way to know when or how he might lash out. But it could not hold onto vigilance. The tension in the chest was still there, a fist gripped tight around the heart, but as the rest of the body calmed, the mind went hazy. It was not like the empty place. It could feel the limbs again. It could feel the warmth of his hand still solid against the leg.

Whatever punishment was coming, it had to accept that the Captain, or his superiors, would administer it at their discretion. Attempting to anticipate the handlers’ desires was a double-edged sword. The Soldier was still far from functional. It did not have the cognitive capacity to correctly interpret his motivations.

“There you go. Good job, honey. We’ll stop soon, find somewhere to stretch our legs, okay? Get you some fresh air. We’re just about halfway there.”

Half– how could they have traveled eighteen hours already? How long had it been unconscious? How long had it been lost in its own mind, stuck in the quiet empty nothingness? Had the Captain stopped to refuel at some point? It glanced out the window, trying to determine their location, but there were no recognizable city names, no landmarks, only the ever-present indicators for route 80 West. The landscape had changed, agricultural fields replaced by arid scrubland. They were chasing the sun, traveling so fast that the day stretched into one long afternoon as they crossed several time zones. The dashboard clock read 1816 hours, but that was still Eastern time.

It managed to engage the vocal cords enough to give a strained, “Yes, sir.”

The Captain’s hand left the leg, and the Soldier felt the absence immediately, the flesh cooling rapidly without his body heat against it. He took the crushed bottle from its hands – had it been holding the empty plastic container this entire time? – and exchanged it for another full portion of the purple liquid. The Soldier drank without instruction. He had made his wishes clear about the strange substance.

Another hour passed, another bottle consumed.

It was never aware of losing consciousness, but the landscape kept skipping, shifting from grassland to forest to agriculture and back. The numbers on the clock did not align with its internal chronometry. The sky was darkening very quickly.

Shortly after they passed a large, colorful sign reading ‘Welcome to Wyoming,’ the Captain directed the vehicle into a dusty parking lot populated with semi trailers. There was a shelter, obscured from the road by an artificial berm and a line of ragged-looking trees. The Captain reached into the back seat again and handed the civilian hat and gloves to the Soldier.

“You good to get out? There’s a bathroom here. You probably need it after four bottles of that stuff.”

It realized with shameful suddenness that he was correct. Amid all of the confounding sensations from the body, it had neglected to note the insistent pressure of the bladder. It pulled the hair up under the cap – momentarily surprised to find it clean and relatively free of knots – donned the gloves, and nodded assent, following him as he exited the vehicle.

The legs were mostly stable, and it experienced only mild vertigo when it stood. The illicit not-quite-rations had improved its functionality dramatically, [Cognitive functionality: twenty-seven percent. Physical functionality: twenty-four percent. Prosthesis functionality: seventy-five percent.] though they had not come close to supplying the required daily caloric minimum. Perhaps that would mean a less severe punishment.

He strode through the civilian area with a perfunctory visual assessment. The Soldier was much more thorough, noting the location of several security cameras. It was unable to determine if they were functional. It turned the face away from them and felt the fleeting impulse to correct the Captain, [God dammit, always walkin’ right into–] to physically move him out of range of surveillance, but that was beyond inappropriate. There was a chance his hat and sunglasses would obscure his face enough to avoid recognition.

They spent only as much time in the facility as necessary, returning to the vehicle with no interference. The Captain completed a short series of stretches before taking the driver’s seat. He did not pull onto the highway immediately, instead diverting to a nearby gas station. The Soldier needed no instruction to turn up the collar of the leather jacket, pull the cap down, and hide the face as he filled the fuel tank.

It waited with increasing agitation while he spent nine point two minutes in the attached store. It should be with him, should be on guard, shielding the h– the Captain from potential enemies. He exited the building intact, holding two large cups. The smell of burnt coffee filled the vehicle as he pulled back onto the highway. The Soldier stayed vigilant for one point four hours after they resumed driving, but there was no sign of a tail.

______________________________________

The Captain kept handing it the purple liquid.

By the time they approached Salt Lake City, it had consumed four additional bottles, for a total of eight since they left the motel. The irregular response to the sugary substance might have subsided, but it was difficult to be sure. He kept pushing more and more at it. The bladder was painfully full, but the Captain seemed intent on driving as continuously as possible. It could wait. It suppressed the bodily functions for far longer during field work.

It was fully dark now, the vast sky broken by the lights of the city and, looming ahead, the silhouettes of the Rocky Mountains. They were worlds away from the rolling, weathered hills of the Blue Ridge. Sharp peaks jutted into the night, inky black slicing into navy blue, like the teeth of some great behemoth ready to devour the stars. Scattered clouds spit flurries of snow, but not nearly enough to render the road impassible. [Barren and cold, and the wind dry, the streams frozen solid. No fire, too close to the enemy. Only the heat of its body, insulated by snow on three sides.]

They passed through the city and stopped at a gas station surrounded on all sides by desert, the backlit sign the only thing displaying any color for miles around. The Captain refueled, directed it to the restrooms [exterior entrance, minimal surveillance – acceptable,] and purchased two more cups of coffee. Again, it watched for any sign that they had been detected, but there were very few vehicles on the road at this hour, and none of them followed the truck for longer than ten kilometers. The lapses in awareness became shorter, but did not abate.

The Captain grew restless, though it was unable to determine if the response was related to his caffeine consumption or some other stimulus. He was intently focused on the road ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were strained and pale. But, when he spoke for the first time in hours, his voice was deceptively composed. If it had not regained some semblance of control over the body, the Soldier might have displayed an atypical startle response.

“Y’know, I think this is the furthest West I’ve been outside of a mission. We’re not that far from the Canyon. Do you remember how you always said we’d go out west after you made it big?” He laughed, a forced, awkward sound. “Take the Limited first class, treat me to a steak dinner and co*cktails like a real swell. I thought about going out there before Fury called me in, just to see it. But then the Chitauri happened, and I got pulled into the work, and, well… Here we are. Not quite the digs we imagined, I guess. I always figured you’d end up in the movies, face like yours. Made you promise you’d take me with you to California, let me ride on your coattails and introduce me to your Hollywood friends.”

Nothing he was saying made any sense. It was meaningless, just more idle chatter, but something about his voice, the strain of longing in his words, made the Soldier’s insides twist. Barbed wire threaded through the diaphragm, shredding its innards and pulling the body into a horrid knot. The more he spoke, the worse the sensation became, threatening to swallow it whole.

“I was gonna make it as an artist, join up with the WPA or the painters union. Your ma thought I was full of it, and you said you were happy enough to take over your da’s operation. Never thought I’d be the one to end up on stage.”

[“What is your name?” Can’t remember. The name. It had a name. It was… Three-two-five–]

The Captain shook his head. It was unable to look directly at him to assess his expression, to determine what he meant to accomplish with this strange monologue. The pain in its skull swelled, sharp and hot. Was this punishment? Were there command words buried somewhere in this story, some long-forgotten trigger that no other operatives had access to? He had not raised a hand to it, and he spoke so softly, but it hurt.

The Soldier attempted to focus on the safe sunshine smell of the jacket, but the scent merged with the Captain’s voice and only intensified the distressing sensations. This was worse than the chair. There was no benchmark against which to measure the force used or the desired outcome, no end in sight. It screwed the eyes shut, trying to relieve the building pressure. The right hand was shaking again.

“The USO took us out to Nevada, but I never got further than the hotel stage. Seems a bit funny, call a guy Captain America when all he’s ever known is a sh*tty Brooklyn apartment and a crowded train car. You laughed yourself silly when I told you about it, me and twenty-odd girls stuffed into those little compartments. You’d never believe it, but I ended up rooming with Mary Milligan’s – you remember her, with the freckles and the gap teeth? – her cousin for a week or so in Illinois. Grace Flaherty. They usually let me have my own room or share with Bill, the other 4F guy playing Hitler, it not being proper and all, but that week…”

[Ozone and white fire, rubber and steel, agony cleaving through the skull.]

Pozhaluysta.

It was weak, so weak. It should be able to endure this. It had more than earned it. But every word was another wound, a hundred razor-sharp sounds slicing through the flesh, the cumulative damage more than it could bear. It was bleeding, sluggish and inexorable, ripped open again and again. It could not say ‘no.’ It could not say ‘stop.’ Those words had been stripped from the tongue long ago. It could not even move the lips to beg for his mercy.

“I told you about Bill. Grew up in Poughkeepsie. He was an okay guy, little squirrely around me at first, but once we, uh, figured out we were both playing for the same team he relaxed a bit. Not his fault, really. I still didn’t know how to work this big meatsuit. Broke about a dozen doorknobs before I figured out my strength. Of course the first thing you asked was if I’d, well… I just about socked you one right there, you were so smug about me finally getting my chance with the ladies.”

[“What is your name?” Cold. It was so cold. Everything hurt. Everything…“I don’t know.”]

Pozhaluysta, ser. Pozhaluysta.

It was frozen, no longer at attention, but trapped in the body, pinned down under the onslaught of his voice. It was more effective than any restraints, more viscerally devastating than the technician’s tools. If the Soldier was capable of speech, it would have pleaded for him to use any other form of discipline. The whip, the baton, his fists. Anything would be more bearable than this wrenching, intangible pain. It could not stop the trembling, could not open the eyes. Icy blackness overtook all awareness, dragging it back into the empty place. It could hear the steady cadence of his speech, but it could no longer make out the words.

[“You have no name. You are the Fist of HYDRA. Repeat it.”]

The world returned in stages. The steady thrum of the engine. Pressure in the sinuses. The pain of the nails against the flesh of the palm. The digital glow of the dashboard. Silence, apart from the noise of the wind and the tires on the road. The clock read 2241. It had lost sixteen minutes.

The face was wet, the breath shallow and quiet. It heard the shifting of fabric, the susurration of the Captain’s hand in his hair. It could sense the heat of his body in the confined space, too close, not close enough. The silence was a gift, a relief from the flood of soft, violent words. It waited for his hands to join his voice in administering the punishment. The Captain’s tone shifted, tension tightening his throat.

“Sorry, I’m just going on and on. My old man stories, Tony calls them. You must be tired of my babbling.”

He did not continue his narration. The vehicle rocked as a passing semi disturbed the air currents around it. The Soldier’s breathing slowly returned to baseline. The pain in the head ebbed until it was no worse than before. The wetness on the face dried into stiff tracks. It risked opening the eyes, staring down at the gray cotton pants and dusty black leather of its boots.

It was pathetic, losing control again, and with no discernible cause. The Captain had not even employed the stun baton, the only implement that reliably produced tears. It felt the face heat, the gut churning. The salivary glands took up the work of the exhausted tear ducts, filling the mouth with hot, nauseating moisture.

“Hey,” the Captain said softly.

The Soldier did not move, shifting the eyes just enough to assess his posture. One hand on the steering wheel, one clenched tightly against his leg, body inclined forward and eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Hey. Bucky. You okay?”

It swallowed compulsively.

“F-functional, sir,” it whispered.

“Alright. We’re nearly there. Try and get some rest. We’ll get some supplies soon, then… We’ll figure it out.”

Anger bled through in his words, despite the gentle tone. The Soldier had broken protocol again, interfered with the punishment. Another weight added to the scale. It could do nothing to correct the situation. It did not understand what had happened, why the Captain was not expressing his frustration on its flesh. It risked looking closer at his face. He appeared to be in pain, though he had not sustained any injury. It did not understand.

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 22

Chapter Text

The Captain did not speak again until he pulled into a large, brightly lit parking area on the edge of a small town. It was attached to a massive concrete structure that glowed blue and white in the dark of night. He retrieved the cap and adjusted his clothing, as if a thin layer of cotton would disguise his broad frame. There were bags under his eyes and a light dusting of stubble along his jaw, but not enough to obscure his identity. He turned to address the Soldier.

“Stay here, and stay out of sight. I’ll be back as fast as I can. Should be less than thirty minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

It complied, sliding off the seat and fitting itself under the dashboard as he shut the door.

The position might have been comfortable, curled up tightly in the still-warm footwell, if not for the incessant buzzing of the floodlights that kept the entire parking area swathed in an unnatural yellow-white glare. It struggled to remain present, to push away the flood of images [the saw, the table, the doctor, the–] that battered at the walls in its mind. It reviewed hypothetical trajectories, calculating the angle and force that would be required to take out each of the bulbs with minimal ammunition. If it were allowed to do so.

The Captain returned in twenty-three point eight minutes. There was a rattle of metal and plastic, then his voice, muffled by the windows of the vehicle. The Soldier could not determine what he was saying, but it was enough to alert it to his presence before he opened the door, so that it did not immediately attempt to defend the vehicle or escape. He loaded thirteen plastic bags into the back seat of the truck. From one he retrieved a paper map, and a handful of ration bars and beverages from another. He gave the Soldier another bottle of sugary liquid. This one was bright red, but just as cloying and artificial. The Captain started the truck and studied the map as he rapidly consumed four ration bars, tossing the wrappers into the rear floorboard.

They turned onto another highway, heading northwest. No tails, no suspicious movement. There were barely any other vehicles on this route at all. After another hour of silence, the Captain activated the radio. Music of some sort, though it was disconcerting, the notes harsh and syncopated. The Soldier disregarded the noise. The body threatened to shut down again, but it forced itself to attention, sitting rigidly and keeping the mind occupied. It counted the beats of the Captain’s heart, measured the length of his inhalations. [So steady now, not like–] It attempted to name the species of trees that increased in density as they traveled further west and higher in altitude, but the speed of the vehicle and the lack of light prevented it from identifying most of them. There were many varieties of evergreen plants, making the landscape dark and lush despite the chill in the air.

Just as the first hint of dawn began to wash out the stars behind them, the Captain slowed the vehicle and consulted the map again. Nineteen point three kilometers north, and he turned west into the forest. There was something like a road here, barely marked and heavily rutted. The evidence of previous snowfall remained in patches of dirty white along the ditches, but the path was clear.

The next thirteen kilometers took much longer to traverse, the truck juddering over washouts and broken branches. [Limbs bound, skull clattering against steel floor, voices above.] South, switching back around a relatively small peak, another eight kilometers on the same derelict logging roads. Then west, onto a barely-passable route overgrown with the winter-browned tendrils of wild grape and littered with fallen limbs.

The Soldier was fully alert now, looking not for enemy agents, but for obstacles on the road or the failing of the vehicle’s mechanics. The tires held, the transmission did not stutter, and after another five kilometers, a well-groomed driveway opened to the north, nearly invisible between two large cedars. The gravel was almost peaceful in contrast to the past hour of ragged mountain roads.

A structure emerged from the shadow of the forest. It was of similar build to the shelters on the trail, all rough logs and irregular edges, though this building had four walls and a proper door. The only external signs of modernity were a satellite array and a solar panel mounted on the southeast corner of the roof. The Captain parked the truck on the north side, under cover of a large fir. The heavy foliage of the surrounding evergreens ensured that neither the vehicle nor the safehouse would be easily detected with aerial surveillance, even in the winter.

The Captain directed it to assist in unloading the supplies. It watched him disable the alarms, memorizing the entry code on the front door, and clocked a weaponhidden in the eaves of the porch. The Soldier turned to initiate a perimeter check, but the Captain took hold of the left arm and halted its movement, guiding it inside.

The interior was much the same – thick, rough-hewn beams framing a spacious front room. There were only three doors besides the main entrance. The seating area by the wood stove flowed into an incongruously modern kitchen. [Laughter and stale beer and “Get over here, bitch.”] The house was not currently heated, but the insulation kept the wind from chilling the space. There was a bank of communications equipment and an alarm system disguised as part of the kitchen appliances. Four brown boxes sat on the counter, bearing no labels or postmarks.

The Captain reset the alarms using the same code. He placed perishable items into the refrigeration unit, then opened the smallest of the boxes and tapped out a short message on the phone found inside. He plugged the device into the wall, but did not activate any of the other equipment. His sweep of the house was not at all thorough, only a quick check of the layout. Cleansing facility. Storage closet. Sleeping quarters. He made use of the toilet, then immediately returned to the kitchen.

He opened a larger box and removed several plastic packages. The Captain examined the label of one of the packages, poured the contents into a glass, mixed in a measured amount of water, and set the glass on the countertop.

“Here. Give one of these a try. It shouldn’t upset your stomach, but go slow.”

The Soldier glanced around the kitchen, but saw no cameras. It studied the Captain’s face – eyes red and lined with exhaustion, mouth set into a frown. He was serious. This was actual nutrition solution. It was not damaged enough to fail such an obvious test. It had conceded to his illogical reasoning before, with the strange colorful substance that was not quite rations. But it would not do so now, not when the arrival of the handler was imminent. It had already earned severe reprimand. It was functional enough to survive until then.

“Ration allocation is at the discretion of the handler.”

He let out a ragged, mournful noise and covered his face with both hands, scrubbing at the skin before tugging on his hair.

“I can’t argue with you right now. I’m sorry. I need to f*cking sleep. But you have to eat. I’m gonna leave this right here. Please, please just try to get some of it down.”

The Captain dragged his feet all the way to the sleeping quarters. The Soldier watched him remove his outer clothing and fall into the nearest of the two provided mattresses with a heavy sigh and a puff of stale air from the bedding.

It stationed itself at attention by the door. After four point seven minutes, the Captain turned over to address the Soldier.

“If you’re not gonna eat, at least sleep.”

The head tilted in an approximation of a question. The Soldier did not sleep. If it was not in cryo, it was needed in the field or on base. It should prepare the safehouse for the arrival of the handler. Complete weapons check and maintenance. Stand guard while the Captain was unconscious.

“Sleep.” He was frustrated, his voice rough. “Y’know. Lie down, close your eyes, pass out. You can take the other bed or the couch if you want. We’ll sort everything out in a few hours. It’s safe here. Get some rest.”

‘A few hours’ turned out to be ten point three.

The Captain’s breathing went shallow soon after he lay back down, then transitioned into deep, sonorous noise. The Soldier could keep time by the pattern of his snoring. It remained at the door for approximately two point five hours – minus four instances of time distortion – until the imperative to inspect the house became unignorable. It did not leave the building. It would be ideal to complete an exterior check, but it would not leave the Captain undefended. For now, it ensured that the interior was as secure as possible.

The doors and windows were sufficiently reinforced and doubly locked. Motion detectors and breech alarms were active on all entrances. The Soldier located six audio surveillance devices, but left them in place. It was possible that they were put there by the Captain’s superiors, meant to monitor the inhabitants of the safehouse for compliance. It would alert the Captain to their presence when he woke.

There was a trap door disguised by a large rug. The smell of mildew and cool earth wafted up from it when the Soldier investigated. [Dark, dark and wet and cold, and the rats–] A short wooden staircase led to an unfinished room, barely large enough for the Soldier to turn around in. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with nonperishable foods and ammunition cases, but there was no sign of any more advanced defenses. The Solder emerged and carefully replaced the rug.

The communications equipment appeared to be functional. The modem was connected to the satellite, but unplugged from the power outlet. The Soldier assessed what it could see of their supplies – foodstuff for the Captain, three bags of additional clothing, a multitude of cleansing products, and two more cases of the brightly colored liquid.

It still did not have access to a weapons cleaning kit. The Captain might have one in his pack, but the Soldier would not incur further punishment by interfering with his possessions. It located a drop cloth, retrieved the pistols from the duffel, and cleaned what it could with the disposable towels from the kitchen. It laid the damp tac gear in an unobtrusive corner to air out.

The procedure occupied approximately one point four hours. Above the gleaming stove, the digital clock confirmed that the time was 1153. The house had warmed significantly, and daylight glowed around the seams of the heavy curtains. It could not complete the perimeter check without leaving the facility. It would not wake the Captain without good cause. It cautiously peered through the gaps of the window coverings. There was no movement apart from the wildlife and the shifting branches of the trees. The sky was partially clouded, sun diffused behind thin layers of gray. No immediate weather events evident.

There was nothing left to do. The eyes had grown heavy several times during its paltry attempt at weapons maintenance, and the right hand was becoming unreliable even for the most basic of tasks. The shadows in its vision became more insistent, and the pain in the skull sharpened as slivers of sunlight cut into the room.

The rations sat where he’d left them on the counter. It stared at the viscous, vaguely pink liquid for three point one minutes before turning to make another slow circuit of the safehouse.

The sleeping quarters were dark, the Captain’s breathing even and deep. The curtains there were heavier, longer, not allowing any light to penetrate from outside. The smell of sweat and body heat suffused the small room, accented by hints of coffee and gunpowder. It stood in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of his chest for nineteen point five minutes. He was deeply unconscious, sprawled across the bed with the sheets tangled around his legs. He was so…

[Sun on his hair, like copper and gold. Lips twisted into a scowl, even in his sleep.]

Rest. He had ordered it to rest. He was – had been – a field commander. He seemed confident in the security of this facility, though based on his lack of situational awareness in civilian environments, the Soldier was skeptical of his assessment.

There was no cryochamber, no technician to prepare it for storage. In a half-conscious daze, it spent ten minutes examining the refrigeration unit, door flung open and chilled air spilling into the house. The odor of coolant automatically set it at ease.

It considered the interior dimensions of the appliance. The Soldier could fit inside, but that would require the removal of the perishable rations. The Captain would not approve of his food spoiling. It closed the door, a tinge of dissatisfaction worming into its mind as the seal snicked shut. The milk and eggs were perfectly contained, safe in the darkness of the airtight compartment. The Soldier was left to its own devices, in a strange place with a poorly-trained operative.

It shuffled silently to the cleansing facility and relieved the bladder, avoiding the mirror as it cleansed the hands and face. There were two machines there with clear glass fronts. For washing clothing, it knew. They were far too small to house the Soldier.

As it turned to resume its post by the door, the eyes caught on the fiberglass basin of the bathtub. It recalled the cleansing at the motel, the Captain’s hands on the skin, so gentle and warm. The tub was larger than that shower stall had been. Just large enough for it to lie down in. The surface was firm, cool to the touch, and the room quiet, with no external windows.

It had checked the locks and alarms three times. There were no other tasks for it now. It had been ordered to rest. It hung the Captain’s leather jacket on the provided hook. It would not risk sullying his possessions. The Soldier folded itself into the basin, careful not to scuff the finish with the boots. It arranged the limbs so that the head rested on the right arm and it had an acceptable line of sight into the hallway. Nothing could approach the door of the Captain’s room without the Soldier seeing it first. It waited.

____________________________________________

"Bucky?" The eyes flew open at the sound of the Captain's voice, tinged with desperation. He was moving about the safehouse, footsteps distinct and heavy on the wooden floors. "Jesus, please don't be gone."

Before it could report its location, a switch clicked, and it was blinded by the glare of white light on gleaming porcelain. It brought the breathing under control and assessed the situation. The tub. The cleansing facility. The hard surface underneath it pressed bruisingly into the bones, too close to the surface of the skin from lack of nutrition. The head had fallen at some point, the side of the tub obscuring its vision. It raised itself just enough to see over the edge.

The Captain was rumpled from sleep, hair sticking up at all angles, the bare skin of his chest marked with imprints from the bedding. The sight made something in the Soldier’s ribcage malfunction. When his eyes landed on it, his entire body sagged.

"Christ, Buck, you scared the sh*t out of me. Why are you in the bathtub?”

It considered the most acceptable way to respond to his inquiry. It did not know how to explain why the small, enclosed space felt so appropriate, how appealing the cool tiles and soft echoes were to its scattered mind. It sat up to face him as it replied, legs crossed in the bottom of the tub.

“Compliance with order: rest. This location is acceptable for defense of the Captain without disturbance.”

He looked from the Soldier to the doorway, examining the sight line to the sleeping quarters. His face contorted into a series of increasingly perturbed expressions [confusion, frustration, amusem*nt, disbelief.] He sighed, stepping closer to its position and scrubbing his hand across his eyes [fatigue, exasperation.]

“Wouldn’t the other bed have been better? It’s much more comfortable, and then I’d be right there in the room with you.”

The…bed. The Captain had mentioned the bed before he slept. It assumed it was a test. He was constantly insisting that it violate protocol. There had been a few secondary handlers like that. Those who attempted to feed it unapproved rations or encouraged it to speak with other operatives outside of fieldwork. They had not survived for long.

If the Captain was not such a valuable operative, his cavalier attitude would have had him decommissioned years ago. It was not the Soldier’s place to correct superiors, nor to report on the failures of other operatives, but it was beginning to think it would have to alert his commanding officer to his behavior.

“Beds are reserved for the use of human operatives.”

The Captain choked on nothing, staring at the Soldier with wide, wet eyes.

“Human op– Bucky… You’re human, too, honey. You’re…you’re not a thing.”

He appeared entirely genuine, not a hint of intentional deception in his demeanor. His behavior suddenly made sense. The Soldier had emulated humanity for some prior assignments. With Department X, it often took on false identities and infiltrated enemy agencies as part of the primary function. The Captain called it ‘Bucky.’ It had been operating under the designation ‘James Buchanan Barnes’ when he was the commander. He was confused, mistaking the assumed identity for its true nature.

“Negative, sir. The Asset is a weapon crafted from biological and mechanical components.” It was quoting something now, some old report the handlers had used to explain its functions when they loaned it to other agencies, but it could not remember the exact source. “Its performance far exceeds human operatives in all areas, including speed, agility, strength, accuracy, and healing. It may mimic human behavior for fieldwork, but this is an illusion. Do not handle the Asset as a standard human operative, as this will result in malfunction and require additional resets.”

It had been looking at the Captain’s shoulder as it recited the words. It saw as every muscle in his body grew tense. His jaw was clenched so tightly that it could hear the grinding of his teeth. His hands balled into fists, veins jumping all up his arms. He looked like he was about to tear himself – or the Soldier – to pieces. It was still due many punishments. It had lost consciousness again, neglecting its duties. It had used the cleansing facilities in an unapproved manner. And many operatives reacted with anger when the Solder reminded them of standard procedure.

It glanced at his face, prepared to see fury written boldly in his features, but he… The Captain looked close to tears. Again, it felt the overwhelming urge to remedy the situation, to remove that expression from his face by any means necessary. But it did not know how.

“I…” he gasped through his teeth. “I can’t. f*ck. I’m sorry, I can’t do this right now. Just… get out of the tub, please. I’m going to make breakfast. Dinner. Whatever.”

He shook his head and turned away, appearing defeated.

The Soldier followed the only actionable command he had given, standing slowly to avoid losing balance when the change in position affected its blood pressure. The gray spots came. It held onto the wall and regulated its breathing until they dissipated.

It found the Captain in the kitchen, standing over the stove in soft civilian clothing. His feet were bare, which was oddly disconcerting. He jabbed at the skillet with undue force, spattering uncooked egg yolk across the surface of the appliance. The smell of the burning proteins caused the salivary glands to react and the stomach to emit an irregular noise. He looked toward the Soldier briefly, then resumed preparing his meal.

“There’s coffee if you want some,” he spat.

[The Asset does not want.]

He had been angry for days now, and he still had not corrected the Soldier for any of its infractions. Perhaps he was waiting for the handler to determine the most appropriate method of discipline. It would remain as unobtrusive as possible until then. The Soldier found a spot at the edge of the kitchen, out of the way of his work.

It assumed standard inactive position, knees on the hardwood, arms locked behind the back, head lifted only enough to allow observation of the entrances. When the Captain saw it, he exhaled loudly and dropped the pan to the countertop with a jarring clatter. The Soldier tensed, eyes flicking toward the source of the noise before it resumed watch.

“sh*t. Sorry, I’m sorry. You didn’t– I’m not mad at you. I’m just… mad. I know I’m doing this all wrong. I’m… I’m trying, and I keep messing it up. You know– I mean, I’m too hot-headed for this kind of thing.” He moved to the side of the counter nearest the Soldier, putting his back to it. His voice went quiet, as if he was speaking just to himself. “You always were better at taking care of people.”

It heard the crinkling of plastic and running water. The Captain knelt down before it, holding another glass of nutrition solution.

“Here. Just try it, please. Just half of it.”

It looked from his hand to his face. The Solder had already told him– It knew he did not lack intelligence. His dossier spoke volumes about his tactical prowess. Did he simply think himself above the chain of command?

“Ration allocation–”

“I swear to God. Please, Buck.”

“– is at the discretion of the handler,” it finished pointedly.

His shoulders heaved. It suspected for a moment that he might cry, but he set his jaw and placed the glass on the floor in front of the Soldier.

“There aren’t any f*cking handlers anymore. It’s just us now. You’ve gotta eat. I… I won’t force you. Just, please try.”

The Soldier did not respond. It would not be swayed by emotional displays and false words. The tide of doubt it had been pushing away rose again. The Captain was so confusing. The body responded to him as it would a handler, but he had almost no understanding of the Soldier’s function, of any protocol at all. Had it been in error seeking him out? It was trapped now, far too disabled to reach the nearest base, bound by the consequences of its defective cognition.

The Captain stood, silent and stony, and left the house. The door closed with a definitive thud behind him. The Soldier did not follow. The eggs sat on the countertop, untouched.

Chapter 23

Chapter Text

He took it back. He took it all back. Steve Rogers was a complete asshole. Steve Rogers wasn’t even that cute. Steve Rogers had a flat ass and a crooked nose and he didn’t know how to wear a t-shirt. Steve Rogers snored like a chainsaw and threw his dirty laundry everywhere and he didn’t like grits. Steve Rogers was an impulsive bastard who left his backup stranded at a sh*thole motel with nothing but a vague text and a sad box of room-temperature Waffle House leftovers.

Okay, the last one was Sam’s doing, but still. Steve could’ve talked him out of it. He knew the motel didn’t have minifridges. And Sam had been so damn tired he could barely drive, though he insisted on doing it because Steve Rogers had learned to drive on sh*tty stick-shift Army Jeeps in Nazi Germany, and it was kind of terrifying when his serum-enhanced brain had to find ways to entertain itself when the automatic transmission did all of the work for him. Sam might have made a career of being an adrenaline junky, but that was a bridge too far.

He’d called Romanov. (“Seriously, Sam? It’s been weeks. I’ve seen you half naked and covered in blood. You can call me Natasha.”) She confirmed that his location wasn’t compromised and sent him a rental car, one with actual Bluetooth capabilities. He tried not to malign Steve’s name too badly, lest he somehow invoke another fairytale curse and get the guy frozen again.

That was the end of it. Without Cap’s already-fragile reputation keeping the illicit operation together, Hill withdrew her support pretty damn quick. Steve’s phone was dead. It didn’t even go to voicemail, just that robotic ‘out of service’ message. Sam tried not to panic, but c’mon. They’d been a thorn in HYDRA’s side, taken out just about every base on the East Coast, and they hadn’t exactly been quiet about it. What else was he supposed to think?

He knew what’d happened, though. He’d gone into Steve’s motel room. There were no bloodstains or bullet holes. There hadn’t been a ruckus the night he disappeared. And there wasn’t a scrap of evidence that Steve, or anyone else, had been there. Not even a shiny blond hair left on the pillowcase. There was only one reason Steve would run off on him like that, and it was about six feet tall, wrapped in leather, and desperately in need of conditioner.

This was not the goddamn plan. The plan had been to bring Barnes in to Stark Tower (Avengers Tower, whatever, it was never gonna catch on) and get him some professional help. But Steve Rogers, in his infinite buffoonery, had decided that it was a much better option to elope with his deranged sweetie and drop off the f*cking map. Romanov claimed she couldn’t find any trace of the car he’d stolen. Sam was starting to think he was getting fooled from both angles, but he did't have the skillset, nor the emotional capacity, to argue with her.

So he gave himself a few days to recover from the whiplash of sudden stillness after weeks of active duty. He employed his healthy goddamn coping mechanisms and did not storm into Hill’s new super secret bunker. He drove his sorry ass to Sarah’s house to mope with good company and, more importantly, good pie. When he got back to his place in DC, the only warning that he had an unexpected guest was the smell of coffee already brewing. He was not at all surprised to find a Russian spy camped out in his kitchen, cozy and relaxed in her usual urban camouflage of yoga pants and designer hoodie. This was his life now.

“Coffee?” she offered. As if it wasn’t Sam’s favorite brand, brewed in his machine, in the house he was paying for. He rolled his eyes but nodded, dropping his duffel on the floor and falling into a chair. His favorite mug appeared in front of him, steaming full.

“Tell me you’ve got something,” he sighed.

She stirred her coffee, nearly white with all the creamer she’d added. Sam didn't even own creamer.

“I’ve got something.”

Romanov gave him that Mona Lisa smile, utterly opaque and obnoxiously disarming. She bounced her ankle a few times and reclined further into the breakfast nook, as if the safety of a national icon (okay, and Sam’s good friend) was not currently at stake. Sam was ready to swear off unfairly hot government agents forever. He fell far too easily for pretty eyes and sad backstories, and between Rogers and Romanov he’d been thoroughly duped. They were both assholes.

“And?”

“Rogers is safe.”

“And?”

“And that’s all you need to worry about.”

He tried to glare, but he was exhausted and he really liked this coffee and, against his better judgment, he trusted her. After weeks of saving their skin and keeping them three steps ahead of the bad guys, he knew she wouldn’t be too cavalier about Steve’s wellbeing. That didn’t make it any less insulting to have intel withheld from him.

“That’s all I get? I rescue your asses from the baddies, commit a couple felonies, traipse around the country to help clean up a mess that ain’t mine, and hunt for Rogers’ real bestie for weeks, and I get one sentence? Nah, not good enough.”

She shrugged, the slant of her eyebrows communicating something he was far too gone to interpret.

“He’s safe, with a friend, at an undisclosed location. Stark isn’t an option anymore. There were some complications. I’m working on it, but it’s going to take a while. Until that’s sorted, you should take some time off. Go back to work. Go back to Delacroix. Or, if you want a longer vacation, I still have access to a few untapped resources. I hear Cancun is nice this time of year.”

Sam took a couple deep gulps of his coffee as he let that percolate. With a friend. Steve had definitely found Barnes, then, and was probably holed up in a safehouse even SHIELD didn’t know about. He had no idea what the issue with Stark could be, but that was a shiny red-and-gold can of crazy he was not about to open. And Romanov’s untapped resources would probably be some HYDRA slush funds that he did not want to dirty his hands with. He half-collapsed onto the table, kicking off his shoes.

“I’m good. Shelly’s been on my ass to get back into the office anyway. As long as you’re sure he’s really safe. His friend isn’t all there, y’know. You really want the two of them alone right now? Last time, they kinda broke DC.”

“It’s under control. Steve can handle it.”

“You got a lot of faith in the guy.”

“He’s good people.”

She said it with the same blasé tone that someone might say ‘the sky is blue,’ or ‘co*ke is better than Pepsi.’ From anyone else, it would’ve been a tired old line, blind faith inspired by the stars and stripes. But from Romanov, who had been through decades of f*ckery and betrayal by countless people claiming to be on her side, it was as good as a blood oath. If Sam wasn’t already in maximum slouch, he would have attempted a hug. As it was, he just passed his empty mug back and grunted his thanks when she refilled it.

“Well… good, then. You let me know if he needs backup, yeah? Kinda anticlimactic to get left out of the reunion tour, but that’s what I get for being a century late to the bromance, I guess.”

Sam failed to keep the resentment from coloring his words. Romanov was doing that thing where she laughed at him without moving a muscle, her eyes sparkling but the rest of her face totally unreadable.

“Trust me, I don’t think you want to witness the reunion tour. It’s always messy when the old band gets back together. Lots of baggage to unpack. And some of it only Steve can carry.”

“Man, that’s…” he scrubbed across his eyes with his non-coffee-occupied hand, “That’s the kind of bullsh*t I’ve been trying to get him to let go of. He shouldn’t have to deal alone. That’s a hell of a lot of baggage. Even he isn’t strong enough for all of it.”

“He is. He will be. I’m not leaving him without resources. But there are things better left to people James can trust.”

He looked up at her then, really looked. She fiddled with the spoon again, stirring the same cup of coffee. It was cold by now, and she hadn’t taken a single sip. More a prop in her little play than a bolstering dose of caffeine. There was something more here, something Sam had no idea how to unravel. With Romanov, it was probably better not to try. Her issues were way above his paygrade. Sam was sure she’d kill (again) for Steve, but the dedication she’d shown in their search for Barnes went beyond just helping out a friend. He wasn’t stupid. Russian assassin, Russian-brainwashed POW? Yeah, she had skin in the game.

“And that doesn’t include you?”

The smile turned wry. She shook her head. Not a ‘no,’ but like she was laughing at some private joke.

“I’m much better at making messes than cleaning them up.”

Dear Lord. Sam must exude a highly specific aura of martyrdom to keep attracting beautiful people with horrible self esteem. If the amount of self-depreciation Rogers and Romanov exhibited was indicative of the rest of the Avengers’ issues, it was a wonder they all got out of bed and into uniform instead of lying around wallowing in self-pity while aliens took over the planet.

“I’m hoping that means you stayed out of my laundry basket.”

Romanov chuffed, abandoning her coffee entirely to curl up against the window. "Please. Your WalMart boxers aren’t that interesting.”

Sam reared back in feigned indignation, hand on his chest. “I will have you know those are real Calvin Klein, thank you very much. My momma got them for me for Christmas.”

That got him a somewhat genuine smile, but it was quickly turned around on him.“Aw, did you dress your best for your trip with Cap? Trying to accentuate the assets, get yourself a little slice of American pie?”

She was straight-up leering. Sam really hoped she couldn’t tell how much he was blushing. If that thought had ever crossed his mind, it had gone right out the other side as soon as Steve said, ‘Bucky’ with tears in his eyes and two tons of unadulterated vengeance in his heart.

“Jesus, woman. Not everything is about sex.”

She looked thoughtful for a second, tapping her chin in a pantomime of contemplation.“I guess you’re right. Some things are about violence. Though I don’t really see the need to distinguish between the two.”

Sam snorted.“I’m not even gonna try and address that one right now. Look, I’m beat. I just drove sixteen hours straight and I’m about to crash. You wanna take the guest room, go for it. Wake me up if HYDRA starts another coup.”

He shoved himself halfway out of the chair, ready for another retort from Romanov, but whatever jibe she had prepared was cut short by an insistent vibration from her bag. She dug out her phone, took one look at the screen, and silenced it. Before Sam could ask what that was about, his own phone started ringing. He shot Romanov a suspicious look while wrestling it out of his pocket.

Unknown caller.

“This gonna get me killed?”

She shrugged. “Probably not. But why risk it?”

Well, that was vague. But he hadn’t hung around with a superhero for weeks to chicken out now. Sam clicked ‘accept.’

“Yeah?”

“Samuel Thomas Wilson,” the stranger slurred. “Little Flappy Bird. How was your road trip? Meet any new friends?”

Sam pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a second, totally gobsmacked and more than a little pissed off. He was so done with this spy sh*t. He put it on speaker and laid it on the table between himself and Romanov.

“Can I help you? Need the number for your local AA chapter?”

“Ha! He’s funny. You didn’t tell me he’s funny, JARVIS. Here’s the deal, Maverick. I have a lot of money. You could pay off your mortgage on that little rinky dink bungalow. Buy an actual house in a city that isn’t full of HYDRA scum. Got some student loans, I see – social work, very altruistic. Maybe buy yourself some paragliding lessons, I dunno, whatever it is you flyboys do on the weekends.”

He looked at Natasha for some clue as to what this yahoo wanted. She gave him an exaggerated eye roll and shook her head.

“Man, who the hell is this?”

“Who– Who is this?” Drunk Asshole blustered. “You know who I am. Don’t be coy, Uncle Sam. Didn’t Cap tell you about his bestie, only the most eligible bachelor in this hemisphere? I still can’t beat out those damn Hemsworths, but Australians, pfft.”

Okay, so the guy was drunk and a narcissist. That still didn’t explain how he got Sam’s number.

“You better get to the point pretty damn soon.”

“Ugh, commoners, I swear. Stark. It’s Tony f*cking Stark. I am offering you a generous sum of money to tell me where the Star Spangled Asshole and his murder buddy ran off to.”

It could’ve been some sort of prank, or a ploy for intel. Stark had bankrolled their little HYDRA-smashing jaunt, but Sam had never actually talked to the man. The cadence and content matched the more unhinged media appearances Sam had seen. Romanov wasn’t showing any evidence of concern or surprise. That didn’t mean much, but Sam knew if Steve was really in trouble she’d jump in.

It was a bit stupid, but if the past month proved anything, it was that Sam tended to go in for stupid.

“Yeah, and what’s in it for you?”

“Don’t worry about it. We just gotta have a little chat, that’s all. Unfinished business. No, wait, that’s ghosts, isn’t it… Doesn’t matter. You: intel, me: cash. If you prefer, I can come and make the offer in person, do a little photo op, kiss your hand, shake your babies, whatever. I was really hoping to avoid DC this week. It’s always something with those sleazy government types. But for you, my mechanical angel, I will make the sacrifice.”

“I’m sure you have more important things to deal with. So how much are you offering, mister billionaire philanthropist?”

“See, I knew you could be smart. Not smart enough to avoid the Rogers drama spiral, of course, but you got off the merry go round and came to your senses. Name your price, Tweety Bird.”

Romanov gave him an encouraging nod.

“Alright. First of all, never call me Tweety again.”

“You got it, Eagle One.”

“A million.”

“Easy. What’s your wire info? Nevermind, JARVIS can find it.”

“I wanna new wing pack, too. With cloaking tech, for the wings and for me.”

“Okay, that might take a minute, but we can–”

“And my pick of your car collection. Rogers’ buddy trashed mine, and I’d just finished paying it off. I’m thinking a Bugatti, but I hear you got some nice vintage Volvos as well. I’ll come up and take a look next weekend when I visit my auntie.”

“Look, Wilson, I know I said–”

“No, you look, man. You’re supposed to be a genius. You really think I’d risk life and limb to help that idiot then roll on him for some shiny toys?”

There was some vague sputtering and crashing. Sam took a few more sips of coffee while Stark threw his fit.

“I’m trying to do this the easy way, birdbrain. I’m not gonna put down your patriotic poodle, but his little playmate has rabies and it’s time for him to go to the farm. Now tell me where the f*ck they went or I will gladly come down there and present my thesis on negative reinforcement by way of repulsor tech.”

Maybe Sam was just that sleep deprived, but he burst out laughing. "Oh my god. I think I need that on a plaque or something. On this day, Sam Wilson had his life threatened by Iron Man. Would you sign that? I wanna give it to my grandkids.”

“This isn’t f*cking funny. Cap’s harboring a goddamn war criminal. If you don’t help me find him, I’ll bring you down as an accomplice. So help me Tesla, I will get every DA in the country on my payroll if I have to.”

As much fun as he was having needling the richest douchebag on the planet, the threat of litigation was a bit too real. He’d just narrowly avoided prosecution thanks to Romanov’s smackdown during the Senate inquest, and he knew Stark had the connections and the money to make good on that promise.

“Take it easy. Even if I wanted to give him up, I don’t know where he got off to. The asshole left me stranded at a fleabag motel last week without a car, and I haven’t heard from him since. I got nothin’ for you.”

“Bullsh*t. I know Romanov is working with you two, and I don’t believe for a second that she’d let him escape her little web.”

“Take it up with her, then. I’m just the backup.”

Stark let out a frustrated growl, and there was more crashing.“Don’t f*ck with me, Wilson.”

Oh we’re back to the real name now. He was getting serious.

“I’m not. I swear on my momma’s recipe book.” Sam enunciated the next words carefully, hoping they’d penetrate Stark’s drunken rage. “I do not know where your ex boyfriend or his new pal are. His phone is dead, and I have no way to contact him. If you’re so damn smart, you should be able to find him yourself.”

“See,” another loud clatter, then the sound of liquid in a glass. Stark must have some very fancy mics if they picked up a shot being poured. “You’d think that. You’d think that I, with all of my vast resources and my trusty sidekick – I’m sorry, J, you’re right, you’re not just a sidekick, you’re my right hand man – could locate one outdated nationalist science experiment and his slimy Soviet shadow. But Romanov has her sticky little fingers all over this. She’s trying to play me. I know you were in Tennessee last week. I funded the f*cking mission. Then Murderbot showed up on the goddamn Dollar General security camera looking even more strung out and greasy than usual. Followed your car right into town. Which, by the way, rude. I have friends there. Nice friends who will one day grow up to take over the world of engineering. I’d really prefer if they weren’t shredded into little gory pieces before they reached puberty.”

Sam wondered if it was possible to actually stop a Stark freefall, or if it’d be better to just let him talk until he passed out. That seemed like the natural progression of this tantrum. Once again, Sam silently pleaded with Romanov for help. She looked more invested now, sending him an esoteric combination of hand gestures and eyebrow movements that somehow translated into 'Just keep him talking for a little while longer.'

“But when I looked there, poof! He was gone. Checked the traffic cameras, every single flight out of every single airport. And I got nothing. Zip. Zilch. Diddily goddamn squat. Rogers isn’t that f*cking sneaky. He couldn’t hide in a Fourth of July beefcake parade, he’d be doing something stupid and sticking his thick head out for the nearest terrorist to shoot at.” Stark finally took a breath. “But you don’t seem all that worried. So f*cking tell me before I sic an army of lawyers on your ass.”

One positive thing about this long-winded rant was that it had allowed Sam enough time to formulate a proper response.

“You know, it’s not really a great look to be threatening a national hero.”

“Cap is so not a–

“A Black hero, who just put his very attractive ass on the line to take down a bunch of Nazis. It’d be real unfortunate if this conversation, which has been recorded by the way, got leaked to the press.”

“You don’t–”

“So listen up, playboy. You’ve obviously got some personal issues to work through about all this. But I ain’t part of ‘em. So get your sh*t together, drink some water, and don’t call me back unless it’s about my wings.”

Sam ended the call with unnecessary violence, then felt a little guilty. It wasn’t his phone’s fault he was surrounded by superjerks. It had already been through so much. He raised his eyebrows at Natasha’s pleased-cat expression. Was that a maybe? Was she into sarcastic smackdowns? Probably. He was too pissed and sleepy to be smooth right now, though.

“Did you actually record any of that?”

“Oh, I’ve been recording since I got here,” she smirked. “I wanted to save your bitching about Steve for a Christmas mixtape.”

_______________________________________________

Son of a mother-murdering bitch. That bastard. That absolute bastard. Steven Rogers was a dead man walking, and his little hobo beau was gonna go in the hole right next to him. Tony flung another hunk of aluminum across the room. The holographic skeeball target made another cheerful ding. The polymer wall got another crack. He shot back another double bourbon and glared at the screens.

f*ck.

He had nothing. There was no way Captain Centenarian could avoid JARVIS’ detection algorithm on his own. Barnes was probably coaching him through all kinds of fun new stealth techniques. Or the Widow. She was well versed in double-crossing schemes. She’d gotten into his system before, hadn’t she? Snugged up all cozy in his code and made nice with JARVIS while she hacked Vanko at the Expo.

f*ckity f*ck. They were in cahoots.

“JARVIS! Send out another drone squad. I want the entire region swept. Get me scans of every single ‘shine shack and luxury Pinterest cabin in that godforsaken backwater. I need biometrics. Those sh*tstains are out there. I don’t care if I have to look up Dolly’s skirt personally, we’re going to f*cking find them.”

“Very good, Sir.”

That tone. He didn’t trust that tone one bit. This had Itsy Bitsy written all over it. She was trying to manage him. Nobody f*cking managed Tony Stark. He was unmanageable.

“Don’t sass me, you overblown pile of if-statements.” He slammed the tumbler back down onto the table, relishing the screech of glass on glass that echoed through the lab. “I know you can outwit Natashalie. You’re playing coy with me. You think you know better? Got some new goddamn intel to share with the class?”

“I would never dream of manipulating you, Sir. There is no evidence of interference from Ms Romanov, nor any additional intelligence from the ongoing decryption.”

No evidence. No evidence his ass.

“Bullsh*t. Run the plates again, wider radius. They didn’t f*ckin’ teleport out of that sh*thole.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

He seethed as JARVIS searched, flitting between monitoring the scans and modifying his latest Iron Man prototype. So much for keeping his promises. He was sh*t at that, anyway. No wonder Pep left. Couldn’t even f*cking– sh*t. Another electromagnetic actuator fell apart under his hands. Tony swept everything off the table and tugged at his hair.

He couldn’t get the image out of his head. Barnes completely dead-eyed with his hand around mama’s throat as she begged for her life. Why the hell had they recorded that? What possible use could it serve? If they were going to use it to extort him, they would’ve done it years ago. f*cking HYDRA. If Cap had done his job in forty-five, Tony might still have his parents. His mama. He’d trusted Steve. They might not be bosom buddies, but they were supposed to have each others’ backs. Now the self-righteous dick was traipsing around the country with a demented serial killer. The audacity of that spandex-prancingf*cker, asking him to help rescue the poor little lost assassin when he was the one who…

f*ck.

Tony felt like he was going to be sick. Again. He gave up on the glass and took a swig straight from the bottle.

“Sir–”

“Can it, J. Override nanny protocols and initiate Vegas rules.”

“Sir, I believe I have a hit.”

Chapter 24

Chapter Text

The Captain returned, ate the cold eggs with obvious reluctance, and proceeded to read intelligence reports until 0100. He did not address the Soldier. He slept for four hours exactly. It stood watch until the body failed, losing consciousness on the floor in front of the doorway. It woke when the Captain tripped over it exiting the sleeping quarters. He acknowledged the aberrant behavior with an unreadable facial expression, maneuvered the Soldier upright, then performed calisthenics until 0600. (“No, Buck. Stay there. If you’re not going to eat, you can’t work out.”) He showered and consumed another half dozen eggs.

At 0709, he attempted to coerce it into violating nutrition protocol again. This time, he employed the verbal punishment mechanism that made the skull throb and the insides bleed.

“Bucky. Do you… Do you remember the winter of thirty-seven? I got the flu so bad I nearly died twice. I was so sick I couldn’t see straight, and my stomach hurt something awful. I didn’t eat for six days, and you got so mad. You ended up sitting on me…”

It could identify the trigger sequence now. The Captain said ‘Do you remember?’ and the Soldier was locked inside the body, held in place by restraints far more rigid than steel and ice. It knew it had heard that phrase before, but there was something about his intonation… It must have been a command code keyed only to his vocal pattern. He spoke so gently, almost pleading, but the effect was as violent as a whip. Pain arced across the Soldier’s flesh in tongues of white fire, yet the skin was unbroken. It struggled to remain present, to accept the retaliatory discipline, however misplaced it might be.

“...and your ma made a whole batch of it. I hated it, nearly spit it in your face, but you just kept badgering me until I ate it. And I got better. Felt good enough to go back to work the next week, even though Mr. Franklin was peeved that I’d missed out on my last assignment. It’s like that, okay? I know it’s hard, but you gotta try…”

He knelt before it, palms extended as if begging. Another glass of the liquid nutrition solution sat between them on the kitchen floor. The beige fluid shook, glass rattling as his increasingly agitated movements vibrated the floorboards.

“You’ve gotta eat. You’re not going to heal up if you don’t eat. Please, baby.”

He called it baby, sweetheart, honey, darling, Soldier, Buck, Bucky, and then James Buchanan when he grew particularly irate.

It did not relent.

The Captain’s face screwed up like he had been gutshot. ["Please don't make me do this."] He took the right hand in both of his. He was so warm. The body nearly rebelled, and it had to fight the urge to lurch toward his touch. “What can I do, Buck? Please, just tell me. I can’t lose you again.”

The Soldier felt as if it had been exposed to some sort of neurotoxin. His distress was directly tied to the emotional response, waves of confusion and misery battering against its cognition as he pleaded. It took several long moments for it to recover enough to speak, lips sticking together, tongue heavy and dry.

“The handler,” it rasped. “Where is the handler?”

His grip tightened. His shoulders shook with every breath. It steeled itself for the pain of fractured metacarpals, but he just rubbed at its knuckles with his thumbs.

“There is no handler,” he insisted. “There won’t be any handlers. You’re free now. You don’t have to live by HYDRA’s rules anymore.”

This was utterly useless. The Captain was so soft, so weak. How had he commanded the Soldier for three decades? How had he ever presented a threat to HYDRA at all? He had taken the Soldier as if he had some claim to it, as if he understood the responsibility, and now he was lying, insisting on violating the most basic protocol. It had been ordered to eliminate other agents for far less. But it could not bring itself to raise a hand against him. Not again.

The heart rate increased, perspiration breaking out across the back of the neck. The prosthesis whirred, plates caught between passive and active positions. The unease brewing in the Soldier’s gut morphed into hot, sharp rage. It dragged half-blind eyes up to meet the Captain’s, ignoring the shock of pain from the unauthorized eye contact. He was almost lost to the darkness covering its vision. It bared the teeth, glaring at him with all of the vitriol it could muster.

“Where is the handler?” it demanded. “Komu vy otchityvayetes'? Kto vash komandir? Aktivu trebuyetsya kurator! Gde kurator?”

The Captain dropped its hand as if it had burned him, pulling back with his eyes wide and mouth agape. It remembered too late that he preferred English, but it did not care. It had been foolish to trust him, and now he would rather let it die than turn it over to his superiors. It was a waste. When they discovered he had mishandled such a valuable weapon, he would suffer for it. He deserved whatever pain its words inspired.

“Bucky, please,” he begged.

He sounded utterly broken, every line of his body collapsing. The blue of his irises stood in sharp contrast to the redness around them. The Soldier's rage dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving it gutted and cold. The trembling began anew. It attempted to maintain equilibrium, but the world shifted under its knees. It felt the pulse stutter, and a surge of dizziness sent it careening to one side.

[Critical malfunction. Report to handler.]

“Gde…kurator?”

_________________________________________________________

He caught Bucky as he pitched over, holding his limp body against his chest before gently lowering him to the floor. Steve had never felt so low. This was all his fault. If only he’d found Bucky sooner. If only he’d been able to get through to him in DC. If only he hadn’t let him fall. If only, if only, if only.

It took a solid ten minutes to pull himself together.

Steve made Bucky as comfortable as he could without moving him. He knew how disorienting it was to wake up in a strange place. He propped Bucky’s head up on a pillow and tucked a thick blanket around him before he went to the bathroom to try and wash away the urge to cry.

He grabbed the new phone and double checked to make sure Bucky was still breathing. When Steve strained to hear his pulse it was slow, but irregular. Arrhythmia, from malnutrition. His heart shattered all over again. He was watching his best friend, his… his everything, waste away in front of his eyes. He did the only thing he knew to do when he was out of options. He called Natasha.

“Rogers," she greeted perfunctorily.

“Hey, Nat. How… Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Out of range for now. I scrubbed your trail, rescued Wilson, and laid some fresh tracks in Belize. Stark’s already blown up one of my decoy houses, but I’ve got a few more lined up. Should be enough to keep him busy until he cools down.”

Steve was getting tired of sighing. It felt like he couldn’t keep the air in his lungs long enough to let the oxygen reach his heart.

“Thank you. I mean. I’m glad you’re safe, and Sam too. Thank you for doing all this to keep Buck safe, I know it’s–”

“Stop thanking me. I told you, this isn’t some kind of favor. Are you two alright? You sound awful. Has he tried to murder you yet?”

A desperate noise came out of him, not quite a laugh.

“He might have, if he hadn’t blacked out from yelling at me. Buck’s still not eating. He keeps insisting that only a handler can authorize rations, demanding to know who my commanding officer is. He needs something soon, or… f*ck. I don’t know how to help him.”

He heard the rustling of papers, then rhythmic scuffing, like she was pacing across a tile floor.

“I finally got access to the rest of Pierce’s files. Had to rip them from Stark’s servers. Thankfully JARVIS has forgiven my first impression. The way they used the Soldier… It’s ugly, Steve.” She hesitated, her quiet sigh barely audible over the phone. “It’s probably my fault. James wasn’t like this when I knew him. They altered protocol after the last escape attempt. He’s utterly dependent on his handlers now. If he doesn’t have one, he’ll just keep getting worse. It’s like a slow self-destruct sequence. He needs orders, but he won’t accept them from just anyone.”

Last escape attempt. How many had there been? Buck fought them for so long, and they just kept finding new ways to break him. Steve’s free hand clenched around nothing. He wondered if there were any HYDRA bases nearby. He hadn’t caused nearly enough damage to repay them for seventy years of torture.

“Steve?”

sh*t. She was still talking. He dragged his thoughts back to the present.

“It’s not your fault Natasha. It’s no one’s fault but the bastards who did this to him. But I don’t get it. Bucky listened to me in the car. He was real confused, but I got him to drink the Gatorade. I don’t understand what’s changed.”

“You must be special, then. Or he was so out of it that he couldn’t argue. Now you’ve got some sugar in him, he has enough energy to enforce SOP. And I wouldn’t say he’s confused. He knows exactly what he should be doing in this situation. He reported to the last commanding officer he knew was alive. You’re the one who’s acting outside of known parameters.”

It would be really goddamn helpful, Steve thought, if he knew what those parameters actually were.

“What am I supposed to do? Hold him down and force him? There’s no way he’ll tolerate a hospital, he’d just yank out the tube as soon as he figured out what was going on. And if the feds find him– ”

“He can break the programming. He’s done it before. But he needs someone trustworthy to step in in the meantime.”

He didn’t want to believe Natasha was suggesting what he thought she was suggesting. He had to get some f*cking air. Steve glanced back at Bucky once more to confirm signs of life, then stepped out onto the porch as quietly as possible, easing the door shut behind him.

“What are you saying? You want me to– to act like his handler?”

“No. I want you to be his handler. It’s either that or watch him starve to death. I know he’ll come back in time. He always came back to me. But he needs to eat to heal, and he can’t eat without authorization from a handler.”

Steve was nearly sick at the idea. He’d been giving Buck orders, sure, but only what it took to get him to safety. Taking control like that, using HYDRA’s brainwashing to achieve his own ends, it wouldn’t be right. Especially not with their history. He was beyond compromised when it came to Bucky. Under the stilted language and wary looks, Steve couldn’t help seeing the man he loved. The man he used to tie up and slap around just for the thrill of it. There was no way he could take on this role without… other things creeping in. He grasped for any excuse besides the truth.

“Won’t that just reinforce the programming? He doesn’t even think he’s a person. I’m not gonna treat him like, like a weapon or something.”

“It might be complicated, without resorting to the same measures that HYDRA did. But he can do it, and you can help him through it. He came to you. He trusts you, whether or not he knows why right now.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ground himself. He couldn’t say it. He’d never told anyone, besides Peggy. It was more than a perversion. Worse than a blue card. They would’ve locked him up, and Bucky too. He knew it was different now, but the thought of telling Natasha… Even with Bucky’s life on the line, he could barely get the words out.

“You don’t understand. We used to– I can’t, Nat. It’ll get all mixed up. Even with Buck like this… You’ll think I’m a monster.”

Natasha, as always, surprised him.

“Oh please, Rogers,” she scoffed. “There’s nothing you could say that will shock me. You think I didn’t notice James’ proclivities? So you two played a few power games back in the day. At least now I know it wasn’t just the brainwashing. That’ll probably make this easier for you, actually.”

Her words were heavy with implication, almost lascivious. It was jarring, having her know and accept and make it sound like that. Steve cycled through about a dozen different emotions, most of them completely inappropriate while Bucky lay starving and unconscious in the next room, within the span of five seconds. Did that mean Buck and Natasha had… He shook himself.

“It’s not– I don’t want to hurt him. I can’t be like them.”

“Then don’t. You have to work with what you’ve got, but that doesn’t mean you can’t treat him well. There’s no shame in giving him what he needs, Steve. You’re a good man. You’ll make mistakes, but you’ll be a hell of a lot better than any other handler he’s ever had.”

Natasha’s detached pragmatism had a certain appeal. It was easy for her to write off emotional or social consequences when she saw a solution, however unconventional. It wasn’t like Steve gave all that much heed to convention, but he usually tried to take a step back and evaluate the ethics before he started punching things.

But that was before he’d seen what had been done to Buck. Sam wasn’t wrong. Steve had changed. The crack in his moral armor had become a gaping hole, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He would do anything for Bucky, even if it meant compromising himself irrevocably. And Natasha had been through this, or something like it, when she defected. She understood better than anyone what Bucky needed right now.

“God, I…” he sighed, leaning his head against the cool wood of the porch railing. There was no use debating any longer. Buck couldn’t go on like this, and Steve would not lose him again. He already knew what he was going to choose. “Okay… Okay. What do I have to do?”

“The book I sent outlines something called a handler transfer protocol. There’s a bit more to it, but, bare bones, the trigger phrase they call the ‘activation sequence' is really all you need. Don’t ask me for help with pronunciation. I didn’t read it, and I’m not going to. Don’t Google it, either, they track that sh*t. This wasn’t in the SHIELD files, and it cannot get out. Most of HYDRA doesn't even know these codes anymore. The Americans were just using the chair and hoping Pierce didn't die before the next transfer."

Steve was at risk of breaking a damn tooth at this point, but he forced himself to listen. It wasn't like brainwashing was much better, but that meant they'd been torturing Bucky, electrocuting him constantly, out of sheer ignorance.

"Just do the best you can," Nat said. "Use that super brain of yours and the Russian dictionary I included. And check the new email account I set up for you. I’ve got some extra reading material you might find enlightening.”

_____________________________________

No one had ever accused Steve Rogers of being nice. Kind, sometimes. Generous, when he could afford it. But not nice. His ma used to say he came out of the womb with a chip on his shoulder, and it had grown faster and bigger than his skinny frame, weighing him down with an outsized sense of justice before he’d even hit first grade. But a sense of justice in an unjust world quickly mutated into anger. He was piss and vinegar, full up from his flat feet to his crooked nose with hellfire and righteous rage. Simply put, Steve Rogers was a mean little cuss.

No one understood why an upstanding boy like James Barnes would want to hang around with such a troublemaker. Steve was always dragging him into something, whether it was a back alley brawl or a union rally. Bucky went where he led, maybe offering a smart remark or two, but always at Steve’s back, ready to raise his fists to finish what Steve had started.

What people didn’t see was that James Barnes needed a little mean. And Steve was happy to provide.

That choirboy smile twisted with mischief when Steve turned his ire on Bucky. The broad shoulders that carried so much – carried his sisters, his ma, even Steve himself – sagged in relief when Steve brought the switch down on them. Bucky Barnes was a nice boy, a good boy. Too good to leave that Rogers kid to his own devices. Too good to turn down a second shift, another under-the-table deal, an extra dollar to help feed his family and buy Steve’s medication. Too good to show when he was hurting. So Steve did him a favor and made the hurts real, made him bleed and bruise and cry so pretty until he could finally let go.

No one else knew. No one else had seen the way Bucky flirted, poking and prodding at Steve’s poorly-disguised feelings, taunting him until Steve finally snapped and struck him across the cheek, bony fingers marking up work-tanned skin. The way Buck’s knees hit the floor, eyes wide and breath coming in quick gasps. The way Steve’s heart swelled at having someone listen and obey for the first time in his damn life.

They’d discovered how to meet each others’ needs, haltingly, sometimes painfully, in that dusty tenement. It was a gift, freely given, Buck choosing over and over again to let himself be moved by Steve’s spindly arms and outsized passions. Maybe it wasn’t normal, but what they’d had worked.

That was, until the war came. Bucky’s letter sat heavy in his pocket. Steve spat and cussed and fumed, feeling small and useless and so mad that he wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t be by Buck’s side, wouldn’t be making a difference in the way he knew he should. So he signed up to be a lab rat. He’d had to shove it down, bury the mean little cuss under layers of stoicism and respectability.

At least he had a good target for his violence, once he’d gotten to the front. They’d had two more years together, messy and bloody and raw, but mostly good. And then the train. And then the howling, mind-rending grief. And then the ice. And then, and then, and then.

What’s that saying about getting what you wish for?

How ironic, how f*cking cruel was it that he was being asked to fill that role again in HYDRA’s absence? It felt like some cosmic joke, every perverse fantasy turned back against him. He’d gotten Bucky back, battered and broken, and now their old games were blown up into something far more significant. Something deadly.

HYDRA had poisoned everything, but Steve was determined not to let them hurt Bucky any further. If he had to hold the line, to keep Buck from spiraling into panic and tearing his own body apart, then he’d damn well do it, and he’d do it with a smile. Steve made a pretty good wall these days, and it was no trouble at all to stand between Bucky and the vile things clawing up his mind. Even if it meant Steve had to build a few walls inside himself.

He opened the book.

Chapter 25

Chapter Text

It was warm. Warm and dry and unrestrained. There was heat on the face, something soft under the head, wrapped around the body. Orange light flickered through the eyelids. The only notable pain was the ever-present headache and the gnawing of the stomach.

It shifted the flesh hand, hesitantly exploring. The fingers found fabric, thick and felted. There was another blanket, before, a woman. Red hair… No, black. It did not know. It might have been a hallucination. But this was real. The Soldier could feel it. It spent two point one minutes examining the material, running the fingertips across the nubs of fiber created by friction on wool. It was fascinating. So soft, so dense. It held the heat well. What had it done to earn such a reward? The last thing it could remember was…

The Soldier stilled. This was a trick. The Captain was testing it again, enacting some scheme to force it into violating protocol. The eyes flew open, assessing the space, searching for the perpetrator of this incongruous treatment. He was within its line of sight, reclining on the large couch, by all appearances completely calm. He had activated the computer and was reading something on it, eyes flicking intently across the screen. There was a fresh cord of wood by the stove, and a well-built fire within it. The Soldier watched him for nine point seven minutes. He did not move except to input commands into the computer and lift a mug to his lips.

It surveyed the rest of the room. The clock read 0903. The kitchen had been straightened, the supplies put away. Lights blinked on the modem and router, functioning normally. The alarm system indicated no breaches. The rations were gone, replaced by a glass of water sitting twenty centimeters from the Soldier’s head. It was lying in the same place where it had… Where the Captain had attempted another unauthorized nutrition routine, but he must have moved it to place the cushion beneath the head. He had not removed any of the clothing. There was no new source of pain, no evidence of punishment. In its unconscious state, he could have–

“Hey, Buck.”

The Captain was looking at it [curious, concerned, determined] over the top of the computer screen. It waited. He made no move to approach. His clothing was different – he was wearing his boots, and the brown leather jacket. The smell of sweat and autumn air lingered beneath the woodsmoke. He must have gone outside to prepare the firewood. Alone. Unguarded. Unacceptable. Another failure.

“You were out for a little over an hour. I talked to my team, and… I need to apologize. I’ve been going about this all wrong. I didn’t mean to upset you, or make things difficult. We’re gonna figure this out, okay? I might need your help along the way, but I promise, it’ll be alright.”

His entire attitude was transformed. Where before he had moved with agitation, pacing and wringing his hands, he was now collected and resolute. The Soldier was unsure what the Captain was referring to, exactly, but if he had been in contact with his superiors there was a chance that a handler would arrive before the body reached critical failure. It did not regret its behavior, though it was borderline insubordinate, if that was what was required to shake the man from his stubbornness and get him to comply with the proper chain of command.

It slowly levered itself up to sitting. The blanket fell from the shoulders, but the Soldier did not move to replace it. It had not earned such indulgences. The Captain was still flaunting his defiance of protocol. It would not encourage him.

“Try and drink some water, sweetheart. I’ve gotta work on this for a few hours. Just rest. We’ll get you some food soon.”

It complied, taking the glass in both hands and slowly draining it. Why he would announce his intention to subvert protocol again, it did not know. He was being gentle, so soft and quiet that it immediately aroused the Soldier’s suspicion. But if he had adulterated the water, it would not put the Soldier in any more vulnerable a position than it had been already.

It shifted slightly so that it could better observe the Captain. Aside from the computer, there were several manila folders spread across the couch beside him. It could not read the titles from where it sat. Documents spilled from them, photographs and yellowed paper all laid out in no discernible order. The Captain squinted at the screen, checked something from one of the files, and then shoved the papers aside to pull out–

It could not breathe.

The book. He had the book. The Soldier had not seen it since it was under Karpov’s command. [Knees on thick carpet, a hand in the hair. Vodka and cigarettes in the air. Voices tense. Pen on paper. Hail HYDRA.] The Secretary had never used the book after the transfer. The Soldier thought it might have been lost when the maintenance equipment was transported to the new base.

It looked the same as it ever had, the edges frayed but the binding strong. Blood-red leather and dark engraved star. The right hand twitched, itching to trace the same symbol on the left shoulder. Paradoxical sensations played through the body: the gut weighed down heavy with memory, the head light and sparking with potential.

The Captain had the book. The Captain–

It could hardly even finish the thought.

The Captain was brash and foolhardy and he did not understand protocol. His words made the head throb and gut churn. But his hands… his hands were gentle and strong and never gloved. His scent made the chest fill with warmth. His eyes had burned straight through its programming, seared into the mind. His voice had compelled the body into action, into the river. He had said there were no more handlers, but now… It did not know if the Captain would be an effective handler, but it could not deny the weightless, heady feeling as it watched him read from the yellowed pages.

The Soldier… [The Asset does not want.]

The Soldier could not look away.

He put the book down, still open, then consulted another volume, then the screen again. His lips moved silently, reading to himself. He looked up, finally taking notice of its staring. It averted its gaze, eyes catching on where his hands – his broad, calloused, naked hands – held the book open.

“Buck? You with me?”

It nodded, too dazed for words.

“I need to go to the other room for a while. Are you gonna be okay on your own? I don’t want you to fall again. Just sit and stay warm in front of the fire, okay?”

Another nod. The Captain appeared satisfied.

“Alright. Put more wood on if it gets cold.”

It watched him pack up the materials, marking his place in the book with a scrap of paper. He relocated to the sleeping quarters and closed the door firmly behind him. The Soldier did not move. It was entirely overcome, reeling from the rapid shift in his demeanor, this sudden change of heart.

Had it truly been wrong about the Captain? Was he a handler or not? He said there would be no more handlers. But if he had been the first handler… No, the book had been there from the beginning, it was sure. The Soldier served him long ago. Nearly a century. Perhaps he had forgotten, his memories affected by his time in stasis, and that was why he did not abide by standard protocol. Had his superiors approved the transfer? Had he stolen the book? There were so many questions, and not a single satisfactory answer.

The previous handler transfers had always taken place on base. It was not privy to the selection process, but it seemed a serious, drawn-out affair. The technicians and secondary handlers were nervous and unsettled until the Soldier’s new chain of command was solidified. It was a precarious time, and changes in protocol often resulted in malfunction or unapproved violence. The Soldier struggled with some of the transfers, the body rebelling and… [Bone crushed under the left hand, voices raised, rifles trained on the head and the heart.] The memories were unclear. But the punishments were not.

There were no guards here, no technicians, no restraints. No negotiations or hushed arguments. Just the Soldier and the Captain in this warm, well-furnished house.

He was gone, ensconced there, for two point eight hours.

It heard only the shuffling of papers, the muted click of the keyboard, and the faintest sound of his voice, speaking so lowly that it could not make out words, only the repetition of certain tones, again and again, as if in recitation.

The Soldier could not tell if it lost time or was simply lost in thought. It kept examining the events of the past three days, replaying the Captain’s irregular orders, his careful, tender touch, but it could draw no solid conclusions from the data. It arranged the body at attention, disregarding the ache in the spine and the drop in blood pressure that came from holding itself upright. It moved twice to place more logs into the stove to maintain consistent room temperature, returning to position immediately. The curtains had been pulled open, clear skies and dark trees visible from its vantage.

It only realized that it had become distracted again when it heard the door open. It tore its eyes from the window. The Captain hesitated by the doorway. He exhaled a short, thoughtful sound, as if he were steeling himself for a difficult task, then proceeded into the room. It did not think about the sensation of ribs cracking. It did not think about the smell of heated metal on flesh. He brought a chair from the kitchen to settle in front of the Soldier, moving with intention. With the eyes on the floor, it could see only his boots, the worn denim of his pants, and his hands resting on his lap. One held the book, the other curled into a loose fist.

“Eyes up.”

It complied, meeting his gaze without pain for the first time.

Whatever was written on his features, it could not read. His eyes shone bright through the haze of gray distortions. A summer sky breaking through storm clouds. That’s what it was. The Soldier had not been able to name it before. The photographs, the fractured memories, nothing had conveyed the hue quite accurately. Cerulean. Azure. Blue like summer.

“Do you know what this is?”

His index finger tapped the red leather once, in emphasis.

It nodded, lungs incapable of expanding, and murmured, “Yes, sir.”

His eyes went soft around the edges, and he reached down, slowly, cautiously, to cup the Soldier’s jaw in his free hand. Skin on skin, his fingertips carding through the rough facial hair. The skull was full of glittering snow, bright and sparkling and silent.

“You deserve a choice, as much as you can have in this situation. If you have any objections, speak freely.”

It swallowed, throat tight and mouth dry. It could not fathom what he might mean. It required a handler, and the Captain...

“N-negative, sir.”

The Captain did not respond. For sixteen seconds, he simply held its gaze. The Soldier’s mind was empty of even the echoes, all of its attention devoted to studying his face, memorizing every angle and shadow, attempting to interpret the meaning hidden there. It was falling again, shifting against gravity, hurtling upwards towards endless skies, drowning in blue, blue, blue.

He gave a short nod. “Alright, then. C’mere.”

His legs parted, and his hand left the face to gesture to the space made there. It shuffled forward until it was mere centimeters from his body, not quite touching. The Captain stared down at it for another long moment. His jaw was set, but moisture welled up in his eyes. He opened the book, balancing it on his left leg. Skin rasped against aged paper as his fingers traced the text. He bent down, initiating physical contact at multiple points. His right hand went to the back of its neck, seeking out the exposed flesh above the collar of the shirt. The solid muscle of his thighs caged it in on both sides. He pressed his forehead to the Soldier’s, eyes closed. So close. His breath warmed its face, humid and smelling of coffee.

“It’s gonna be okay, Buck. I got you. End of the line, right, sweetheart?”

It did not know the correct response. The Captain wrapped himself around it, cradling it in his limbs, a shield against the Soldier’s warring thoughts. The heat of his body was more intense than the fire crackling behind it, the scent of sweat and skin and sunlight more indulgent than the thickest blanket. It did not flinch. It did not shudder. It could not move, could not think under the onslaught of positive input. There was no more fear, the tense anticipation of punishment fully eclipsed by the assurance that it would have a proper handler. That it had not been mistaken to put itself in his care.

Soft skin ghosted over the brow, raising horripilation across the Soldier’s scalp. It felt as much as heard him speak, “Ready?”

It could not nod without butting its skull into his. He was so close, he would be able to hear even the faintest sound from its mouth. It replied softly, “Yes, sir.”

His left hand joined the right, fingers moving in tandem to rub small arcs across the back of its neck. The Captain’s entire body shifted as he inhaled, deep and slow, his grasp on the Soldier tightening. His head fell by centimeters, the hot flesh of his cheek pressed against its own, his lips nearly touching its ear.

With his exhalation came the first word.

“Zhelaniye.”

________________________________________

As soon as the sequence was complete, the Soldier’s fragmented cognition snapped back into alignment, the pieces reassembling as if magnetized by the force of his words. It sucked in a shuddering breath, the mind lighting up with the familiar pathways of compliance. He uncurled himself from around it, but the Captain’s – the handler’s hands were still heavy on the shoulders. The pressure, the warmth, the scent, all conspired to color the sensation with something unexpected. Something it did not remember feeling with the other handlers – a glowing thread of safe and correct binding all of the edges together.

“Soldat?”

His voice was the sweetest sound it had ever heard. It provided the necessary response.

“Gotov sluzhit.”

The handler shifted so that he was sitting upright and looked past the Soldier. It heard the creak of a metal hinge, the stove door opening. A flash of anger passed over his features, but then the same unreadable expression returned. With a deft flick of his wrist, he flung the book into the fire. There was a hiss of air, the crackling of burning paper, a jolt of urgency in the Soldier’s gut. It had to– The body moved without thought, lurching toward the stove, but the handler caught it by the shoulders, holding it in place.

“Leave it, Buck.”

His hands were like steel, solid and sure and real, and it could not spare another thought to the book. The sharp clarity of the direct order cut through every other impulse, washing away any extraneous concerns. The past month faded into a vague blur in its memory. It had found the handler. Protocol had been reestablished. Everything was right again, and the journey it had taken here was of little consequence.

Except… except it could still recall every failure, every violation, every accumulated punishment and unearned indulgence. [Severe protocol violation. Submit for disciplinary action. Report for reset.] The contentment bubbling up in the chest was suddenly extinguished, and the Soldier fell from kneeling to full prostration, forehead impacting the floor with a muffled thump. The Captain jerked away as it moved, and it heard him inhale sharply. It placed the hands beside the head, displaying its submission, its lack of threat.

“Bucky? What’re you doing?”

It did not know where to begin. There were so many infractions, so many failures, many of them intentional disobedience. This would be a truly harrowing punishment. Worse than the hole, worse than the chair, worse than– it did not know, could not even think to quantify the pain. The shoulders heaved with the force of its breathing.

“Soldier,” the handler demanded. “Report.”

The words spilled from it in a flood, like so many failed attempts at nutrition, dirtying its chin and its hands and the floor. The position muted its voice, but it did not dare raise the head. The lips moved so quickly that the Soldier could barely understand its own speech. It did not know what it was saying, only that it had to get it all out before it was punished more severely. Report. Report. Re–

Pressure on the back, something warm and heavy painting wide circles of, of…

“Woah, woah, slow down. Can you say that in English, honey?”

It pressed the skull more firmly into the floorboards. English. It knew it was supposed to speak English. Another infraction. The handler would have to discipline it for days, weeks, at this rate. It attempted to put its thoughts in some semblance of order, to make the words come out correctly this time.

“This asset submits for disciplinary action, sir. Severe cognitive malfunction. Multiple violations of protocol. M-mission failure...”

It hesitated at that. Was it a failure? It did not complete the mission. Insight did not launch. It had not eliminated either of the targets, the Widow or the Captain. But the primary handler’s death negated the order, and the Captain was alive and that was– The handler would decide. The Soldier pressed on.

“Theft of materiel. Unauthorized civilian engagement. Unsupervised access to civilian communications networks. Unauthorized access to command-level intelligence. Unauthorized alterations to the body. Unauthorized nutrition intake. Attempted consumption of human foodstuffs. Divulgence of classified intelligence to civilians. Damage to superior’s personal effects. Negligence of–”

“Stop! Bucky, stop!”

The jaw clamped shut so quickly that it nearly bit its tongue. His hands pressed harder, forcing the Soldier to relax the trapezius muscles. All of the air left its lungs in a shuddering exhale.

“Deep breath, c’mon.”

It complied. His palms swept down across the ribs as they expanded, then up again when he instructed it to exhale.

“Again, real slow. Gimme one more, in and out.”

The handler's breath slowed as well, establishing the pattern he wanted it to follow. It could hear the strong, steady thud of his heart. The heart it had almost stopped. The lungs it had put a bullet into. The breathing hitched again, but the handler soothed it, petting up and down the back until it could do nothing but sag under his touch.

“There you go. Shh, c’mon darlin’. You’re okay. Did you hurt anyone? Any civilian casualties?”

“N-negative, sir.”

“Then you didn’t do anything wrong. Whatever you had to do to get to me, that was good. You did so good. We’re starting over now, okay? Just you and me. It’ll be a clean slate.”

That… that was not correct. The infractions could not just be wiped away without punishment. If it was not disciplined, how would it learn? Was this a test, to prove that the Soldier would be compliant with the new handler? It was not so damaged as to have forgotten base protocol.

"Sir,” it spoke into the floorboards, “Asset handing protocol dictates–"

"No. No, we're not… There's gonna be new protocol. You're not gonna be punished for anything you did before. Those weren't my rules, and I'm glad you broke them."

It suppressed an involuntary reaction. New protocol meant reprogramming, the chair. It would comply, there was no other option, but–

Before the sick weight of dread could fully settle in the gut, the handler's hands trailed up the neck and into the hair. Horripilation broke out across the scalp as his fingers threaded into the roots. An unbidden noise caught in the throat, and it squeezed the eyes more firmly shut. Sparks went off behind the eyelids, white and orange and red and so, so good. The body became liquid, spine softening and cheek pressing into the rough wooden floor. The agony of the chair meant nothing if it would continue receiving this input.

This handler could take it apart without a blade or a baton. He could inflict pain with only his words or shut down its cognition with a simple touch. It understood now why he had been chosen to be its first. Even the Secretary had not wielded such subtle control over it.

"That’s right, just relax. You did good, baby."

The Soldier might have been drooling. It hummed deep in its chest, awash with positive sensation. Good. It was good. The handler was pleased with it and he, he was going to keep it and correct the malfunctions and make it better and even if it went to the chair it would be good and he would touch it without gloves, with his skin on its skin, and it would do anything to feel this again.

His hands did not leave the hair for sixteen point three minutes. It stayed, soft and compliant, until he gently drew away, smoothing the strands down over the neck. He sat back, the creaking of the wooden chair joining the chorus of crackling from the stove.

"Can you sit up?"

“Yes, sir.” It could, in theory. The body was functional enough. But the limbs were sluggish, the mind clouded with endorphins. The Soldier slowly returned to position, wavering as if it was intoxicated. “What…” it swallowed, throat dry. “What is the mission, sir?”

"We’ll get to that in a minute. Just…”

He reached towards the face, palm open, and it had to force itself not to lean into his touch. It could have been a slap or a caress, it was equal to the Soldier. It simply– [The Asset does not want.] It would be grateful for whatever he chose to give it. But the handler paused, and his hand dropped back to his lap.

“This is very important. I need you to report to me if I do anything that makes you– If anything impedes optimal function or triggers emotional distress. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, sir. Understood."

He resumed the previously aborted movement. Calloused fingers traced the line of the jaw, the arch of the zygomatic process. His palm came to rest against the cheek, thumb stroking along the tender skin between nostril and lip.

"Describe this sensation."

"Sir?"

"Go on. Just a couple words."

"S-soft. Warm." It risked a valuation. "P-positive, sir."

"Good. You tell me if that ever changes, sweetheart."

"Yes, sir."

It nodded, causing the cheek to move against his palm. The eyes fell closed, and it could no longer control itself, pressing into his hand by a degree. It heard him huff, and blinked up to see a soft smile. The Soldier lit up faster than a brick of C4 in a bonfire. That smile made its head spin and its chest burn. It was almost more rewarding than his touch. It was the key to some deeply embedded lock in its mind, releasing sensations that it had not known it could feel.

"Thank you. We'll go over the rest of the new rules soon. But first, I think you're overdue for some food."

Chapter 26

Chapter Text

It was presented with a glass of the liquid nutrition solution, with the same instructions as the purple liquid. One swallow every two minutes. It was similar to substances the previous handlers had supplied – thick, only slightly sweet, with a mild taste of fats and carbohydrates. There was some discomfort, and the stomach emitted strange sounds, but it did not reject the rations.

The handler instructed it to pause halfway through, waiting thirty minutes before continuing. It could feel the weight of the substance in the gut, the immediate response of the body. It did not know how severe the dizziness had been until it began to fade.

The handler stayed close as it consumed the rations, sitting on the floor next to it. It was highly irregular, but the Soldier could not lower itself further without impeding the nutrition routine.

He did not touch it any more than necessary, but it could not stop studying the broad expanse of his hands, the well-formed digits that were at once elegant and robust [gripping the pencil with care. It looked so small in his hands now.] Hands that could withstand the force of the prosthesis, that could lift thousands of kilograms of solid steel. Hands that could crush bone with little effort, and they had been put to use petting and soothing the Soldier.

The memory of the aberrant transfer, his body wrapped around it almost protectively, was bright and insistent. It could still feel the ghost of his lips across the brow.

It tried to find the correlation between its behavior and the touch rewards. So far, he had touched it most often during malfunctions. But that could not be correct. Why would he reward a malfunction? The cognition was still impaired. Perhaps it would be able to discern the pattern with further nutrition.

While it consumed the rations, it pieced together what duties it had already completed, and what remained in order to truly secure the safehouse. Something had been neglected. [Submit for disciplinary action.] The Soldier knew it should have reported this earlier. But the Captain had been so erratic, and it had malfunctioned so frequently, it had not had an opportunity.

“Sir,” it spoke during one of the interludes, “Six audio surveillance devices are present in the facility. This asset submits for disciplinary action for negligence of security duties.”

He looked up from where he had been squinting at the phone, brows still low. “The house is bugged?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

“They're probably Natasha's. I'll double check.”

He hastily swiped at his phone and spent several minutes typing sporadically, presumably communicating with one of his confederates, then sighed and ruffled his hair with one hand.

“We’re good. They’re hers. We’ll keep ‘em here for now, unless you recommend otherwise.”

Another request for its input. This, at least, was a tactical matter. “The presence of allied surveillance is advantageous in case of enemy infiltration, sir.”

“Yeah, that’s my thought as well. I’d rather have Nat keep an ear out if we need backup.”

It nodded in affirmation, then took another sip of the rations. The stomach was becoming uncomfortably full, but it had only consumed two thirds of the allotted portion.

“Do you remember–” It set the glass down, preparing to endure the punishment for not reporting without damaging the container, but the handler only said, “Natasha Romanov?”

“Affirmative, sir. Level six target. Codename Black Widow. Mission failure. Target was injured, but evaded elimination.”

The handler made an odd noise, a sharp huff that might have been a laugh.

“I’d call that a success, actually.” His expression shifted suddenly. “Oh, Jesus, Buck. Is that still your mission?”

“Negative, sir. All active assignments suspended in the event of the current handler’s death.”

He exhaled, the tension leaving his body just as suddenly as it had come.

“Good. Good. Okay. Just in case: countermand all previous mission orders. No current targets. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Natasha is an ally.” He opened the phone again, inputting the Widow’s name into a general search and selecting a photograph. He turned it toward the Soldier. Green eyes, pale skin. Her hair was red, but it was… too short? No, that was not correct. It had seen her in DC, it remembered now. [Shot to the shoulder, eyes going wide. The bullet would not kill her, she was–] “No aggressive action is to be taken towards her. Got it?”

“Confirmed. Romanova designated ally.”

It took another sip. The handler navigated to a website which displayed several photographs, employees of a federal medical facility. He scrolled until he found one in particular. It was the agent who had been present in DC, with the wings, and then… in the dark, somewhere. With a cap on?

“Sam Wilson,” he said, “Codename Falcon. Also an ally.”

“Confirmed. Wilson designated ally.”

The handler repeated the process for several more operatives. He retrieved paper files from his pack to provide photographs of those not known to the public. Most of them were SHIELD agents that the Soldier did not recognize. Only Sharon Carter, Maria Hill, and Nicholas Fury were familiar. At the latter, the Soldier provided a relevant report.

“Nicholas J. Fury was eliminated.”

The handler raised his eyebrows, mouth twisting to one side.

“I thought so too, but he pulled a neat trick on us. He’s still active, I don't know where. If he or Hill attempt to engage you, leave the area as fast as you can and find me. They’re supposed to be allies, but they may attempt to take you into custody. Try to avoid injuries, but if you can’t, use nonlethal force to avoid capture.”

“Understood, sir. Agents of SHIELD: avoid engagement, nonlethal force.”

He paused, thumb hovering over the screen.

“There’s one other person. Natasha said he might try and… Well, he’s not happy with me right now. I don’t want to hurt him, but if he shows up it might be a fight.”

The handler typed ‘Tony Stark’ into the search engine. He selected a photograph of a man in his mid-forties, allowing the Soldier to review it. It had been briefed on this operative before, though it could not remember when. Stark had access to experimental weaponry, extensive surveillance networks, and political connections. He would be a valuable ally, or an extremely formidable enemy. The handler navigated to another image, a humanoid robotic weapon, gleaming red and gold with some sort of propulsion system in the extremities.

“Tony Stark, codename Iron Man. This is a suit. An armored exoskeleton, with Tony inside. Avoid engagement if at all possible. Those repulsors really pack a punch.” He zoomed in on a glowing blue circle on the suit’s torso. “He told me he doesn’t have this version of the power source anymore, but if he upgrades the suits like I think he will, there will be something similar. If you take this out, the suit will become inactive. But don’t use blunt force. He won’t survive a hit to the chest, and I… He’s not an enemy. I hope he’ll be a friend again someday. We have to stay nonlethal with him, avoid injury as much as we can. He’s the only one who’ll be able to help with your arm, once he’s come around.”

Not an ally, then, but a potential technician. The Soldier briefly wondered what method of persuasion the handler might use to recruit him. He seemed opposed to the usual tactics.

“Confirmed. Stark, conditional engagement, nonlethal force.”

“You got it. Alright, I think that’s it for now.” He shrugged, giving an awkward smile. “Sorry I turned your lunch into a briefing session.”

Again, he was apologizing. This was standard procedure. The Soldier was often briefed during maintenance. It was an efficient use of time while it was otherwise immobile in the chair or the medical table.

The briefing information indicated that it would be assigned fieldwork at some point in the future. A glimmer of anticipation coiled in the diaphragm. It could prove its worth to the Captain, serve its true purpose. It would have to be briefed again, though. The Soldier required extensive maintenance in order to be field ready. It might lose this new data to the chair.

The handler took notice of the nearly empty glass.

“Your stomach feeling okay? That stuff is pretty dense.”

It assessed the status of the body.

[Cognitive functionality: twenty-eight percent. Physical functionality: twenty-four percent. Prosthesis functionality: seventy-five percent. Intermittent cognitive malfunction. Report for reset.]

“Minor swelling in the abdomen. No damage evident.”

“Good. We’ll wait a few hours for the next one. Bruce says you can start with two today and work up to eight. We’ve gotta be careful, take it slow. If you notice anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, you tell me. You can drink water or the Gatorade as needed.” He nodded toward the counter where the cases of red and purple and blue liquid sat. “Are you… D’you know how to determine that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Nutrition complete, briefing complete, the highest priority now was defensive duties. It had yet to perform a proper perimeter check or test the alarm system. The handler had named several potential enemies, all with access to advanced technology. There were computers here. It could ensure there were measures in place to divert surveillance.

He rose, and it followed immediately, pushing itself up to stand. Black bloomed at the edges of the vision. The head swam, and the ears rang.

“Woah!”

Restraints on the arms, across the chest. It felt as if it was being lowered to the floor, though it was difficult to tell as the room tilted. Heat across the back. Pressure on the right hand, kneading between the metacarpals firmly enough to draw all of its attention to that point.

[“Stay with me, Buck. I’m right here.”]

“–hey, can you hear me?”

“Sir. M-malfunction.”

“You just stood up too fast. Your blood pressure’s probably in the trash right now. You’re alright.”

He kept rubbing at the hand, his other arm petting across the shoulders, until the visual distortions dissipated and the heart rate returned to baseline. It attempted to rise again, but the handler stopped it.

“Where you goin’?”

“It must ensure the security of the facility, sir.”

“No, honey. You gotta take it easy for a while.”

It could not simply sit there, idle, when the safehouse had not been fully inspected. It was functional. It had consumed the rations. There was much to attend to in order to ensure the Captain’s safety, to complete its duties satisfactorily. It should not argue. But the safety of the handler was the Asset’s highest priority.

“Yes, sir.”

It was irregular, but not irrational. The body was in disrepair. There was no cryo chamber here, but it could be idle and allow the nutrition to be absorbed. The handler kept insisting that it should make use of the furniture, but the very thought caused a twinge of pain behind the eyes. Was it another test? If he meant to alter base programming such as that, it would be necessary to employ the chair.

The Soldier glanced briefly at the thick woolen blanket that still lay on the floor nearby. It said nothing. It had not earned such an indulgence. It would simply sit here, out of the way of his work, until the bodily functions had stabilized. The handler reached for the blanket, shaking it out and folding it in quarters. But he did not return it to storage. He pressed it into the Soldier’s hands, the wool cool from sitting on the floor without fire or body heat for an hour.

“It’s yours, Buck. Anything you need, anything you want, it’s yours.”

[The Asset does not want. The Asset does not own.]

It assessed his expression. There was no dishonesty there, no mockery. It did not understand. It had done nothing but malfunction while in this handler’s possession. It did not deserve what he had already given it, the soft touch, the clothing, the heat of a fire. His hands closed around its own, crimping the edges of the fabric in titanium and flesh.

“I mean it. Take the blanket and go lay down, please.”

[“Get outta my face, you idiot. Go sit in the corner.”]

“Yes, sir.”

It nodded, mind racing as it tried to discern his motives. The handler stepped away, going to the kitchen to prepare his own meal. The Soldier considered the available options. He had not negated the previous order to maintain the fire. It shuffled across the room, blanket tucked under one arm, to access the stove. It glanced back to the handler, but he was not observing its actions. His back was to it, all of his attention on whatever foodstuff he was manipulating on the countertop. It hesitantly placed one log on the fire. He did not react to the sound of shifting coals. It added another.

There was a thick rug between the stove and the couch, woven from scraps of many different types of fabric. With its back to the stove, it could see most of the room, though the handler was just a tuft of blond hair barely visible over the back of the couch. It would hear any disturbances. It lowered itself to the rug, knees tucked into the bloated stomach, right arm under the head. It risked unfolding the blanket, moving as quietly as possible, and spread it over the body.

_________________________________

It did not lose consciousness, but it was a close thing. The Soldier lay basking in the heat, half-dazed. It attempted once again to analyze this handler’s behavior, but to little avail. He seemed so soft, and yet he easily manipulated its vulnerable points, many it was not previously aware of having. It was deeply in his debt, and it had not even satisfactorily completed a mission for him. Had not served either the primary or the secondary function. Perhaps this treatment was simply due to its damaged body, and he would return to standard operating procedure once it had recovered.

The first portion of rations stimulated the gut’s regular functioning. Twenty-nine minutes after it had consumed the liquid nutrition, the stomach began cramping and emitting loud noises. It did not have to alert the handler to the situation. The body made itself obvious. He said nothing, but brought a waste receptacle into the sitting area and placed it near the Soldier’s head, along with a bottle of the purple liquid.

He had retrieved the computer and documents and taken his place on the couch, glancing toward the Soldier approximately every eight minutes. Whatever he was viewing on the screen caused several emotional reactions [frustration, anger, pain?] to pass across his features as he read.

It considered the beverage. It was slightly dehydrated, but not enough to cause damage. The Soldier held position. He had ordered it to rest, had not reprimanded it for stoking the fire or lying horizontally. It would remain here as long as possible.

The handler’s phone vibrated. He input a message. It vibrated again. The lines of communication were open, and very active. His team would be made aware of its status. Now that the Soldier was under his authority, it would be moved to an operative base. Debriefed. Reassigned. Reprogrammed.

It could not recall much from the transfer between Department X and HYDRA. Those weeks were a blur of agony and disorientation. The reprogramming process was… difficult, especially if alterations to core protocol were to be made. But this handler would make it worth the pain. He already had, treating it to days of softness and rest.

It had not seen a cryo chamber anywhere in this facility, nor a chair. It would be most efficient to place the Soldier into cryostasis to facilitate healing. It could be nutriated while in the chamber, though it did not understand the exact mechanism. The memory of frigid cyrofluid leaving the veins felt so distant now, wrapped in wool and suffused with warmth.

“Buck.”

It had become distracted, lost in its speculations. The Soldier righted itself, pushing the blanket off and coming to attention as quickly as possible. The hasty shift in position caused the visual distortions to return, and it tilted to the left, equilibrium failing.

“Jesus, honey.”

The handler was suddenly in front of it, hands on the shoulders, keeping it upright. It thought his brow might be furrowed, but it was difficult to tell with his image doubled.

“S-sorry, sir.”

“You’re alright. Still dizzy, huh? I was just gonna tell you it was time for another shake. I’ll bring it to you, just stay put.”

“Yessir,” it slurred.

He remained where he was for two minutes, holding it to ensure it was stable, before going to the kitchen. The glass he placed before it spurred the salivary glands into action and inspired another gurgle from the gut. The stomach was at once empty and overfull. It initiated the same procedure as before, taking cautious sips of the thick, slightly sweet solution.

“Take a ten minute break if you feel sick, but try to get it all down. We’ve gotta get your weight back up. I know it’s hard with our kinda metabolism.”

It nodded. He had given that instruction before. It had forgotten. It monitored the bodily response, finding it necessary to comply with the amended orders after one quarter of the solution had been consumed. The handler took note and supplied a glass of water, then returned to the kitchen to prepare something for himself. The scent of meat and bread was barely detectable under the woodsmoke.

The Soldier was surrounded by various vessels of nutrition and hydration solutions, attempting to determine the appropriate substances in the appropriate order to ensure optimal functionality. It drank the water, then stared between the purple beverage and the rations, utterly lost.

“The shakes aren’t that bad, really. I tried one of the ones you couldn’t eat,” the handler spoke from across the room. His back was to it, the door to the refrigeration unit standing open. He sounded calm, but there was a strained undercurrent to his words that it could not define. “Better than my cooking. I was hopeless before you moved in.” A short, humorless laugh. “And then it was C-rations. God, I got so sick of those things. I had to lug around twice as much as the rest of the guys just to keep me going, and I was still hungry all the time.”

[C’mon Stevie, just a few more bites. Can’t let it go to waste.]

The Soldier’s head spun. He had not even said the words, the trigger phrase it thought it had identified, but the same torturous sensations manifested. It heard the door of the appliance click shut.

“That night you and Gabe took down a stray cow, I just about… Well, everyone was real happy about it. Dernier was scheming about turning it into jerky, we had so much extra meat left over. Bad luck we had to leave it behind in such a hurry, but nobody regretted having the cooking fire lit that night. Best meal we’d had in months.”

[“What is your name?”]

Was it the names? Something about the names… It might have seen them before. In a dossier, or… Despite the presence of the stove behind it, the body went cold. The limbs locked in place. Footsteps. The handler’s hand came down on the shoulder. It did not flinch. It could not move at all. He squeezed lightly, then pressed across the back. It searched for the warmth in his touch, but felt nothing but pain.

“You took real good care of us, y’know. ‘Specially me.” He paused, kneeling down to assess the Soldier more closely. “Buck? You’re lookin’ a little green.”

“Mm-m–”

It could not get the word out. It was supposed to report to the handler, he said, it was supposed to tell him if something impeded functionality, but it could not speak. Another test. An impossible predicament. His grip tightened. With his free hand, he moved the waste bin closer, then began pulling the hair back, holding it loosely behind the Soldier’s head. [Batons whining, pain in the jaw, teeth cracking.]

“Here, if you gotta be sick, it’s okay.”

The mouth filled with saliva, the jaw went lax, and the Soldier complied, emptying the stomach as silently as possible. The handler’s hand moved in wide circles across the back. It began to feel the warmth again. The entire body shook – from cold, from heat, from pain, it did not know.

“S-s-sorry. S-sorry, s-sir.”

“It’s okay. It happens. We’ll try again in a little while.”

It nodded assent. The discipline had not worked as intended. It wasted the rations, too weak to maintain control over the body through the verbal punishment mechanism. He would have to repeat the session.

But he said… He said to report impeded function. He said they were starting over, that it was not owed punishments. Clean slate. He said. He– It did not understand. It did not–

The handler stood, and the weight of his hands disappeared. The Soldier was even further disoriented by the sudden movement, the shift in its center of gravity. It faltered, nearly losing balance. He returned quickly, holding two damp cloths. The first was used to clean the mess from the face. He lifted the hair and laid the second across the back of the neck. The cloth was cold, shockingly so after hours in front of the fire. The shaking intensified.

“It’s gonna be alright. We’ll figure this out. You wanna lay back down?”

It did not want. The Asset does not want. It did not know how to respond. There was no correct answer. The void left by the rations filled with fear. The Soldier’s breathing became shallow and rapid. The handler’s touch was warm, too warm, too heavy, too soft. It did not know. It did not understand. It had to respond, he asked a question, it had to–

[Severe cognitive malfunction. Report for reset. Report. Rep–]

“Bucky. Bucky, hey. Deep breath. Remember? Eight in, eight out.”

It attempted to comply, gasping several times before it managed to fill the lungs. The handler repeated the previous pattern, tapping out the seconds. It focused the entirety of its attention on his right hand, keeping time against the shoulder plating, the sound muted by the soft cotton shirts. Eight– eight in. Pause. Eight out.

“Good, again. Keep going.”

Good. It could be good. Do it again. Again. Again. The dizziness ebbed and swelled. It went from lurching as if the stomach was full of lead shot to reeling as if it was untethered from gravity, held in place only by the handler’s touch. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Eight in. Eight out.

“Good job, Buck.” He shifted, keeping one hand on the body. The waste bin was removed, the soiled cloth thrown out of sight, and one of the smaller cushions taken from the couch. He placed the cushion on the rug. On the floor. “C’mon, lay down.”

Pressure on the left shoulder. Move the body. Right side on the floor. Head on the cushion. Why was there a cushion? What did the handler want with–

“I’ll be right back. Keep breathing, baby.”

Footsteps. Zipper. Cloth moving. Eight in. Footsteps. Plastic crinkling. Eight out. Hands on the body, moving the hair. The shoulders were shaking, the diaphragm spasming. The face was wet. Hands on the back. More pressure, wide circles, warm and heavy. “Here, try this.” Something hard pressed to the lips. Open. Not rubber. Hard and small and cold on the tongue. “Don’t bite, just suck on it.” Don’t bite. It knew this. It could be good. Don’t bite. Suck it, whor*. It complied. Cool air filling the nostrils, saliva filling the mouth. Sweet and sharp and cold but not pain. What was–

“Shh, it’s okay. You’ll be okay. You’re safe. Just me and you. I’m on watch now. Nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

Chapter 27

Chapter Text

The Soldier should have been accustomed to waking up disoriented, unaware of the passage of time. That was how it came to consciousness most often, whether after being pulled from cryo or blacking out on the medical table. It would open the eyes to find itself soaked in gore, antifreeze, or other unknown fluids, gloved hands or booted feet manipulating the body.

By comparison, this situation was a luxury. But it was becoming tiresome, being so dysfunctional that it could not prevent itself from losing consciousness. It had not sustained critical damage. It had not lost blood. And it had wasted the rations that were meant to improve its condition. It was utterly pathetic.

It shifted. Once again the thick blanket was over it and the fire crackling behind it [–the radio on, music playing low and lilting.] The mouth was dry, sticky and sour with the taste of vomit and the… the candy. Had the handler given it candy? It ran the tongue across the teeth, but found no further evidence of the confection.

“Hey.” The handler appeared, kneeling down on the rug. “You with me, Buck?”

It began to move, to assume the proper posture, but he stopped it with a firm hand on the arm.

“Just lie still for a few minutes, okay? Don’t want you gettin’ dizzy again.”

“Yes, sir.” The voice came out thin and crackling.

“It’s 1720, still Friday, November seventh. You were out for about an hour and a half that time, but it looked like you got some sleep at least. You feelin’ any better?”

[Cognitive functionality: thirty percent. Physical functionality: twenty-six percent. Prosthesis functionality: seventy-five percent. Intermittent cognitive malfunction. Report for reset.]

“F-functionality improved, but c-compromised.”

“Compromised?”

“C-cognitive malfunction. Cognition erratic. Inadvertent loss of consciousness. D-delusional sensation. Aberrant sensory input. Reset required.”

“There’s no more resets, Buck, I told you.” The handler hesitated, his eyes tracking over the face as if he could read the malfunctions written on its skin. “You mean you’re seeing things that aren’t there?”

It had not had an actual hallucination in days. The visual distortions were not the same. It knew they were the product of insufficient nutrition. The other malfunctions… It was not sure how best to describe them. “N-negative, sir. No visual or auditory input. Malfunction is neurological in nature.”

“Okay… Okay. Are you up for trying another shake? I hate to keep pushing it, but we really do need to get more food into you. I think it’ll help with the… strange input, and the passing out.”

“Ready to comply, sir.”

“Yeah. Alright,” he exhaled. “Take it slow.”

The handler lifted it up to sitting, directing it to remain with the legs crossed rather than kneeling at attention. He pulled the blanket across the shoulders and stayed until he was assured it could balance, and then retrieved another serving each of the purple liquid and the nutrition solution.

“This one first,” he indicated the purple beverage, “at least half of it. Then the shake.”

The handler did not speak further this time. He returned to his previous position and took out the phone. The Soldier assumed he was reporting on its behavior. His team must already be aware of much of it, with the audio surveillance. It had not discovered video recording devices, but its cognition was highly unreliable. Either way, there would be a great deal of evidence of its inadequacy. It followed his instructions diligently, unwilling to add another failure to the tally. Decommissioning was still a potential option, if the handler determined it was too damaged to be worth the effort of reconditioning.

Without the additional obstacle of the verbal punishment mechanism, it consumed the allotted rations in less than an hour. The handler ensured that it was sufficiently functional before preparing his own meal. Something from a can, smelling strongly of meat [and potatoes and turnips filling the kitchen, the girls chattering on about their new dresses.] He ate standing at the counter, then returned to his post on the couch and opened the computer again. It looked to the handler for further instruction, but he simply smiled at it – not nearly as brilliant as the previous smile – and said, “Just rest, Buck. Make yourself comfortable.”

Rest. Nutrition. Water. Safety was more difficult to quantify, but… It complied, adjusting the blanket and allowing the body to relax minutely.

For the next few hours, it moved only to add additional logs to the stove. The handler assessed its status periodically, but seemed content to permit it this idleness. It was not entirely new. The Soldier was often required to wait: in transport, on base, in safehouses. But it was rare that it was idle without restraint, or without serving the secondary function in some capacity. It surreptitiously studied the handler, but he showed no sign of irritation or impatience. There was no mission, no operating parameters aside from rest and drink and maintain the fire. New protocol was later, he’d said. But how much later? What was the use of claiming the Soldier if he did not use it?

At 2200, he closed the computer and announced yet another rest period. He guided the Soldier to the cleansing facility. It was presented with a small plastic brush and a tube containing an unknown substance.

“Do you… Have you been doing your own dental hygiene?”

It had not. He instructed it in the procedure. The brush was irritating, the cleansing product cold and sharp like the candy. Peppermint. It kept the eyes low. The image in the mirror was unsettling, [Hollow eyes and broken skin and metal burrowing into flesh. “You see, Sergeant?” Thumb on the lips, saline on the cheeks. “You are ours now.”] causing the skull to fill with noise. He spat. It spat. The handler ran his fingers through its hair, pulling it away from the face, then led it into the sleeping quarters.

“C’mon, Buck. Take the bed tonight. You have permission. You don’t gotta lay on the floor. Your back’s gotta be killing you.”

The body was moved. He sat it on the unused second bed, the mattress soft and giving and alien under its backside. [Severe protocol violation. Report–] Pain bloomed behind the eyes. It forced the heart and lungs into compliance. It was a direct order. He had put it there himself. It had to comply. But it was wrong. It was against protocol. When direct orders violated protocol, protocol was to supersede. He said that it should report negative sensation, but he–

“Lay down and try to sleep, honey.”

It obeyed, arranging itself horizontally on the pliant surface. The handler removed the boots, then pulled a blanket over it. Not the wool, something downy and lightweight. The room went dark, save for the glow of red light from the digital clock on the side table. The Asset does not sleep. But sleep could be a colloquialism for the secondary function. It waited for the weight of the handler’s body on the bed behind it, but it did not come. Why was it on the bed if not for his use? Socks on wood floor, shifting fabric, the creaking of a separate bed frame. The handler’s breathing slowed.

The mattress sagged under its weight, aged springs and cotton batting compressing in discomfiting, irregular patterns. The Soldier was surrounded on all sides by foam and feathers and air. This was not like the warmth of the fire, the thick blanket. It was drowning, unable to breathe, the face hot and the limbs numb. Wrong. Wrong, it was wrong. The skin burned, the head throbbed. The prosthesis whirred loudly and began to recalibrate, but it overrode the sequence. It would tear the fabric, damage the furnishings. It had to move. It could not move.

The Soldier lay, spine stiff and muscles tensed, for forty-eight minutes, the sensation growing until it felt nothing but the white buzzing wrongness. It was being torn in two. It was–

Softness under the body, hands scrabbling in the bedding. Hardness above, thick leather and the press of metal on the legs, the barrel of his gun at the back of the skull. Hardness inside, between the legs. Hardness against the teeth, the neck of the bottle in the mouth. It could not bite down against the pain. The glass would shatter, drive into the flesh. It would bleed on the fabric, and then the handler would be even more angry. It could not stop the noises that spilled from its throat, pathetic whimpers and half-formed pleas. “You like that? Is that what you were lookin’ for, all cozy like you belong here? What’d I tell you, bitch? No–”

A sudden light sent another spike of pain through the skull. It wrenched the eyes shut. There was harsh, rasping noise filling the room, rhythmic heaving as if from a steam engine, chuffing louder and louder.

“Bucky?”

Something obscured the light. Hands on the back, on the face. It tightened the arms around itself, wrapping the body into a defensive curl. Wrong. It was wrong, it would be punished, it would be–

“Hey. Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

It gasped, sucking in air in a desperate attempt to obey. The rasping noise came faster.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. Open your eyes, Buck.”

It did so. The figure before it was backlit, yellow highlighting the edges of broad shoulders and disheveled hair.

“It’s just me. It’s Steve. Not gonna hurt you.”

Steve. Who was– The handler. The handler was there, looming above it in the soft glow and [I thought you were smaller] it was… No. The Soldier was on the bed and he had seen it and it was not permitted, it was wrong, it–

[Severe protocol violation. Submit for disciplinary action.]

His hands moved, pulling away the downy fabric and guiding the Soldier upright. The body reacted immediately, escaping from the confines of the too-soft platform, knees hitting the floor. Pressure on the neck, the shoulders. A rhythmic tapping on the right clavicle. One. Two. Three. Four. It inhaled. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

“That’s right, nice and slow. Good job.”

Good. It was being good. It had obeyed, it had tried, it–

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

It exhaled.

“Keep going, gimme a few more.”

Inhale. Exhale. The vision stabilized, adjusting to the light, and the eyes settled onto the handler’s soft cotton shirt. His chest rose and fell, and it attempted to emulate the pattern. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Hands on the back, broad warm arcs across the scapulae, pressing into the spine. “What happened? D'you have a nightmare?”

“N-n–”

It could not form the word. The jaw was tense. The lips did not comply. It tried again, directing all of its attention to producing legible speech.

“N-no. Dogs on the. B-bed.” The head hurt, sharp and sudden. Again and again, in the same place each time. Wrong. It was wrong. That was not what it had intended to say, but the words kept coming. “No dogs on the bed. No dogs on the bed. N-no dogs–”

“Hey, hey! Stop, Buck, stop!”

Pressure on the wrists, pulling the arms down, down, away from the head. Wetness on the face, trickling from the forehead. It blinked down at the hands where they were held in the handler’s immoveable grasp. There was hair caught in the plates of the prosthesis, blood under the nails of the right hand. Then the image was obscured by a field of white, and there was warmth around it, the arms pinned to its sides, pressure on the chest and back.

“You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m sorry, Buck. I’m sorry.”

The handler was… holding it, his hands tracing up and down the spine, the Soldier’s head slotted between his neck and shoulder. It forced the muscles to go lax, but he did not increase the pressure. Did not manipulate the body any further. The heat of him sank into its flesh through his thin t-shirt. It took a shuddering breath. The smell of sweat and soap and sunshine filled the nose, the lungs, the mind.

He stayed in that position for uncounted minutes, petting it and speaking gently. His pulse slowed from a rapid hammer to its usual steady, sure rhythm. The Soldier’s was sluggish, erratic. When he let go, it struggled to maintain awareness, to keep itself upright. The handler’s shirt was stained, a small crescent of red where its self-inflicted injury had spilled over the cheek. It stared. There would be punishment for the malfunction, the damage to his possessions. But it could not summon enough energy to prepare for it. The body felt weak, wrung out, the mind hazy.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have forced you. You tried to tell me. I didn’t– ” He was apologizing again. It did not understand. His hands smoothed over the shoulders. “You need some rest. I don’t care if you sleep in the tub again, just– Just don’t hurt yourself. Please.” His voice was strained. He sounded distressed. He rubbed at the upper arms. “Whattaya think, Buck? You wanna– You can stay here, the couch, back in front of the stove. Anywhere in the house is fine.”

A choice. It was supposed to make a choice. It could not think clearly enough to evaluate the implications of each position, to determine what the correct answer was. The couch was just as wrong as the bed, and the handler had been angered by the irregular use of the bathtub. Did he want it here where he could access it, or in the other room where it would not disturb him?

It felt the panic rise up again, sure that it would fail this test. It opened the mouth, but could not speak. The chest tightened, and saliva pooled beneath the tongue. It searched the lines of his body, desperate for any hint at the correct answer. The handler was looking at it, exhausted and expectant, his hair and clothing rumpled. He had been asleep. It woke him with another malfunction. It could not obey the order, and now he would punish it and it was supposed to speak, there was a question. What was the question?

Increased pressure on the flesh shoulder, his hand pushing the hair from the eyes. “Hey, it’s alright. How about you stay here so I can keep an eye on you? I’ll get you some blankets. Just sit back, lean on the bed. I’ll be right back.”

It complied, slumping inelegantly with the shoulders pressed into the side of the mattress. The handler returned with a large pile of fabric. Small cloth on the face, to clean the blood. Four blankets laid on the floor between his bed and the wall. He pulled a pillow from the bed, adding it to the makeshift pallet. He instructed it to lay down, and placed another blanket across the body. The one from the sitting area, thick and heavy and smelling of woodsmoke.

He sat on the floor beside it, his hand resting on the left arm. He did not speak. He did not discipline it or make use of it. After twenty-seven point six minutes, he rose to shut off the light and return to his bed.

_________________________________________________

Steve eventually fell asleep, though it was fitful. He’d lain awake for hours fuming over what Buck had said, imagining all the horrible things he could’ve been through to make him react so strongly to something as basic as a bed. There’d been no other sign of distress after they laid down, but he couldn’t tell if Buck had gotten any rest or was just being very, very still. They both still had a massive sleep debt to work off. It was dark when he woke at five AM, but he could make out sharp eyes watching him from across the room, flicking away quickly when he looked over.

Right. The Asset does not initiate eye contact with superiors.

He rolled over and spent a few minutes staring at the ceiling, reviewing everything Natasha sent him. Medical records and mission reports and some really strange articles that he wasn’t quite sure how to internalize yet. There was an uncomfortable amount of overlap between their old games, the new paradigms people had created for that kind of relationship, and the way HYDRA treated Bucky.

It’d been wishful thinking, assuming that it was just the trigger sequence he’d have to deal with. There was also a lot of… base programming, for lack of a better term. It wasn’t just routine and protocol. The behaviors had been burnt into Buck’s head with torture and electroshock for decades. Last night proved that Steve couldn’t just order them away. He’d have to work with the protocols, work with the trauma, work with Buck’s complete lack of autonomy.

He was in over his head. Not for the first time, he thought about calling Sam. But he could just hear the response. ‘Man, I am so not qualified for this.’ And it wouldn’t be right to ask more of him. He’d given so much for Steve already, and consequently for Bucky. They couldn’t put Sam’s safety at risk, from HYDRA or from Stark. God, what a mess. Steve had seen the mission report about Howard’s death, watched the video. It was brutal. But it was also obvious how little control Bucky’d had, completely dead-eyed and blank.

So unlike the panicked wreck he’d seen last night, Bucky tearing at his hair and parroting the abuse he’d suffered. He knew Bucky wasn’t fragile. He was so unbelievably strong, surviving decades of torture, defying the programming to save Steve from the river, walking all that way with no food, fighting so hard to find someone safe to give him what he needed. But trying to figure out what would set him off was like traversing a minefield. Steve was doing his best to keep a level head. He’d summoned some version of his command persona, but, with Bucky, it was a slippery slope from there into something less appropriate.

Part of him still ached to take Bucky into his arms, to hold him down, take him apart, and scrape the pieces back together with teeth and tongue. It was f*cked. He’d told Natasha it would be too much. His first instinct when Buck was upset was to find a belt and kiss him stupid. Even during the war, it was one of the only things that reliably settled him. Steve had been hesitant to return to their old pattern, after Kreichberg, after the serum had made him a stranger to his own body. But the minute they had a room to themselves, Buck had goaded him until Steve shoved him to his knees and proved just how real he was. It used to be easy. Messy and crude, but easy.

He couldn’t do that now. Bucky couldn’t actually consent to any of this. And he was either confused or terrified most of the time. There were fleeting moments of contentment when Steve washed his hair, and after he had… taken ownership of Bucky, with the trigger words. Right before he cowered and begged to be disciplined. Not from a desire for the release of pain, but because he was so inured to being f*cking tortured that he thought Steve would beat him for stealing food to survive. And Steve had already messed up, forcing Bucky into the bed and causing a panic attack just to satisfy his own sense of normalcy. He was going to do better. He had to do better.

Steve finally roused himself, shoving the blankets aside and letting the chill of the cabin shock him awake. He flicked on the lamp and responded to Bucky’s inquisitive look with a nod. Permission to rise, soldier. There had to be a way to encourage a bit more autonomy. Compliance was one thing, but HYDRA wouldn’t waste time directing their Asset’s every move. He could establish a new routine, give Bucky a framework to go on. Steve’s mind didn’t stop working, examining potential solutions while going about his morning routine. By the time he dried his hands, he had something close to a plan of action.

Bucky stood at attention by the door, staring unblinkingly into the middle distance. It was only mildly unsettling, an escalation of his old sharpshooter focus. He still looked sickly and pale, but what little food they’d gotten into him yesterday was already doing some good. The upside of serum metabolism was that if their bodies were in dire need, they tended to put any available calories to use pretty quick. Steve waved him into the bathroom and gave him space to take care of business. The door remained open. No privacy from the handler. It was awkward, but it wasn’t really new, between cramped tenements and latrines, and it did allow Steve to keep an eye out for any stomach issues.

He ducked back into the bedroom, taking note of the neatly folded pile of blankets and tightly made beds. He almost let himself hope. There was no way to know if that was a remnant of Buck’s old self or another level of perfection HYDRA demanded of the Asset. He couldn’t imagine they really cared if he folded his damn laundry, but it was just one more way to enforce control.

The living room was cold, but there were still a few coals smoldering in the stove. It was a neat little thing, a rocket stove so efficient there was hardly any smoke. Perfect for concealing their location and still providing good heat. Steve put a couple more logs on, knowing Buck would be colder than he was. Then he dove into his usual calisthenics routine in the middle of the floor. If he didn’t get some kind of exercise he’d go even more nuts, but he wouldn’t leave for a run without making sure Bucky was stable.

He didn’t even hear Bucky come in, just saw drab-green socks passing in the corner of his eye. When he finished the final set of pushups, he looked up to find Bucky kneeling in the same spot as before. Right at the edge of the kitchen, where it opened into the living room. There were thick, rough-hewn beams that framed the transition between rooms, and Buck was sitting so perfectly still he looked like a figurehead carved into the wood.

Steve bent down in front of him, tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ears. It was so long now, tangled and ragged at the ends. Bucky hadn’t tried to comb it, might not even think to do so. He was due for another shower soon, anyway. The smell of fear and hunger still clung to his skin.

“Did you get any rest?”

Buck glanced up at Steve’s chin, then his eyes returned to the floor. He looked guilty, though Steve couldn’t imagine what for.

“Unknown, sir. This asset experienced approximately one point three hours of unconsciousness between 0100 and 0330.”

Steve paused, trying to suppress a frown. He was still getting used to the accent, as well as Bucky’s stilted, technical language. He wasn’t sure if he should push back on the use of the third person or if that would cause more distress. Remembering Buck calling himself a weapon, arguing that he wasn’t human… Steve didn’t think he could go through that again so soon. But the meaning was clear enough: not even two hours of sleep. Steve hadn’t seen anything in the files about the Soldier’s sleep requirements. His own body did fine on four or five hours, though he liked to try for a bit more when he could.

“How much do you usually sleep?”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a soft moue, as if perplexed by the question.

“This asset does not ‘sleep.’” It was almost, just barely, sarcastic. He must think Steve had no idea what he was doing. He wasn’t wrong. “Cryostasis provides all necessary restorative function.”

Steve decidedly did not react to that, though inside he was fuming again. He should’ve known. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. It was astonishing they’d let him take a piss by himself, but at least he was capable of that. Buck must’ve gotten sleep in the month or so since Insight, but he didn’t seem to know what the word actually meant. Maybe he’d just been blacking out, his body shutting down involuntarily when he reached a breaking point.

“Okay,” Steve spoke as evenly as possible. “We’ll address that later. I’ll get your breakfast ready.”

He mixed another shake, still slightly diluted. If today went well, they would increase Buck’s intake tomorrow. Steve set it down on the floor in front of Bucky. He didn’t say anything about finding a chair. If the floor was where he felt most comfortable, Steve wasn’t going to incite another panic attack about it. He poured himself a cup of coffee and dug a spoon straight into a jar of peanut butter for his pre-run snack, eating mechanically. He had to keep himself going, even if he was stressed out and pissed off. By the time he’d gone through half the jar and three cups of coffee, Buck had only gotten about a third of the meal replacement down, but he seemed to be relatively stable.

“I’m gonna go for a run. I’ll stay within a quarter mile of the house, so I’ll be able to hear if you need me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky didn’t argue, but his brow furrowed in an expression Steve knew well. That was the ‘you’re a huge idiot and you’re gonna get yourself killed, Rogers’ look.

“Objections?” Steve prompted.

There was a moment of hesitation, but Buck finally said, “This asset has not completed perimeter checks in over thirty-six hours. Unnecessary risk to the handler’s safety.”

Steve felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He was probably driving Buck nuts by forbidding the activity, but if Natasha couldn’t guarantee that they were safe, no one could.

“I’m not worried. The security system is pretty good, and no one knows where this place is. You’re still healing, so I’d rather not have you walking very far, but you can sit on the porch while I’m out there, take watch.”

Bucky nodded, then rose to his feet in one smooth movement. The protein shake didn’t even wobble in his glass. While Steve put on his running shoes, Bucky went over to the corner where his kit had been unpacked, disappearing a pistol and a few knives somewhere on his person, before intercepting Steve and opening the door first. Buck simultaneously scanned the threshold for threats and stepped aside to make himself as little of an obstacle as possible.

A biting wind blew into the room, giving Steve pause. It’d been brisk yesterday, but this morning it was downright cold. He turned around, heading for the bedroom, and saw Bucky’s eyes narrow.

“It’s fine, I’m just gonna grab your boots and blanket.”

When he returned with the items in question, Steve took the glass so Bucky could do up the boots. The laces were more knot than cord at this point. He’d have to make a run to town some time and get him new ones, if not new boots entirely. He got Bucky settled on the porch steps with his shake and tucked the brown flannel blanket around him. Buck seemed to like that one. Steve made sure it was wrapped so that he could move quickly on the infinitesimal chance there really was a threat. Bucky was encouragingly attentive, tracking the movement of birds and assessing the entirety of the visible property. He didn’t look distressed or at risk of passing out, so Steve took off.

Chapter 28

Chapter Text

Running was good. It was what he needed right now. The chill air burned his throat and cleared his mind. The rhythm of movement, the feeling of being in control of something, anything, for a moment, even if just of his own body. Steve let his anxious thoughts go quiet, focusing on picking his way through the dense woods. There wasn’t a path here, but if they stayed long enough he was sure he’d wear one down with his repeated laps. After he’d circled the house five times, (clockwise, always move with the sun, Ma said) he swung back through the clearing to check on Bucky. Still upright and alert, ignoring Steve in favor of keeping watch on any potential points of ingress.

There was only one passable entrance for vehicles, the driveway they’d come in on, and the motion sensor there hadn’t picked up anything larger than deer and coyotes the past two days. Steve made a note to show Bucky the full security system as soon as he could, for Buck’s peace of mind, then lost himself in the next few laps. It was about a mile and half circle around the cabin. By round ten he was sufficiently exerted, but he did two more just to make sure he wouldn’t be too wound up today. He needed to keep it together, for Bucky’s sake.

He slowed to a jog as he approached the house. Buck had finished breakfast and tucked his hands into the blanket, obviously trying to suppress his shivering. Steve grabbed the empty glass and herded him back inside. Bucky, in this state, was much less stubborn about being taken care of than Steve used to be. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“C’mon, let’s get you into the shower, get you warmed up.”

Bucky was capable of standing upright this time, but Steve stayed close in case the change in temperature made him dizzy. Buck had no compunctions about getting naked in front of him, stripping methodically to reveal concerningly pale skin and ribs that were far too prominent. There was none of the reluctance or fear he’d shown in the motel, but he hesitated when Steve handed him soap and washcloth, his eyes lingering on Steve’s hands almost mournfully.

Steve feared he’d overstepped at first, pawing all over Bucky when he was barely conscious. At the time it’d been pretty pressing to get him cleaned up. It was something he used to take for granted, touching Bucky. He’d lived most of his life with Buck within arm’s reach. The past few years without him had been miserable, full of abortive smiles, Steve’s hands hanging in empty air. Now, at least when he was fully present, Bucky seemed to respond better when Steve was touching him. Maybe it was delusionally hopeful, but it felt like something of their old physicality was there.

He wondered how rare gentle touch must have been for Bucky. Natasha had been there, had held him in that perilous refuge for a while. But everything else – the chair, the punishments, the constant violence. For seventy goddamn years. He still expected Steve to punish him every other hour. Yet when Steve reached for him, Bucky leaned into it. There was a word for that in Sam’s books. Touch-starved.

Steve didn’t think twice. He leaned across the tub and grabbed the shampoo. Bucky had efficiently cleaned up while Steve was woolgathering, and the only thing left was his hair. Steve took his time, scrubbing gently across Buck’s scalp. He was careful of the injuries from last night, and judiciously suppressed his own reactions when he felt the raised lines of scar tissue crisscrossing Bucky’s skull. He tried not to think about how often those wounds had been reopened, that they’d leave behind evidence on a supersoldier’s skin.

He saw Bucky’s knees wobble and quickly stepped into the bath to steady him. A low hum rumbled from Bucky’s chest, and, f*ck, he was almost smiling, face softened with what Steve hoped was pleasure. How hungry for affection was he, that this simple touch melted the Soldier’s programming and caused Bucky to make such intimate, human sounds?

“Turn around, baby,” Steve choked out.

Bucky obeyed with a leisure to his movements that Steve hadn’t witnessed before, at least not in this century. He let his head fall back, utterly trusting. Steve wanted to press his lips to Bucky’s throat, his cheeks, his hands. He wanted to lie to him and tell him nothing would ever hurt again. His eyes were stinging, but he ignored it, focusing on washing every last sud from Bucky’s hair. Keeping one hand on Buck’s back, Steve reached for the comb and let the water help smooth through the tangles. It wasn’t anywhere near as bad as it had been Monday. Turning off the shower took far too much willpower. He allowed himself one more moment of closeness as he finger-combed conditioner through the damp locks, keeping his gaze on Bucky’s ear. Seeing the surrender in those big blue eyes would probably break him.

Steve schooled his voice into neutrality as he wrapped Bucky up in plush towels. Nat’s penchant for quality, even in a cabin out in the middle of nowhere, was a blessing.

“I think it’s time for a shave. Sit down on the toilet, I’ll get you fixed up.”

It was more practical than anything. If Bucky had to throw up again, it’d be easier to clean up without the beard. And Buck had always been clean shaven. Maybe he didn’t notice now, but Steve couldn’t help but wonder if it was uncomfortable. He grabbed one of the disposable plastic razors he’d bought in his hasty attempt at a supply run.

“I’ll try not to nick you, but these razors aren’t the best. They don’t make ‘em like they used to. Y’know, you were the one who taught me how to do this in the first place.” He tried to smile, but it felt forced. “I looked like I’d been dragged through a rosebush the first time I did it by myself. Ma couldn’t stop laughing at me, and Becca too.”

There was no response, but neither was there any sign of wariness. Buck was eerily still as Steve applied shaving cream, his eyes going distant. His heart rate kicked up for a second, but after a few minutes, he seemed to come back, relaxing into the pattern of swipe, rinse, repeat. Steve tried to be as gentle and impersonal as possible as he manipulated Bucky’s lips, but he couldn’t help the ache of affection that pressed at his sternum as that familiar face was revealed. Buck’s cheeks were too gaunt, his eyes too shadowed, but the cut of his jaw and the cleft of his chin were just the same. It sent Steve’s mind spinning off in a hundred different directions. There was so much more he wanted to say, but none of it felt right.

He thought about asking if Bucky wanted his hair cut, but he knew what the response would be. Your discretion, sir. The Asset does not want. The beard would grow back quickly, but cutting Buck’s hair would change his appearance for months. It was strange that HYDRA would let it get this long, but it didn’t seem to affect his ability to fight. Buck had been using it as a shield, hiding behind the scraggly bangs. There was no way to predict how he’d react to losing it. One activity involving sharp objects was probably enough for the day, anyway. Steve rinsed the razor one last time, lingering a bit too long as he wiped stray foam off Bucky’s face.

“Alright, you’re all set. I’m gonna rinse off, I’ll be out in a bit. Go on and sit by the fire.”

The husky, “Thank you, sir,” nearly did him in.

Bucky left the bathroom, and Steve brought the door to without fully latching it. He needed to get himself together, but he couldn’t stand to have a locked door between them. He knew he’d shred right through the wood if he heard any indication that Buck was upset.

His clothes were soaked, dripping all over the floor. He flung them into a corner to deal with later and threw a couple more towels down to soak up the puddle. Steve wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or hit something or both. He gave himself three minutes to wash up and get a grip. It was so achingly familiar, but it wasn’t right. It was a painful, twisted mockery of what they used to have, and it tore Steve up to know that Bucky’s obedience was born from having his mind obliterated, his self carved up over and over again, rather than being the gift it was meant to be. At least the shower let him pretend it was just well water streaming down his face.

Alright. Time’s up. Shower off, eyes dry, and feelings properly boxed back up where they belonged, Steve headed to the bedroom to grab clothes. He took extras when he realized that Buck might not have gotten them without orders. He wasn’t going to dwell on it.

Bucky still had the towels on, but the blanket was sitting neatly folded by the couch. Steve was relieved to see that he’d taken the liberty of stoking the fire, at least. He made sure to give Bucky a gentle smile, to let him know he’d made a good choice. Steve set the clothes down in front of him, and Buck stood to get dressed without a word.

He’d been so focused on not making Bucky uncomfortable in the shower that he hadn’t even thought to check his injuries. Divested of the towels, Steve could see that the cuts and scrapes were healing, if a bit slowly. Bucky’s feet looked better, minus a few toenails that would need to regrow. But his left shoulder was still mottled with bruises. It looked inflamed, bright pink against the otherwise pallid skin.

“Buck,” Steve said, once the oversized sweatpants were in place. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with your… your left arm?”

If there was some kind of mechanical damage, he had no way to fix it. They might have to rethink the plan of engagement with Tony. Steve honestly had no idea how they would do that without violence.

Bucky came to attention, the shirt he’d been about to put on held in his right hand. The metal arm shifted, and the plates moved like a living thing, rolling up and down from shoulder to wrist in a sinuous wave and click-clacking softly against each other. Even the tiny finger segments readjusted, more a shiver than a full articulation. It was oddly reminiscent of the Chitauri whale-creatures, alien yet still beautiful in a macabre way.

A shower of debris pattered to the floor, little particles of dirt that must’ve been stuck between the plates. The hand flexed, fingers opening and closing. Buck rotated the wrist and bent the elbow. He glanced up at Steve, took one step back, then swung the entire arm in a wide arc. The inner workings whirred as it spun, just like during the fight in DC. The movement ended with a loud snick as every plate snapped back into place, Buck’s arm held rigid at his side with his hand in a tight fist – a dramatic display in the otherwise quiet, quaint cabin. Steve tried to keep himself from gaping.

“Minimal damage, sir,” Bucky reported. “Minor delay in the second joint. Atrophy of the asset’s musculature due to insufficient nutrition results in strain on the prosthesis anchor points. Appropriate nutrition will correct d-damage within twenty-one days.”

The reminder of Buck’s current condition snapped him back to reality. “Oh… It’s pulling on your shoulder...”

He knew it was heavy. He knew exactly how much it weighed, as well as where each anchor point was drilled into Bucky's goddamn spine. He also knew why Buck could quote recovery times with such precision. Steve wasn’t stupid enough to ask if it hurt. It had to be excruciating, but Buck moved like it was perfectly normal. How much pain was he hiding, every damn minute? How much pain did he simply not notice anymore?

It wasn’t like they could do much about it here, besides get him fed up. Steve sighed. He really needed to set up a punching bag. Maybe if they stuffed one of the duffels full of towels… It’d probably last about three seconds. He realized he’d been staring at Bucky’s bare chest for far too long. He shook himself.

“Sorry, sorry, go ahead and get dressed. You can sit back down.”

He checked the clock. Not even nine AM. It wasn’t time for the next shake. Bucky was awake and alert. There were no more excuses. He grabbed another cup of coffee and gave Buck a few minutes to get comfortable. As comfortable as he could get, anyway, on his knees on the thin rag rug. It felt strange to do this here, in a cozy, normal-looking cabin, sitting on a couch that still smelled like polyethylene packaging, but they were both as ready as they were gonna be.

“C’mere, sweetheart.”

He motioned for Bucky to kneel up closer, squirming a bit at how natural it felt. He wasn’t going to push the furniture thing any further, and the display of authority would, unfortunately, help Buck take the orders seriously. Reading through HYDRA’s records made his blood boil, but they did give him a decent understanding of how to approach this. Steve pushed aside the impulse to scream, trying to emulate Nat’s cool practicality. This was what they had to work with right now.

“Status?”

Bucky rattled off a report in an efficient, mechanical tone.

“Cognitive functionality: thirty-three percent. Physical functionality: twenty-eight percent. Prosthesis functionality: seventy-five percent. Insufficient functionality for extended field operation. Intermittent cognitive malfunction. Reset required.”

It took Steve a second to process all of that. He wasn’t really sure what thirty percent of anything meant, or how Bucky measured that sort of thing. He tried to imagine how he might feel at one-third of his usual capacity. Yeah, he could run a short op, but anything more and he’d be relying entirely on adrenaline. He suspected the ‘cognitive malfunction’ referred to symptoms of anxiety or trauma that were perfectly reasonable given the situation. He’d hoped that the strange sensations Bucky mentioned before might be fragments of memory returning, that that was the reason he kept insisting on a f*cking ‘reset,’ but he couldn’t rule out hallucinations or something more troublesome.

“You ready to go over new protocol?”

“Yes, sir. Ready to comply.”

Bucky wasn’t as expressive as he used to be, but without the muzzle or the intensity of mission focus obscuring his face, the subtle shifts were obvious. He’d been so relaxed in the shower, and relatively at ease keeping watch on the porch. Now, he was tense, fear evident in the cast of his eyes, scanning the room as if looking for hidden weapons.

“Hey,” Steve reached out to cup Bucky’s jaw, the sensation of bare skin novel under his fingertips. “Look at me, Buck.”

He obeyed, leaning into Steve’s hand and meeting his gaze with something in the neighborhood of trust. His eyes were clearer now, still a little too dull, but focused and steady. Steve studied that devastating arctic blue, the color that he’d only seen in dreams for so many years, and tried not to lose his composure. Deep breath. This was for Bucky. His Bucky, who needed him to be strong for both of them right now. Who’d dragged him through year after year of sh*tty lungs and lost jobs with good humor. Who’d watched his back and kept him steady through Ma’s death, through the war. This was just another rough winter, and they’d get through it together, like they always did.

“Things were different when we worked together before. I know you might not remember, but you had a lot of independence then. You helped me make strategic decisions and managed our entire unit. I’d like to get back to that.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction, but there was none. He wasn’t even sure if Bucky had blinked. Steve swallowed, forging on.

“I don’t have many rules. I want you to try and make your own choices whenever you can. Drink when you’re thirsty, dress yourself, attend to bodily needs as you see fit. We have to be careful with food for now, but tell me if you get hungry between meals.

“You’re allowed to use the bed, the couch, any furniture at all. You have permission, in perpetuity, but like I said before, you’re to report if you’re in pain, or upset, or if something needs to change. And don’t hurt yourself, Buck. Please.” He squeezed Bucky’s right shoulder for emphasis. The bruising on his temples was mostly healed, but it’d been awful to see Bucky tearing at himself like that.

“You’re welcome to any clothing, blankets, or other supplies you deem necessary. If we don’t have something here, let me know and I can try and get it. You’re free to move about the safehouse, but please stay inside unless I’m with you or there’s an emergency. It’s for your own safety.

“If you can, consult with me before engaging in combat, but self defense is the highest priority.” Steve couldn’t tell him not to engage without permission. There was no way to predict what kind of situation they might end up in, and Buck needed to be able to protect himself. “Non-lethal is ideal. Use only enough force to disable enemy combatants, unless they’re HYDRA. In that case, you are to use any means necessary to stop them. If you hear command codes from anyone but me, eliminate the speaker immediately. Got it?”

“Understood, sir. Immediate lethal force authorized for HYDRA operatives only. Prioritize nonlethal methods and defensive techniques.”

Steve was relieved to hear no hint of inner turmoil about harming HYDRA agents. That had been a serious concern. But, like Nat said, the latest ‘protocols’ had been geared more towards obedience to the handler rather than loyalty to HYDRA as an organization, unlike Department X’s attempt at indoctrination. Probably the result of infighting between factions, the American handlers jealously guarding Buck like some shiny new toy.

“And the rest of it?”

He could see Bucky suppressing the urge to look away, frowning a little as he tried to put words to self-care he hadn’t performed in decades.

“Priority is to be given to m-maintenance of the body. This asset has discretion in matters of hydration and hygiene. It is to report… negative sensation. To the handler. Sir…” Bucky hesitated, confusion distorting his brow. He looked around the room again, searching for something he wouldn’t find. “Base protocol may only be altered through direct cognitive recalibration.”

Steve didn’t flinch. He’d been expecting more resistance, honestly. Bucky was just reporting a known obstacle. Steve caught his eyes again, smoothing his thumb across Bucky’s cheek.

“I know, Buck. I know. But that’s no longer part of our operating procedures. There won’t be anymore recalibration. No more wipes. No more cryo. Never again. We’ll practice changing those protocols in other ways, but I don’t want to cause you unnecessary pain. I’m sorry about last night. I know you tried to tell me. I didn’t realize it would hurt you like that.

“I want you to let me know if there's anything you need. Anything to… support optimal functionality. You won’t be punished for asking questions or for offering suggestions. You won’t be punished for making mistakes. There are very few situations in which I imagine disciplinary action will be necessary at all, but if it is, I will make it explicitly clear when it is being administered. Understood?”

Bucky still looked skeptical, but some of the tension drained from his shoulders as the words sank in. Maybe the ordinary surroundings of the cabin were a good call. It was nothing like a military base, or a lab, or any site of HYDRA’s abuse. The most threatening thing around, besides the two of them, was the overcomplicated oven.

“Y-yes, sir. Understood.”

“Tell me.”

Buck swallowed. “N-no cryo. No resets.” He sounded more unsure of that than anything so far. Steve hoped it wouldn’t be an issue, but he knew that was naive. “This asset may request needed material, supply intelligence, and make inquiries. P-punishment will be clearly delineated.”

Steve ran a hand through Bucky’s hair, just once, before setting it back on his shoulder. “That’s right, sweetheart. Good job. Any questions?”

Another pause.

“Cryostasis procedure is required for restoration of physical and cognitive functionality, sir.”

“Not anymore. I want you to try and sleep – lie down and let your body and brain turn off for a while – like…” Like a goddamn person. Because you are a person. “Like any other operative. It’ll help you heal better.”

Bucky gave a short nod. Steve could see him struggling with the idea, but he let the silence stand until Bucky was ready to speak again.

“Sir. What is the mission?”

He’d been waiting for that question.

“Right now, your mission is to rest and improve your health. That’s it. There’s not much for us to do while the team works out a more long-term plan.”

That one took a while. Bucky glanced down and back a few times, eyes wide and forehead scrunched up like he was working out a riddle in his head, before responding.

“Clarify parameters for mission success, sir.”

Steve tried to phrase ‘getting better’ so that Bucky would understand.

“Physical functionality of at least seventy-five percent, maintained over a minimum of two weeks. Consistent nutrition and sleep. I’d like you to try and get at least four hours of sleep at night, but you can take additional hours during the day. Rest as much as you need, whenever you need. We’re aiming for standard caloric intake within the next few weeks, but we have to ease into it. Limit physical activity until I clear you for it. I can’t give a cognitive benchmark. I’m hoping the flashbacks will decrease, but that’s difficult to measure. We’ll reevaluate as we go. Sound good?”

Bucky was obviously out of sorts, but he wasn’t panicking. After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

“Alright. If you think of anything else, any time at all, speak freely. We can discuss changes if we need to. That’s it for now. At ease, soldier.”

Steve let himself relax as well, threading his fingers into Bucky’s damp hair. It had the expected result. Buck’s eyes fell closed, and he curled into the touch like a needy cat.

Chapter 29

Chapter Text

The Soldier attempted to assimilate the orders as best it could, but they rasped along established protocol like bullets against burrs in a barrel, becoming scarred and misdirected by the time they reached subconsciousness.

No reset. No cryo. And a highly irregular mission.

Rest. Heal. These were the functions of cryostasis. But there was no cryo, he said. It was to sleep. To simply lie and wait for hours each night, without a target or training to complete. It seemed a complete waste of time and resources to have the Soldier take up space in the handler's quarters, much less make use of the furniture as he insisted. What purpose could this serve? Did he intend to make it his pet, as the Commander had? To have it sit idle and be a display piece for him? But he had given combat engagement parameters as well. Was it to serve him as it had the Secretary, at heel during travel and negotiations, a personal guard? It did not know. He had not specified.

It was to propose changes to operating parameters. Irregular, and unthinkably insubordinate.

It was to request needed material. It had only ever done so during fieldwork. But there was no fieldwork until it reached acceptable functionality. What would it require aside from nutrition?

It was to report… hunger? To request rations? It was the handlers prerogative when and how it took nutrition.

It was to maintain the body itself. Feasible, but irregular.

It had the freedom to make inquiries. That had been the case for some handlers, the Colonel especially. This it could comprehend. It was useful, to be able to clarify orders. Especially with such a confounding handler as the Captain.

Reporting malfunction to the handler, that was standard protocol as well. But how could he rectify the malfunctions if he would not use the chair? Was there some sort of reprogramming mechanism he had access to that it was not aware of, like the verbal punishment?

Despite this handler’s anomalous behavior, he continually defied expectations. The Captain was unique. He had been the first handler. He said it was different before. Had the Soldier been designed to his specifications? Could this be a return to its original programming? Those protocols were extant, but inactive. Hidden in deep places in the mind, waiting for his voice, his eyes, his hands, to awaken them. His command had stilled its fist, had overridden the imperatives, even the mission itself, the highest of priorities. He was the Captain. He was…

The Soldier should have been far more disturbed by such divergence from standard operating procedure. It would surely insite further malfunction. But it could not keep hold of the vexation for long. It could hardly focus on anything beyond the sunshine smell and the overwhelmingly positive input trickling down the scalp.

He had already been so indulgent during the cleansing routine, and now the hair was unencumbered by knots. His fingers carded smoothly between the clean strands, tracing the same route again and again. It was viscerally aware of how much force those hands could exert, yet the entire body surrendered as if there was no trace of a threat. Other handlers might have employed this treatment before, but never for such extended periods. Never with such tenderness. It was a very effective technique for subduing the Soldier.

After ten point four languid minutes, it felt him move away, the warmth of his skin growing distant. It willed the eyes to open, immediately struck by another soft smile.

“Hey, Buck.” He spoke it like a greeting, though the words carried an insinuation it could not parse.

“Sir.”

[Hey, Stevie.]

“You good?”

[“So good for me…”]

“Yes, sir. Functional.”

The handler spent six seconds simply looking at its face, the corner of his lips twitching upwards. His mouth was very pink.

“It’s time for another dose of plant protein. I’ll be right back.”

He stood, leaving it in position on the rug as he moved about the kitchen. Without the distracting touch, the lurking unease crept nearer. There were so many conflicting imperatives, so much confusion, the thoughts skittering in all directions. He had said there were no handlers, then he had become the handler. He had balked at its recitation of protocol, but then established his own. And he said disciplinary action was to be explicitly delineated, but he had employed the verbal punishment protocol several times with no prior notice. He swung from anger to single-minded focus in minutes. How was it to know when he was testing it, if his moods were so easily changed?

It was dangerous and irrational to compromise the implementation of new protocol with such duplicity. But it did not seem like a test of compliance. The handler had immediately countered its attempts to reference established protocol.

A glass of rations was placed in front of it, along with a glass of water and a bottle of the colorful sugary liquid. This one was blue. It began the nutrition protocol and consumed some of the water as well. The hands hesitated over the blue liquid. The handler said it had discretion. The beverage was superfluous now that it was allowed proper rations. It should not intentionally provoke him, but it had to determine if there was some trick hidden in these orders. It kept close watch on his response to the selection, but he paid it little mind.

The handler busied himself with various tasks around the facility. He prepared his own meal, a stack of bread slices and cold meat, and ate it while standing at the counter. He carried clothing and towels into the cleansing facility, making use of the machines housed there. The swish and hum of the washing machine filled the safehouse, the scent of cleansing agent pouring into the sitting area. He attempted to clean the floors, though he gave up on the task when it was only partially complete. It was irregular for a handler to perform such menial duties. Commander Rumlow had never… but without subordinate operatives here for support, it supposed it was the only option.

When he had cleaned to his satisfaction, the handler retrieved a large circular bag and took out… [Metal on metal, extreme force impacting the sensors, pain rattling through the bones.] The Soldier stared, unsure if it was more entranced by the gleaming vibranium or the movement of the handler’s hands as he cleaned and polished the shield. After nine point two minutes, he took notice, glancing up at it.

“You finished?”

Right. The nutrition.

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t gotta just sit there, Buck. You’re welcome to use your time however you see fit. I can set you up with the laptop– Do you know how to use computers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. You can use that, or read whatever books Nat stashed in here. Just let me know if you wanna go outside.”

[The Asset does not want.]

It considered the instruction. It could be another test. But there was no point in having the Soldier out of cryo storage without making use of it somehow.

“Current functionality allows for surveillance duties, weapons maintenance, or cognitive training, sir.”

“Well, unless you wanna play Tetris I don’t have much for, uh, educational materials.” He shrugged. “There wasn’t anything at the perimeter besides deer and rabbits. You can work on weapons if you want. I haven’t cleaned my stuff since before Oak Creek. You got more than one gun on you?”

Inventory. This was long overdue. Perhaps proper debrief and maintenance would come soon, then.

“Affirmative, sir. Current firearm inventory: Sig Sauer P220, Glock G34, COP 357, Intratec TEC-38. Limited ammunition, unknown viability due to moisture exposure. Bladed weapons: Gerber Mark II, three. KA-BAR D2, three. Becker BK7, three. Benchmade SOCP 176BK, one. Gerber Yari II, one.”

The handler stared at it for four seconds, brows raised, then snorted and shook his head. “Jeez, Buck. At least you left the SMG behind.”

It felt the corners of the mouth turn down. It did not know what had happened to the Skorpion vzor 61. The retrieval team would not have been active once the order to retreat was given. It was unfortunate that the Soldier had been unable to locate another of the same model at the base. They were good weapons.

“I gotta kit in here somewhere. Just a sec.”

The handler set the shield aside and rose to go to the sleeping quarters. It heard him digging through his bags, then he returned with a full cleaning kit, a towel, and a standard-issue Glock 17. He held all of this out for the Soldier.

“Go ahead and do mine while you’re at it. You always do a better job than me.”

He smiled as if amused. It could not recall performing maintenance on this handler’s equipment before, but it had no option but to trust his assessment. The Captain had not used firearms during the previous mission. He relied heavily on close quarters combat and used the shield for ranged assault. [They’re goddamn Nazis, Steve. Just pick up a f*ckin’ gun and shoot ‘em!]

“Yes, sir.”

It situated itself in the far corner and extracted the weapons from under the garments and inside the duffel, then set about performing the first proper weapons maintenance in weeks. The rasp of the brush and the scent of gun oil set it at ease. This was positive. It was familiar. It was useful. The Soldier prioritized the handler’s weapon. It was in fair condition, perfectly functional, but it ensured that each surface shone and each mechanism moved with no resistance. It would not do for the handler to be put at risk due to weapon failure.

The Glock and Sig were operable, with only minor oxidation. They were restored to optimal condition with ease. The Derringers took more time. It had cleaned them before, but without solvent maintenance had been ineffective.

The knives required only cursory polishing, saved from the worst of the – rain? moisture of some sort – by the layers of canvas they had been wrapped in.

It inspected the ammunition closely, setting aside most of it for disposal. It was unknown if the handler would permit additional rounds if the Soldier was not cleared for combat. There was enough for initial defense of the safehouse if necessary, but not for extended engagement.

It assumed a posture of attention as the handler approached, placing the KA-BAR it was holding on the towel and preparing itself to submit for inspection. Eyes front, back straight, arms at the sides. He presented it with a black plastic bag. [Hands bound, spine stiff, pressure on the neck–]

“If you’ve got anything that needs to be thrown out, put it in here,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

It cautiously took the bag and began filling it with the damaged ammunition, then removed the used nutrition packs, empty water bottles, and other assorted refuse from the duffel. The handler knelt down, and his hand covered the Soldiers, halting its movement. He lifted one of the empty NG nutrition packs from the bag and examined the label.

“Where’d you get these?”

[Submit for–]

The inquiry sounded neutral. He had disregarded the report of stolen nutrition before, but the severity of his expression made the Soldier suspect that he might have changed his mind.

“Acquired from civilian medical facility, sir. This asset was not detected.” It recalled his question about harming civilians. “It took only what was necessary.”

His lips made the shape of a smile, but the effect was not quite right. The back stiffened further.

“That’s good, Buck. I just…” he shook his head. “Did it help?”

“Yes, sir. Nutrition extended operative time by four point one days.”

“Good. I’m glad you found something you could use.” He paused for a moment, his features shifting through several configurations [confusion, concern, disappointment, relief] before he looked back to the Soldier. “What happened after DC, anyway? How’d you find me?”

[Submit for debrief.]

It was strange that it had taken the handler this long to initiate debrief, though his primary concern thus far had been security and the Soldier’s functionality. It attempted to provide an accurate report.

“No rendezvous point was given. Immediately following the f-failure of Project Insight, this asset reported to facility DC Alpha One-Zero for debrief and recalibration. No personnel were present. This asset proceeded to Walter Reed Medical Center to confirm death of secondary handler Commander Rumlow. Deceased, October fourteenth, two-thousand-fourteen. Nutrition acquired.”

The handler’s lips thinned. It continued the report, tension building in the chest.

“This asset attempted to locate secondary handler Davis. Operation unsuccessful. Baltimore facility Delta Two-Eight abandoned. Evasive action taken to avoid detection by agents of SHIELD. T-tracking devices removed from the body. It…”

The Soldier faltered, fearing reprimand for the unauthorized alteration of the body. It was not sure it would be able to effectively describe the experience of the weeks after Baltimore.

“It attempted to reach facility Lamda Four-Nine, Harrisburg. Malfunction prevented completion of this objective. It sheltered in an abandoned industrial facility. Malfunction increased in s-severity. Loss of c-consciousness, unknown duration. S-several days at minimum.”

The handler exerted more pressure against its hand, his eyes softening. “God, Buck.” The tightness in the lungs increased. It could not determine what this response meant. It went on.

“M-malfunction abated. Potential handler identified: Captain Steven Rogers. The map discovered at Delta Two-Eight suggested that the C-Captain’s mission would target facility Kappa One-Zero, Oak Ridge. Nutrition acquired at unknown medical facility.” It could not even recall the city. There had been civilians, many of them, and then... It reported only what it knew to be factual. “Th-this asset proceeded south to attempt intercept. Agent Samuel Wilson identified, pursued to unknown intercept point. Cognitive malfunction prevents accurate recall, sir.”

“Jesus," the handler said. "You were… I was just a few days behind you. They cleared Baltimore right before I got out of the hospital.”

The salivary glands released a flood of moisture. It swallowed compulsively. It had done that. It had put the handler in the hospital, had nearly killed him. It deserved none of his grace and generosity. His gaze lingered on the Soldier’s hand, his thumb running along the seam of one of the plates. Then his face shifted again, suddenly serious, and he looked back up at it.

“Wait, what map? Was someone tracking our hits?”

“Insufficient intelligence, sir. There was evidence of… of interference with the standard HYDRA regional mapping application. It was…” The Soldier’s vision blurred, the mind going elsewhere as it worked to recall the exact configuration of the data. “It was a pattern, sir. A geometric sequence. Blue and white, points and stars.”

It blinked several times and refocused, unsure of what reaction to expect. The handler’s smile was back, more genuine this time.

“Natasha. I shoulda figured she was up to something when she told us to stay put at that motel for a week. Jesus,” he repeated, exhaling heavily. “We were so close.”

His left hand joined the right, squeezing the prosthetic fingers. A mosaic of heat and pressure lit up the sensors. Did he mean to say that the Widow… had she created the additional map layer? Had she known its location somehow? That was impossible. It had been so careful. At least, it thought it had been careful. It could not remember much of the journey. After Baltimore, it was a haze of dark and wet and cold and [–just gotta keep going, one foot in front of the other. He needs you. St–]

“It’s amazing you made it all that way by yourself, Buck. You did so good. You always were damn resourceful,” the handler said, his intonation shifting into something more introspective. “You got us out of a lot of tight spots. Always had something in your back pocket. I wouldn’t’ve made it through the war without you, y’know? God, one time,” he gave a wry laugh, and pain twinged through the Soldier’s skull. “One time we’d been pinned down for four days in Nazi territory, missed our extraction, gear totally wrecked, and you managed to find the only working radio in ten square miles. Do you remember…”

[Artillery fire and blood in the air and the screeching of steel on steel. Needles in the arms, iron across the chest, and pain like acid in the veins.]

The jaw clenched, and the diaphragm seized. Had the handler lied when he said that disciplinary action would be clearly delineated? It had earned this, it knew, but– It tried to remember, tried to understand. He wanted it to report. He said that multiple times. He said no punishment for the infractions before. He said–

“... and then Dugan ended up stealing them, said they matched his boots best. I think he showed those off to every guy in camp…”

[Barnes. J-James Buchanan. Sergeant. One-oh-seven.]

The pain wound tighter and tighter as he spoke. The left hand locked in place around his fingers. The pulse was erratic. It could not harm the handler. It had to– It could not think. It had to report before the body shut down entirely, before it was dragged back into the empty place. It concentrated every bit of cognitive energy on making the lips move, forcing the words to come. The sound it produced was barely audible.

“P-p…”

The handler’s voice cut short. The momentary silence was a gift, a relief from the flood of soft, violent words. His hand flexed against the prosthesis, but the titanium digits did not move.

“Buck?”

It strained to draw breath past the pain thrumming down the spine, shuddering as it gasped, “P-pozhaluysta, ser. Pozhaluysta.”

“Bucky, what’s wrong?”

“Please. C-clarify, sir.”

“What do you need me to clarify?” He spoke deliberately, his voice firm, but… not angry? It could not be sure.

“Verbal p-punishment in c-contradiction. With stated p-p-protocol, sir. P-please. Clarify.”

Silence for twelve seconds. It pried the eyes away from where they had affixed to the floor, assessing his attitude. The handler was leaning intently towards it, pain clear on his face.

“Verbal… punishment? Oh, god, have I been– Am I hurting you when I talk about that stuff?”

It made an irregular noise as it attempted to clear the throat of an obstruction that was not there. “The p-punishment is highly effective, sir. Please clarify. What infraction?”

His hand swept down the forearm. It could not feel the texture of his skin, the well-worn callouses it knew were there. He increased the pressure, thumb moving across the back of the titanium knuckles. Numb, warm, numb. The knife in its skull withdrew by a centimeter, leaving an aching void.

“No. God, no.” He sounded broken, misery coloring every word. It did not understand why the mechanism would harm him as well. “No infraction. No– I didn’t know, I swear. It wasn’t meant to be a punishment. I didn’t–” He dug his free hand into his forehead, knuckles pressed hard against the bridge of his nose. “f*ck!”

The Soldier suppressed a flinch at the sudden exclamation. No additional punishment came. The handler’s grip on the left hand did not let up, and the rhythmic motion of his thumb did not stop. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn't realize– I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Goddammit. I should’ve known.”

He was apologizing so profusely. The pain had been unintentional? How could he not be aware of a command phrase specifically coded to his voice? The handler removed his hand from his face, eyes searching for something in the Soldier’s posture.

“Can I… Would additional physical contact cause distress or pain?”

It was his prerogative to initiate contact with the Soldier as he wished, but it attempted to give an accurate answer. The only time the handler’s touch had caused pain previously was when the Soldier had faced him in combat. But that was before he was the handler, and even then…

“N-negative, sir.”

He nodded, then carefully removed his hands from the grip of the prosthetic. The handler extricated its flesh fingers from the soft cotton pants. It had not even been aware that it was digging into the fabric, scratching at the skin of the leg. He drew the Soldier into his body so that the left shoulder rested against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around the torso. One hand cupped the back of the head, moving over the hair in short strokes. It did not understand this reaction. A reward for reporting? The spine was still rigid, but the pain began to ebb, and the lungs slowly returned to their standard pattern.

“I’m so sorry. That won’t happen again, I swear. It was an accident. I didn’t know, Buck. I didn’t know.”

Chapter 30

Chapter Text

It took every ounce of Steve’s self control not to break something. He had to stay calm so Buck didn’t panic again. He had to– He didn’t know. How could he provide comfort for pain he’d inflicted? God, he just kept f*cking up. He was so selfish, clinging so tightly to his memories that he’d betrayed the Bucky sitting right here in front of him. He’d seen glimpses of the past in the twist of Bucky’s lips, the increasingly sharp eyes, and he’d thought there were enough pieces there to build a bridge. To help Buck remember.

It was a miracle he recognized Steve as anything other than a target. And Steve had taken that for granted. For him, it’d been just a few years since they’d last been together. The war, the Howlies, everything was so fresh in his mind, preserved in full color and high definition by his enhanced memory. For Bucky, it had been a lifetime. A lifetime of cruelty and pain.

It wasn’t enough to raze the home they’d built in each other. HYDRA ripped out the foundations and scorched the earth. Every simpering syllable of nostalgia dripped into Bucky’s wounds like venom, and Steve was the snake. He’d taken a play right out of HYRA’s book, put their words in his mouth, claimed Bucky as his own. He was just as bad as they were, trying to make Buck into who he thought he should be. Trying to pretend things could be normal. He could barely contain the fury that threatened to crack him open.

Steve held on for a good twenty minutes, his arms carefully, intentionally lax. He pored over the past few days frame by frame. He could see it in retrospect, that tension in Buck’s body, the increase in heart rate when Steve spoke about the past. He’d thought it was just Buck getting lost in thought, maybe nervous that he couldn’t remember. How useless could he be, not even noticing that Buck was in so much pain that he couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t fight back. He was such an idiot.

He paid close attention now, making sure his own breathing was under control. The pounding pulse slowed, Bucky’s chest expanding in time with his own. When he finally let go, Buck seemed calm. There was a hint of confusion in his eyes, but no distress in the crease of his brow, no pain hidden in the corner of his lips. Steve could only repeat himself, a broken f*cking record that didn’t do either of them any good.

“I’m so sorry, honey. I wasn’t trying to hurt you. No punishment. No infraction. You’ve done nothing wrong. That was my fault. I’m… I’m working from outdated intel. Still learning the ropes. Thank you for telling me. That was good. You did so good, Buck.”

Steve smoothed over the now-frizzled hair, and Bucky’s head butted into his palm as he breathed a soft, “Yes, sir.”

He hated the part of himself that thought Buck looked beautiful like this, loose locks framing high cheekbones and elation softening his expression as he reacted to the praise. Steve felt like he might shatter, overcome with pride for how much strength it must’ve taken for Bucky to speak up. And blinding rage at how HYDRA was hurting him, even now. Shame for his own loose lips adding to the score. Love and grief so vast that they threatened to eclipse everything else.

Steve was a goddamn mess.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Bucky hummed, blinking a few times before answering, “Functional, sir.”

Steve was beginning to think ‘functional’ encompassed an extremely wide range of conditions, but he hoped it meant that whatever pain he’d caused had passed. He resisted the urge to sigh again. He was going to empty himself out and blow away if he kept heaving like a creaky old furnace. Get it together, Rogers. There was nothing to do besides avoid the same mistake going forward.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sir?”

Steve got a very skeptical look for that. The handler requesting the Asset’s permission to ask a question, what a concept.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighed. “I was just wondering… Does it bother you when I call you ‘Bucky’? Or cause any pain? If there’s another name you prefer, I can use that.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, head co*cked as he considered the question.

“The Asset has no preferences, sir,” he recited. Steve thought he’d stop there, but Bucky went on, almost thoughtful. “There is no negative sensation. This asset’s designation is the prerogative of the handler. The Captain selected the current designation. It is acceptable.”

Acceptable. Something told him that meant more than just okay. Did Buck actually feel any personal connection to the name, or was it significant simply because Steve had used it? It didn’t matter much, Steve figured, as long as it wasn’t hurting him.

He thought about bringing up the other words, “asset” and “it.” But he didn’t know if Bucky would even understand what he was trying to say right now. Was that just another way to try and force Buck into Steve’s mold of who he should be? Steve didn’t want to encourage the dehumanizing language, but he was already asking so much of Bucky. Maybe it would be better to just… try and talk to him like a person, until it sank in.

“Alright. Thank you. I’ll let you finish up.” Steve extricated himself from the array of trash and loose ammunition, careful not to disturb Bucky’s piles. He took note of the neatly arranged tac suits, a splotch of inky black against the blonde wood flooring. Bucky had two of those damned masks with him – the files said they were impact resistant and had filtration built in, but Steve couldn’t help but think of them as muzzles.

“I don’t have any leather cleaning stuff with me right now,” he said. “Once Natasha clears it, I can go into town and get some. For now, you can hang your gear in one of the closets to air out.”

The whole outfit was heavy and restrictive, but it was best to keep any and all gear in working condition, just in case. There was a moment of giddiness when Steve imagined the Winter Soldier’s leather getup stuck on a little blue plastic hanger and put away next to fluffy towels and handmade quilts. This situation shouldn’t be funny. God, he needed more sleep.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Bucky sounded so formal, like space in the closet was an unexpected gift. It was disorienting. He’d never been so deferential to COs before, always rolling his eyes when they weren’t looking.

“When you’re done, we can go over the security system and do a more thorough perimeter check.”

Buck visibly perked up at that. The rest of the cleaning went pretty quick. He laid the guns in a neat row to air out, then stowed the duffel and tac gear in the bedroom closet, being painfully careful not to move Steve’s slapdash pile of luggage. Steve almost missed the weapons being replaced under Bucky’s clothing.

The walk around the property did them both good. It was different than his morning run, less hurried, allowing him to really take in the landscape. It was gorgeous out here, all dark trees and snowy mountains. Buck was alert, head on a swivel, but he seemed pleased to have a familiar task to do. And he was finally getting some sun, even if it was watery winter light, mostly obscured by the semi-permanent cloud cover of the Northwest. He hadn’t been outside, minus a few quick stops at gas station bathrooms, in almost a week. Steve resolved to incorporate this into their daily routine, both for security and Bucky’s health. He was still weak, but it’d be nice for him to stretch his legs and get some fresh air. Steve would be there to catch him if he got dizzy again.

He pointed out the motion sensors and tripwires around the perimeter, the cameras along the driveway, and the control console in the kitchen. Bucky didn’t need much instruction. He showed Steve where the bugs were: two in the living room, two in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, and one by the front door that could probably pick up noise from the porch. Steve was surprised, but grateful, that Nat hadn’t put one in the bathroom.

They settled back in the living room, and he mixed another protein shake for Bucky. It went down with no issues. Steve realized now that the one time Bucky had thrown up was when he’d been talking about the war, and he had to bite back more cursing. He knew what kind of conditioning Buck had gone through, and he should’ve realized trying to prompt him to remember would cause him pain, whether physical or emotional.

He didn’t know how to make up for it. There had to be something he could provide besides the paltry necessities of food and clothing. It wasn’t even real food, and half the clothes were Steve’s old workout gear. The new stuff was all the wrong size, grabbed in haste during his bleary 1AM Walmart run. Buck was so thin right now the sweatpants nearly fell off his hips, even with the string drawn tight.

Steve finished up his second protein bar and glanced over to the weapons laid out against the far wall. He hated to compare Bucky’s arm to a gun, but, well… He hadn’t had anyone look at it in almost a month, and he’d been through a lot since then. Steve couldn’t fix any mechanical issues, but he might be able to do something.

“Buck. D'you…” Bucky looked up from where he sat in front of the stove, immediately at attention. Steve cleared his throat. “D’you think it’d be helpful for me to uh, clean up your arm a bit?”

“Your discretion, sir. There is minimal interference from external particulates.”

He wondered if that ‘minimal’ interference was similar to Bucky’s assessment of ‘functional.’ HYDRA’s benchmarks for acceptable damage were far too high.

“Lemme take a look. I’m no engineer, but I can clean a hinge.” Bucky shifted to stand, but Steve waved him back. “Stay there, I’ll come to you.”

He grabbed the towel Bucky had used as a drop cloth, then the cleaning kit. Buck looked hesitant as Steve folded himself down to the rug next to him, but obligingly pulled off his shirt and held his arm out. Steve watched more closely this time when he opened the plates. There weren’t any big muscle movements in his back like for a regular prosthetic. Was it all just direct nerve signals? Nausea resurfaced when he remembered the medical diagrams, the scarring on Buck’s scalp. Jesus. He swallowed down his horror and focused on the task at hand.

“You tell me if this hurts or stresses you out, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Steve took the metal hand in his, carefully rotating Bucky’s wrist and inspecting the places where the plating overlapped. When he ran his fingers lightly across the artificial palm, he saw Bucky suppress a shiver.

“You feel that?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Huh. That’s. That’s really sensitive.”

He didn’t want to say it was impressive, because, f*ck, it was the result of brutal medical experimentation. But he hadn’t expected that level of sensation in a limb primarily used as a weapon.

“Sensors detect input in the form of pressure, temperature, and prioreception, sir. Higher concentration of sensors in the extremity of the prosthesis.”

“Guess that makes sense.”

Buck wouldn’t be able to handle guns and knives like he did without knowing where his hand was or how much force he was exerting. Steve wasn’t sure what the temperature feedback would be useful for, but it meant that Bucky’s arm was about as close to lifelike as it could get. If Tony ever saw it up close, he’d probably start drooling. Hell, if Bucky was… well. Anyone with an eye for engineering would’ve been intrigued.

Steve kept his scattered thoughts to himself as he picked out the smallest brush from the cleaning kit and got to work. He ran it along the few places he could see dirt or discoloration, trying his best to use even pressure and not set off Buck’s nerves. Could you tickle a metal hand? Bucky didn’t twitch again, and when Steve glanced up his face was impassive. He stared out over Steve’s shoulder to the front door. Still keeping watch. Hopefully this wasn’t reminiscent of his treatment under HYDRA. He seemed calm enough.

Steve almost expected to see wires or something between the plates, but there was only another layer of metal, less segmented than the exterior. The whole thing was probably waterproof, or at least close to it. There were a few places where mud had dried in the joints – bright orange from the clay-rich soils down South – with a couple stray blue threads mixed in. The denim jacket had been shredded. Guess the one-armed tac suit was practical as well as intimidating. What he couldn’t get with the brush he gently pried out with the pick. It reminded him of the one time he’d capitulated to Natasha’s demands and let her take him to a salon, all the little tools poking and prodding at his nails.

Working further up the arm brought him to the plates he'd damaged with the shield – the rushed patch job was evident in a few new welds – and closer to Bucky’s bare chest. He’d seen it before, but always when he was distracted by other concerns. The scarring went deep, like it had taken a long time to heal. There were tiny indents in the skin where it’d been pinned down over the implant.

Steve reminded himself to breathe and quickly finished up, wiping away the last of the debris with the polishing cloth. He had the ridiculous impulse to start buffing, like he was shining up a fancy new car. Buck probably wouldn’t think it was funny now. Steve wasn’t even sure he know what a joke was. He dropped the cloth before he made an even bigger ass of himself.

“Alright, that’s all I got. I don’t see any damage, but I got no idea what’s going on under the casing.”

Bucky looked back to him and gave a short nod. The arm rippled again, plates shifting up and down before settling back into alignment. Steve briefly thought of dwarves in shining armor and lonely dragons, and a bolt of grief pierced his fascination as he watched Buck flex.

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky deadpanned. “Prosthesis functionality increased to seventy-six percent.”

The half-mad laughter finally burst out of him. One percent. Over half an hour of careful scrubbing and it got him one percent improvement. At least it was cleaner now. Little bits of leaves and multicolored grit littered the towel, remnants of Bucky’s long journey.

“Yeah,” he snorted, “Sure thing.”

________________________________________________

Two days later, Steve heard the shower running while he was making breakfast. He was ridiculously relieved Bucky had taken the hygiene instructions to heart. It wasn’t like he minded helping him out, but it was good for him to take some initiative in the care of his own body, and to have a bit of privacy. The water shut off after less than two minutes, and there was no other sound from the bathroom for a long time, but Bucky still didn’t come into the kitchen. Steve grew concerned. He set aside the skillet and went to check on him.

He found Buck standing in the middle of the room, naked and dripping wet, with a knife to his own throat. Steve’s heart stopped cold, visions of Bucky’s face in the HYDRA files, lips blue and eyes empty, flashing through his mind. He leapt forward, unthinking, and wrenched Bucky’s hand away. Bucky went still, the only indication of surprise a subtle widening of his eyes.

“Buck,” Steve gasped. “What the hell are you doing?”

Bucky blinked at him, glancing from Steve’s face to where he was gripping his wrist in what had to be a painful hold. Steve relaxed, but didn’t let go.

“Sir. This asset is completing the cleansing routine established by the handler.”

“You– What–” Steve’s chest hurt. He tried to take a deeper breath, with only partial success. “What the hell d’you need a knife for?”

“Removal of facial hair, sir.”

Steve balked. He looked closer, and, sure enough, there was a patch of clean skin on one side of his jaw, and tiny flecks of dark hair on the blade. The sigh that left his chest was more of a gale, taking some of the panic with it, but leaving wreckage in its wake. His heart was still pounding. He cautiously removed his hand from Bucky’s arm.

“Jesus f*cking Christ, Buck.”

Bucky looked away, then slowly turned the knife over in his hand and put it down on the countertop.

“Apologies, sir. This asset submits for disciplinary action.”

He hung his head like a chastised child, his hair catching on his ears and behind his neck. It was technically clean, but still tangled. Buck could take apart a gun and handle tiny tools with ease, even with the prosthetic. He probably could shave himself dry without a scratch – the knives were definitely sharp enough. But the simple act of combing his hair, something that he used to do religiously, was so foreign to him he’d barely made an attempt. The gaping wound in Steve’s chest pulsed with renewed pain. He ran his hands down Buck’s arms in a gesture of apology. Bucky was freezing. Had he not used the hot water?

“No. No, honey you’re not in trouble. I just didn’t realize. I thought you were gonna hurt yourself. You weren’t even using the mirror. There’s razors in the cabinet, and shaving cream. You don’t have to shave with a damn combat knife.”

Bucky glanced over at the mirror, then quickly away. His eyebrows scrunched up and his gaze went a bit vacant – the new (to Steve) expression that seemed to mean he was confused, but unwilling to risk reprimand by saying anything about it. Steve suppressed another sigh.

“How about you let me take care of that part, okay?” He passed Buck a towel, which was held blankly in one hand until Steve gently took it back and wrapped it around his waist. “C’mon, sit down. I’ll do your hair, too. You gotta put conditioner in it. Nat will never let me hear the end of it If you get split ends.” Bucky let himself be led to the edge of the tub and sat, still giving Steve that lost look.

“Sir, confirm alteration to hygiene protocol: this asset is responsible for all tasks with the exception of maintenance of the hair.”

“Yeah, Buck,” he said, trying to summon a bit of good humor. “Confirm.”

________________________

Six days passed without further incident.

Bucky drank his shakes, sat by the fire, and kept watch during Steve’s runs. Steve ate his peanut butter and scrambled eggs, checked his email, and kept his mouth shut.

He texted Nat regular updates. She sent him the all clear at least twice daily, as well as a series of emoji that he thought might translate to ‘Happy Birthday, asshole.’ He had no idea how she’d discovered his real date of birth, but he was hardly surprised. He resisted texting Sam, or calling Tony. He wondered if Pegs had seen the news, and how she would react. If she'd ever suspected... Hopefully Sharon or one of the kids would be there to keep her company.

Steve kept up his reading, slogging through decades of poorly scanned and hastily transcribed German and Russian. He tried to lose himself in the finicky details of translation, but it was impossible to separate the technical language from the reality – it was hundreds of pages outlining the torture of the person he cared about more than life itself. It was miserable work, but Buck didn’t deserve to carry this alone.

HYDRA had done more than erase his memories. They’d taken him apart, literally and mentally. They’d broken down everything that made Bucky Bucky, denied him even the most basic necessities – food, sleep, light, human contact – for years until he complied. Then there were the surgeries, the drugs, the wipes. They operated without anesthesia half the time, even though they’d developed a formula that worked for Bucky. Steve nearly threw up reading that report, but he grit his teeth and flagged the medical notes for Nat to send to Bruce. Just in case.

It was strange to see that Buck had initially operated like a normal agent. Department X gave him a name (Dmitry Ivanovich Vronsky, common and innocuous), trusted him to train recruits, and allowed him a room in a dormitory. He was a favored asset, his work praised by the party leaders, even if they weren't aware of which agent was truly responsible for the hits. That all changed after he tried to escape with Nat in seventy-nine. He became a prisoner again, with shorter missions and more scrutiny. But it was the American branch of HYDRA who’d turned Bucky into a glorified machine gun, to be disassembled, oiled, and put away whenever he wasn’t in use. No sleep, no real food, no human contact outside of orders and discipline. For twenty-four years.

He nearly shattered the keyboard when he saw Pierce’s note in the latest file: The Asset is to be decommissioned following the launch of Project Insight. Prohibitive operating costs and increasing malfunction make its use highly inefficient, and, with the successful launch, redundant.

It wasn’t lost on Steve that the country he’d given his body, his life for had become an incubator for this kind of evil. SHIELD itself was ultimately responsible, and Steve had been furthering their goals. The propaganda was different now, less obvious, but he was still their dancing monkey. He added another stone to the mountain of resentment he’d built against both of the organizations. And himself. He was really looking forward to getting back in action and cracking some skulls.

Steve eventually took a break from the horrors of Bucky’s past to scan the news for any movement from Stark or HYDRA. There were rumblings of new HYDRA cells forming overseas, and some activity in California. Steve sent Nat what suggestions he could. Without Tony’s support, and with Steve out of the game and Sam laying low, it was up to Hill’s team and Natasha’s hacking to keep things under control for now.

Tony had been busy. Once he figured out he wasn’t gonna find her safehouse, Natasha said, he’d taken a page out of Steve’s book, whipping up a small army of robots and single-handedly demolishing the HYDRA facilities in NYC. In the span of a few days he caused more destruction than Steve and Sam had in a month. Steve was torn between celebrating more HYDRA defeats and fearing for Bucky’s safety if all that firepower was aimed at them.

Without Steve’s big mouth getting in the way, Bucky seemed to be doing better. Aside from a few tense moments – a deer tripping one of the alarms and Buck whipping out a gun and ghosting to the door so fast Steve’s head spun – he was content to curl up on the rug for hours. He took the mission of rest and recuperation seriously, tending to the fire as if it was a vital operation. Steve ended up wearing t-shirts most days, but Bucky hardly had any fat on his bones, so he didn’t say anything about the temperature. Splitting wood gave him something to do, anyway.

Bucky followed him to the bedroom every night and laid on the floor, utterly silent, from 2200 to 0500, but Steve was pretty sure he wasn’t actually sleeping. He was always awake when Steve’s alarm went off in the morning, watching the door like enemy agents would come pouring through at any moment. Steve couldn't stay up all night and monitor Bucky’s vitals. Buck would notice his wakefulness and think something was wrong, and then they’d both be sleep deprived. He didn’t know how to help Bucky feel safe enough to rest. Hopefully he’d adjust soon. Lounging around for twenty hours a day and guzzling protein shakes appeared to be helping. The dark circles under Bucky’s eyes faded, if only a bit. Though he went distant at times – somehow even more still and silent than usual – there was much more life in Bucky’s gaze, more sureness in his limbs, and no more fainting.

Steve caught Buck looking at him throughout the day, sharp and assessing, like a guard dog only feigning a nap. (The analogy stung as soon as it popped into his head. He hated that it wasn’t all that inaccurate.) Bucky might’ve been waiting for some nonverbal signal, or he might’ve been hiding his boredom by watching Steve. He never touched the books or the computer, even after Steve offered multiple times.

There was little in the records about extracurricular activities besides weapons training or grueling exercise. As best Steve could tell, when the Soldier was awake but inactive HYDRA either put him in a holding cell or let him stand around like an intimidating coat rack. Some documents mentioned a ‘secondary function,’ but gave no details. It sounded like a protection assignment, used on base or for negotiations with potential allies. It’d been much more common with the American branch. Maybe Pierce was especially paranoid. Or he liked showing off his prized weapon. Steve couldn’t dwell on it. If he broke this laptop they’d be SOL until Natasha could send a new one.

Despite the faltering first steps they found a rhythm, and Steve started to breathe easier.

Chapter 31

Chapter Text

The seventh night, the screaming started.

It was a haunting, hollow sound, barely louder than a whisper. For a second, Steve thought it might be some animal caught in a snare. He’d never heard a mountain lion before, but he’d been told they had creepy, human-like cries. But there weren’t any windows open, and the noise was far too close, reverberating off the walls of the bedroom. He reached for the shield before he thought better of it. The alarms hadn’t gone off, and there weren’t any footfalls or strange smells. Steve slowly sat up, searching the room. What he found was far worse than a gun in his face.

Bucky was pressed up into the corner, still as a statue, face frozen in terror. The crackling, broken noise coming out of him was less a scream, more a horrified moan. It was the kind of noise that a person made when they were in great pain, body broken beyond the point of fighting. The kind of noise he’d only heard from men on their deathbeds.

“Bucky?”

His eyes were open, but there was no indication that Bucky could see or hear him. Steve turned on the bedside lamp, hoping it would help Buck remember where he was. Bucky flinched, and his hands twitched upwards before falling back to his sides. He’d gone to sleep with at least three weapons on him, but Buck didn’t reach for any of them. Wherever he was, he wasn’t even able to defend himself. There was a frustratingly long pause while Steve’s brain came back online enough for him to remember what he was actually supposed to do.

“Hey, Buck. It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re safe. No one else is here, just you and me. You’re in a safehouse in Oregon, in America.”

He inched closer, keeping his hands visible, until he was sitting right in front of Bucky. He stayed just out of reach, in case Buck tried to lash out. The noise dissolved into pained, ragged gasps. Sweat dripped down Bucky’s hair, slicking it into inky slashes across his forehead. His eyes were completely distant, focused on something behind Steve, thousands of miles away. Steve wanted to pull Bucky into his arms and hold him so badly it ached. But he knew not to touch someone having a flashback. He couldn’t think of anything else to do, so he kept talking.

“You’re okay. You’re safe, Buck. I’m right here with you. I won’t let anything hurt you, I swear. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s 0120, November fourteenth, twenty-fourteen. We’ve been in this house for about a week now. Just us. The sun’ll be up in a few hours, and we’ll go out and you’ll keep watch while I run. Probably look pretty silly just going in circles around the house and scaring the deer, huh?”

Steve struggled for a moment, unsure of what else to talk about. It didn’t really matter, Buck probably couldn’t make out the words. He shifted a bit closer, trying to will the heat of his body to somehow break through the panic.

“I’ve been talking to Natasha. She says Sam’s real pissed at me for leaving him behind like that. I bet we’ll get an earful when we see him. I think you’ll like him. He’s been trying to get me into this music. It’s pretty good, sounds kinda like…”

Don’t talk about old stuff. Don’t talk about the dance halls or the nights spent listening to the radio, limbs tangled under threadbare blankets.

“Nat might come out and visit, once things settle down. She’s looking forward to seeing you.” He really hoped mentioning Natasha didn’t cause more pain. It was probably safe, since Steve didn’t have any stories about her past. “She’ll have a lot to say about me wasting my time reading mission reports when I could’ve been learning to cook. She’s a live wire. Kept wanting to set me up on dates. I didn’t have the heart to tell her… Well, I guess she knows now.”

He sighed. God, he was bad at this. Maybe Sam was right. Who was he kidding? Sam was always right. Steve really needed to get a life. He couldn’t say more than two sentences without comparing everything to their old life. He’d never had to do this kind of thing before. They’d never needed words all that much. When they did, they had years of shared history, a shorthand they referenced constantly.

“I’m so sorry, Buck. I promise this will pass. It’ll be over and we can go and sit by the fire. I don’t know if there’s hot cocoa. Didn’t think to buy anything nice like that, but Nat might’ve stashed some here. She thinks of everything. Out in the middle of nowhere and we’ve got internet and fluffy towels and enough blankets to build a whole new house out of.”

The gasping slowly transitioned into deep, heaving breaths. It was a wonder Bucky hadn’t made himself pass out again. There was no way to know how long this had been going on, Steve ignorantly asleep. Bucky finally blinked, and his eyes settled on Steve for a second before bouncing back to the far wall.

“Hey, there. Can you hear me? It’s Steve. Steve Rogers, the…the Captain. Remember? You came and found me. I don’t know how you did it, coming all that way by yourself. I know it must’ve been hard. You did so good, Buck.” Steve’s fingers twitched. It took everything in him not to reach out and grab Bucky’s hand. “Can you hear me, honey? Just nod your head.”

Buck gave a single, frantic jerk.

“Good. That’s perfect. You’re okay. See? Just you and me. We’re safe. I know it feels real, but I promise it’s just…” He wouldn’t tell Bucky his mind was playing tricks, or lying to him. That would just make him even more upset. “It’s just your brain trying to process everything. You’re still healing. Nobody’s here, and nothing is gonna hurt you. I swear. Put your right hand down, just a little bit behind you. Feel that? That big wool blanket you’ve been wrapped up in all week. Looks real cozy. Can you pull it on, get yourself warmed up?”

It took a while. Steve kept talking, rambling on about nothing. Extemporaneous speaking was a lot harder when he wasn’t trying to rally troops into action. He didn’t think a rousing speech about the wonders of affordable modern fibercraft would be very helpful right now. Slowly, inch by inch, hesitant fingers reached out for the blanket, lingering over the fabric as if it was brand new. Buck finally got a good hold on it and started dragging it onto his lap.

“There you go. You’re doing real good. Can you look at me, Buck? Doesn’t have to be my face. Tell me what color my t-shirt is?”

His gaze stayed fixed to the wall. Bucky’s lips quivered as if he was about to speak, but the only sound was the huff of air leaving his throat. Steve was torn between being silent to give him a chance to answer, or keeping up the chatter to try and bring him back a bit more. He was just about to open his mouth again when he heard low, strained speech.

“N-n-”

Bucky was trying to say something, but Steve wasn’t sure what. His shirt was blue, and the Russian word for that started with an ‘s.’ Maybe ‘no,’ or ‘negative’?

“N-neispravnost'.”

Steve’s heart fell. Malfunction. He was really starting to hate that word, regardless of what language it was in.

“It wasn’t real, but you’re not broken. It’s called a flashback. Happens to lots of people. Hell, it… it even happens to me sometimes. Not as bad anymore. But I know it’s awful. You with me now, though? You know who I am?”

“S-s-ser. K-k–…”

Steve waited, but Bucky didn’t finish the word. It was close enough.

“Yeah, that’s right. Captain Rogers. I’m right here with you. We’ll sit here as long as you need. I’m gonna touch you now, okay?”

Another jerky nod. A stuttered affirmation. Steve scooted closer, just enough to place his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Buck didn’t lean into it like usual, so Steve pressed a bit harder. He’d used his right hand, and he didn’t know how much feeling Buck had on the left side.

“You’re okay. You’re doing good, baby. Can you breathe for me? Nice and slow.”

Steve tried the tapping, measuring out the breaths on Bucky’s skin. It didn’t seem to be helping this time. After a few minutes with no improvement, he switched tactics.

“I’m gonna move my hand, okay? Just gonna touch your hair. Not gonna hurt you.”

There was no response besides a low whimper as he ran his hand over Buck’s temple. Steve couldn’t tell if it was a noise of fear or comfort, but Bucky didn’t flinch. He stroked softly over the back of Bucky’s head, increasing the pressure when Buck’s breathing slowed down a little more. He had no idea how much time passed. He didn’t dare look away to check the clock. It felt like ages. Eventually, Bucky just collapsed, more from exhaustion than calmness. He ended up slumped back against the wall, the metal shoulder half-pinning Steve’s forearm.

“You’re okay, Buck. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Another stuttered, faltering sound. Steve kept quiet, kept combing his fingers through Bucky’s hair, waiting for him to speak. His eyes were still distant, hazy with fear. Steve couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was seeing.

“P-please, sir,” Bucky whispered.

“What is it, honey?”

“P-p-please. Sir. You’re dead. S’not real. You’re dead. You’re dead.”

The shaking started up again, Bucky’s chest heaving between the words. He was almost yelling by the end of it, staring wide-eyed over Steve’s shoulder. It hurt more than Steve could say to hear that. He didn’t know anyone had ever told Bucky about the Valkyrie. He could picture it, Bucky alone and terrified in an icy cell somewhere, HYDRA throwing Steve’s death in his face. He didn’t let his voice waver, despite the immense weight bearing down on his heart and crushing his lungs.

“No, baby. I wasn’t dead. I thought– I didn’t know where you were. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. But I came back.” He wanted to say ‘I’ll always come back for you,’ but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? How many times had he let Bucky down? Steve was sick at himself, but he had to push through this. He had to make it right. “I’m here now.” He reached out to take Buck’s right hand and rubbed his thumb across the knuckles. “Feel that? This is real. I’m really here.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered across the room, still unfocused. His hand flexed under Steve’s, but he didn’t return the grip.

“P-please,” Buck whispered. “N-ne on. Pozhaluysta, Komandir. It will comply.”

That gave Steve pause. That’d never been his rank, and Bucky, even in all the confusion, had never called him that. It was awful, but the realization brought relief. He wasn’t talking to Steve. It was someone else, maybe an old Soviet handler he knew had passed. Steve leaned in closer and took a calculated risk, pulling Bucky's head onto his shoulder, trying to interrupt the line of sight.

“Whoever you’re seeing, they’re not there. It’s not real. C’mon, baby, come back to me. I’m here, just me.”

Buck took a sharp inhale right up against his neck. He stiffened, shuddered, then let more of his weight fall on Steve’s chest.

“S’not real…” he muttered, sounding more like himself, more like… no, every part of this was who he was now, no matter the inflection. Steve rubbed across his back as firmly as he dared, giving him something to focus on, desperately hoping it was comforting and not confining.

“Yeah, Buck. It’s not real. Just a bad dream. It’s over now, I promise.”

_______________________________________________

It woke in the corner of the sleeping quarters, half-upright, tangled in the wool blanket. There was something firm and warm under the cheek, heaving slowly up and down. A gust of air disturbed the hair. The brow furrowed. There had been no draft. The safehouse was well insulated, all the windows locked shut. Was there a perimeter breach? The alarm system was silent. The only thing it could hear was a slow, even thumping in the left ear. Another gust against the top of the head, the surface underneath it falling by centimeters. This was not the floor, not the blankets. It was…

[Severe protocol violation. Submit for disciplinary action. Report for reset.]

The Soldier scrambled backwards, landing directly on the coccyx.

The handler. It had been lying on top of the handler, entirely unconscious. There was a damp spot on his shirt where its mouth had been open and… Unacceptable. Unacceptable and unimaginable and wrong and bad dog, bad dog, bad–

“Buck? No, no, Bucky, stop!”

Restraints on the wrists, forcing the hands down. Pressure on the arms, heat and the texture of cotton on the right side.

“It’s okay, honey. Jeez,” the handler exhaled. “Please don’t hurt yourself. You’re not in trouble. You just fell asleep. D’you remember?”

It shook the head. No. It did not remember, did not know why it would be in such an unacceptable position, on top of him, over him. The Soldier had never, never touched a handler like that. [–could barely stand to look at it, the fingers just bloodied pulp.] It was an extreme violation, multiple violations, all entangled: leaving the facility undefended, asserting dominance over the handler, impeding his movement, causing harm to the body against his orders. It had only been a few days, and yet already it had accumulated so many infractions. [Submit for–] The handler squeezed at the shoulders.

“You had a nightmare. Nothing bad happened. I talked to you, held you. We were just sitting here, and you fell asleep. It’s alright. You didn’t do anything wrong. We used to– I mean, I really don’t mind.”

He kept touching, petting down the arms and over the hands, tracing back and forth with his thumbs. As heat sank into the flesh and registered on the sensors, it paused to assess his demeanor. Posture soft, face open, eyes wide [pleading, concern, resignation.] There was a small tilt to his lips, not quite a smile. It focused on the touch and regulated the breathing.

“Ap-pologies, sir. This asset submits for d-disciplinary action.”

“No punishment, Buck. You’re okay. I’m glad you got some sleep after all that. Don’t mind if I had to be the pillow,” he huffed. “C’mon, we’re late for breakfast.”

It woke in the sitting area, broken glass on the floor, blood running down the right arm. The face was wet and the throat raw.

[Critical malfunction. Report for reset.]

The handler was in front of it, hands raised in a gesture of appeasem*nt. His expression was vastly changed, mouth open in shock and eyes sharply assessing.

“Hey, Buck. You with me?”

He spoke evenly, intentionally calm, like someone talking to a scared animal. [Batons crackling and guns raised. “Get the f*ck back!”]

“Y-yes, sir,” it muttered.

“Okay. Good. You’re alright. You’re safe. Just an accident. I’m gonna get this cleaned up, just stay there.”

He stood, his movements careful and obvious, and returned with a broom and pan to sweep up the remnants of the drinking glass. There was no water on the floorboards, only a thin sheen of beige fluid coating the shards. It must have consumed the rations, but it could not remember. Why could it not remember? The handler knelt, gently inspecting the right hand. Whatever injury was there had already stopped bleeding, leaving only a thin line of red bisecting the palm.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

It lowered its gaze, mind racing and chest burning. It could not properly report, could not answer for its actions.

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

“Unknown, sir. Severe cognitive malfunction. Loss of consciousness, unknown duration. Reset required. This asset submits for disciplinary action.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“The- the sleeping quarters, sir.”

His mouth turned down further. “Hell, I didn’t realize. You were talking to me up until a few minutes ago.”

It thought the malfunctions might abate with proper rations and the presence of a handler. That was obviously incorrect. This was the result of weeks without maintenance. The handler said no more resets. No more chair. But it needed the chair. It required a reset, required the pharmaceuticals. It had seen no evidence of either in this place, no indication that he had access to any of the standard maintenance equipment. He had said it should report impediments to optimal functioning, but now the major impediment was the handler’s own orders. Did he mean for it to fully self-destruct?

The Soldier did not know how to proceed.

“Bucky, stop! Stand down, soldier!”

It woke outdoors, heart pounding, cold air prickling against the face, the glare of sunlight obscuring the vision. The Glock was in the right hand, held almost tight enough to break the grip, directed toward the driveway. The repetitive thump of helicopter blades echoed overhead, but the aircraft was moving away. [Smoke and ash stinging the eyes, burnt rubber and gasoline filling the lungs.] It forced the body into compliance, lowered the weapon, and attempted to assess the surroundings. It was in the grass in front of the safehouse. Approximately 1000 hours. No sign of enemy ingress.

[Critical malfunction. Report for reset.]

The handler was several meters behind it, breathing heavily. It engaged the safety and turned the gun so that it was held by the barrel. The Soldier knelt down slowly. It placed the weapon on the grass and the hands behind the head. The cadence of the handler's breathing changed and was joined by the crunch of dry grass. It kept the eyes lowered as he approached.

“You with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It was just medevac. Someone must’ve gotten hurt over in the park. No threat. You okay?”

The Soldier nearly sighed as it reported, resigned to the impending pain of punishment or reprogramming.

“Continued cognitive malfunction, sir. Loss of consciousness. Unknown duration. Reset required.”

The handler bent to retrieve the weapon and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. He was dressed for exercise. It had interrupted his physical training with another malfunction.

“I’m sorry, Buck. It’s only been an hour or so since you ate. We’ve been outside for a while, I was just about to go in. C’mon. Maybe it’s better if we stay in the house.”

He guided it to stand, directed the arms away from the head, then led it toward the porch. It did not matter where the Soldier was, just sitting on its backside and malfunctioning constantly. Without maintenance, nothing would improve. It was utterly useless. Maintenance or decommissioning were the only options. Perhaps now he would see that. Perhaps now he would allow it to truly rest, whether in cryo or… [The Asset does not want.] It suppressed a shudder and obeyed, following him up the steps.

It woke in the cleansing area, chest heaving, teeth clenched, restraints holding the arms behind the back. The noise echoing through the room stopped, a growl tapering into low gasps. Someone was talking from behind it, but the ears rang and it could not make out the words. [“…initiate testing. Trial twelve, sample beta-four.”] The body instinctively struggled against the cuffs, but they held fast. Pain shot through the soles of the feet. It inhaled sharply. It should have been wearing the boots. Why was it not wearing the boots?

“Bucky, please! Hold still! You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

That voice. That scent. It hit the Soldier all at once, and it went limp in the handler’s grasp.

[Critical malfunction. Submit for disciplinary action. Report for reset.]

“S-sir, m-malfunction.” it rushed to report. “This asset submits for disciplinary action.”

The handler exhaled heavily against the back of its neck, loosening his grip minutely. “You with me for real this time?”

It hung the head, displaying submission. “Yes, sir. S-sorry, sir.”

“Can you tell me where we are?”

“Undesignated s-safehouse. Coordinates forty-four north by one-hundred-twenty-two west.”

“That’s right,” he breathed. “Okay. I’m gonna let go now. Don’t move. I gotta get your feet cleaned up.”

The feet… It refocused the eyes. There was more broken glass on the floor, thicker this time. One side opaque, the other reflective. Blood oozed through the fabric of the socks and onto the tiles. The pressure on the arms let up, and the handler stepped to the side. He looked so tired. The Soldier kept the arms behind the back and its gaze on the floor.

He laid several towels over the debris and directed it to sit on the lid of the toilet. He carefully removed the socks and began cleaning the shards from its feet. Pinpricks of discomfort, barely detectable. Glass clinking into the waste receptacle. Blood plinking onto the floor [–for days, the only other sound its labored breathing.]

“What happened, honey?” he asked softly. “Was it the water?”

It had no memory of the incident, no inkling as to what might have caused the malfunction this time.

“Un-nknown, sir.”

He said nothing else, his brow creasing as he worked. Surely he must know that this was untenable. It could not perform the primary function. It could not even assure the handler’s safety in a remote, fortified safehouse. What if the next malfunction resulted in injury to the handler himself? The Soldier could stay silent no longer.

“Please, sir,” it implored. “Prostite. Pozhaluysta. Please, it will comply.”

It could not remember ever begging for maintenance before, but it saw no other option. It would have offered anything in return for an end to this confusion. It would have pleaded that he make use of it then and there, if there was not risk of it blacking out and causing him harm. The light from the bulbs above the destroyed mirror played across the handler’s hair, brass and copper, as he shook his head.

“There’s no punishment, Buck. It was an accident.”

“M-maintenance, sir. It is necessary. This asset requires reset. Malfunction will continue without c-cognitive recalibration. There is risk to the handler’s safety. Please, sir. It will comply.”

His shoulders heaved, and emotion clouded his eyes before he forced them shut, turning away from the Soldier.

“No, Buck,” he seethed. “No.”

Chapter 32

Chapter Text

It might not be the end of the line, but Steve was at the end of his f*cking rope.

A week. A week of screaming nightmares and walking blackouts, Bucky alternating between uncontrolled violence and eerie stillness. A week of discovering him in strange places around the safehouse, staring blankly at shattered glass, broken furniture, shredded fabric, bloodied hands. A week of ‘Please, sir’ and ‘Malfunction’ and ‘It will comply’ and god knew what else, spoken in German and Russian so distorted by fear that Steve could hardly understand it. A week of desperately trying to hold himself together, resisting the urge to join Buck in the destruction after listening to the endless litany of suffering.

Nothing worked. Not talking, not food, not rest or fresh air. It was all Steve could do to hold on until Bucky cried himself dry or passed out. He couldn’t get out to run, afraid he’d come back to find Bucky bleeding again, or just gone. He was vibrating with nervous energy, trying not to set Bucky off and failing miserably. They clattered through the house like stray bullets, ricocheting off every surface, bruised and battered and unable to stop.

The fainting spells came back in full force. Buck would grow increasingly tense, hyperventilating for long horrible minutes, then just go rigid and slump over in the middle of the floor. Most of the blankets from the linen closet were now strategically scattered around the house to cushion Bucky’s frequent falls. The rug in front of the fireplace looked like a manic mother cat had made a nest there.

The first time it happened, Steve nearly called Bruce directly before he remembered their security measures. He reached out to Nat instead, slumped against the wall, surrounded by the remains of one of the kitchen chairs, his fingers combing through Bucky’s hair in an attempt to comfort them both.

There was medication for this kind of thing, Bruce said, but he didn’t want to prescribe without doing blood work. They had no idea what other substances might be lingering in Buck’s system. HYDRA’s regimen varied wildly based on what they were using the Soldier for at the time, and records from the weeks before Insight were so hastily written they were nearly incomprehensible. Steve was unwilling to risk triggering the Hulk if Bucky lashed out, and just as reluctant to involve more drugs.

“There’s nothing else to do,” Natasha told him. “It means his brain is healing. He’s stable enough to let the walls down. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Keep him comfortable and let him do whatever makes him feel safe.”

Which meant perimeter checks four or five times a day because Buck didn’t remember doing them, Steve keeping a grounding hand on his back in case another flashback hit while they were walking. Urging Buck back inside so he wouldn’t climb onto the goddamn roof to set up a perch or spend hours inspecting the truck again. Repeating himself over and over, assuring Bucky that they were safe, that there would be no punishment, no wipes, that Steve wasn’t angry with him. Checking the alarm system constantly. Keeping his phone at hand so he could confirm the date and time, often for himself.

It got worse at night, or maybe it was just more noticeable because Steve was trying to enforce a regular sleep schedule. He woke to that hollow, dry-paper screaming every few hours. He hadn’t even known there was a cellar in the safehouse until he almost fell into the open hatch while he was wandering around half asleep looking for Bucky. Steve found him curled up in the back of the dusty room with a broken shelf wedged defensively across the entrance, trembling and whispering in Russian. He sat and talked Buck through it, coaxing until he could get his arms around him. Touch seemed to help a little bit, when Bucky was aware enough to respond.

Showers became a hazardous affair. Buck didn’t react well to coming to under falling water, no matter the temperature. Steve barely prevented the destruction of the bathroom, and Bucky narrowly avoided a concussion. He hated having to physically restrain Bucky, but it was the only thing that kept him from tearing at his hair and wrecking Nat’s house. They made do with sink baths after that.

Aside from the incident with the helicopter, Bucky didn’t reach for his weapons. Steve kept the pistol tucked in Buck’s duffel in the closet, but he couldn’t bring himself to take away the knives he knew were hidden under the soft pajamas. Buck needed some sort of security. He’d never slept without his rifle, after Kreichberg. All of the violence was caused by uncontrolled fists, scrabbling fingers, flying elbows, and much of it was directed at Bucky’s own body. They were starting to run out of gauze and rubbing alcohol. Not that Buck really needed them, but Steve didn’t know what else to do besides try and clean up the wounds.

It wasn’t safe to call Sam, and there probably wasn’t much he could offer besides a listening ear, but, God, that would’ve been more than enough. Steve missed the easy attitude, the reassuring voice, the corny jokes. But Stark wouldn’t hesitate to threaten Sam if he thought he was in contact with Steve. Nat gave her word that Sam was safe, and that was what mattered.

The other small mercies were that Buck was still eating and Tony was still heavily distracted. Bucky drank the shakes mechanically, only partially aware of what was going on, trying to follow the orders despite his shaking hands. There were a couple incidents of throwing up, when Bucky had an episode during or immediately after a meal. The trash can stayed close, and Steve kept pouring protein powder into him and praying that his healing factor would put it to good use.

Stark seemed to be slowing down, for whatever reason. Natasha lost another safehouse somewhere in Mexico, but she was always two steps ahead of his drones. Once Steve could think straight for longer than four seconds at a time, he’d have to come up with a way to repay her for all these weeks of intense intelligence work. But he couldn’t imagine when that would be. Right now he was lucky if he had a moment’s peace to use the bathroom.

Nine days after Bucky’s first nightmare, going on twenty total hours of sleep in the last week, he was ready to do anything to get it to stop. They would both lose it if this kept up. Steve had nearly passed out on the couch about six times after dinner, jerking awake whenever his head began to fall. He couldn’t concentrate on reading, his eyes going unfocused every few minutes, so he was just staring blearily at the woodstove. He would’ve been asleep on his feet by now, no matter where he was, if it wasn’t for Buck suddenly shoving himself into the corner, another string of slurred Russian falling from his lips.

Something had to give, and it probably wasn’t going to be Bucky’s trauma miraculously disappearing. Steve tried to figure out what Buck might be seeing, how he could help ease the pain, but the panicked muttering was always some variation of the same theme. Mindless begging, directed at nameless tormentors. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but Steve was struck with a desperate idea. He might have to be a bit more literal about meeting Bucky where he was at. Even though he couldn’t figure out the content of the flashbacks, the physical location was clear. It made his mouth bitter with distaste, but it was worth a shot if it meant they could get some rest.

“Soldat.” He spoke quietly, but with an edge of command. “Ty slyshish' menya?”

Buck didn’t immediately come to attention, but he blinked, glancing around to find the source of the new voice.

“Ty v bezopasnosti. Nikakoy ugrozy net.” He tried to project confidence, hoping his self-study Russian wasn’t completely unintelligible. He didn’t have nearly enough vocabulary to keep up the usual chatter. “Eto prosto ya. Prosto Steve. Kapitan Rogers. Pomnit'?”

Steve almost burst into tears of relief when Bucky’s hands cautiously came away from his face. His eyes were hazy, staring about ten feet to the left of Steve’s current position, but he responded, his voice gravely from days of screaming.

“Da, ser. Gotov sluzhit.”

God, he’d been such a stubborn idiot. He should’ve tried this days ago. Buck kept reverting to Russian during the flashbacks, but Steve had been responding in English. After the ‘transfer,’ he wanted to avoid anything that would remind Buck of HYDRA. He thought speaking English would help Bucky remember where and when they were, but that obviously wasn’t the case. He should’ve learned his lesson after the ‘verbal punishment’ incident. Some great tactical mind he was. Natasha was probably going to slap him, and he’d deserve it.

“Idi syuda, soldat.”

It took a minute, but Bucky obeyed. He shuffled slowly over to the couch and knelt up in front of Steve, tense and fearful, undoubtedly expecting some sort of punishment.

“Hey, Buck. You’re okay. You’re safe. Eto prosto Steve. Nakazaniya net. Vso khorosho. Eto bezopasno.”

He waited until Bucky seemed a little more present, tracking the nervous movement of Steve’s fingers over the seam of his jeans. Steve carefully raised one hand, making sure Bucky was following.

“Can I touch you, honey? Mogu li ya kosnut'sya tebya?”

Bucky squinted at him, wavering back and forth on his knees. Had Steve totally butchered the translation, or was Bucky just confused about being asked permission? Praying that they understood each other, he reached out to touch his right shoulder. There was a subtle flinch, but Buck didn’t lash out. After a minute, the trembling seemed to turn down a notch. Steve increased the pressure, running his thumb along the collar of Bucky’s rumpled shirt for a few seconds before he went for the sure thing.

As soon as he got his hands into Bucky’s hair, they both deflated. Buck lurched toward the touch, still uncoordinated, his eyes falling closed. Steve was reeling, mostly from exhaustion, but also from finally, finally finding a way to pull Bucky out of the worst of the dissociation. Buck might not remember this tomorrow, but Steve could save him the stress and tears now.

“Molodets, dorogoy,” he murmured. “Sadis' pryamo zdes'. Otdokhni.”

A sigh rattled out of Bucky’s chest, the tension ebbing from his body as he cautiously settled into a more comfortable position. Steve leaned back into the couch as far as he could without losing physical contact, ready to pass out right there.

_______________________________________________

Dorogoy.

Precious. Valuable. Costly.

The Soldier was not entirely sure the handler meant to refer to it this way. It was an expensive weapon, but the implication of care was irregular. He’d spoken haltingly, uncertain. But his touch was not ambiguous in the least. Fingertips burrowed under the hair to find the scalp, tracing the curvature of the ear, the temporal, the occipital. Gentling the ache that lived there near constantly. Warmth flowed across the skull and down the shoulders, settling in the diaphragm and filling the chest.

The other voices kept clamoring for its attention, but they were easily disregarded. They were not real. It was not in the cell. There were no chains, no guards with batons and boots, no dogs with gnashing teeth. The handler was here. [He had come for it.] It found him. It had found the Captain and he was here and he, he said it was good. He said no punishment. And the Captain… [couldn’t lie to save his own ass.] The Captain was to be trusted.

It sank into the floorboards, clinging to the positive input amid the maelstrom of malfunctions. Something rough and warm pressed into the cheek, fabric of some sort, but the Soldier paid it no mind. It heard the handler exhale and felt him go at ease. He kept speaking, muttering reassurances in a mix of Russian and English. The words flowed over it, vague and far away, but the meaning stuck. Safe.

After a while, his hand came to a sluggish halt, still tangled in the hair. His breathing deepened, and his body relaxed further. He had fallen asleep sitting up. The Soldier remained where it was. It would not disturb his rest. The malfunctions were wearing on him, it knew. But they were quieter now. The persistent noise no longer obscured the current location, the current handler. It could feel the body again, could smell the woodsmoke, soap and sweat and sunshine.

The eyes darted to the alarm system one last time – all green – before it allowed itself to drift into something like ease at his feet.

______________________________________

It was… The Soldier did not know what time or day it was, only that it was dark outside. It glanced toward the security console. It was 2026, November twenty-sixth. Two-thousand-fourteen. Oregon, United States. Current handler: Captain Steven Grant Rogers. It breathed, in and out, and repeated the information to itself. It was in America. It was with the Captain.

Music was playing from somewhere, piano, tinny and quiet… The phone, sitting on the handler’s knee. There was a plastic vessel in the right hand. The rations – it could not remember which portion this was – were nearly finished. For uncounted days (ten, apparently), its existence had been nothing but a collage of false images, worried blue eyes, and cup after cup of rations. Every time it woke, or so it seemed with the distorted chronology, the handler pressed another portion into the hands. It took a sip. The stomach was mostly functional, only a thin thread of nausea weaving around the innards, but it forced the nutrition down. The Soldier shuddered involuntarily, with no apparent cause.

The handler turned his head. He said nothing, but placed his hand on the right scapula, where it had been stationed near-constantly. He was next to it on the floor, leaning up against the wall, haggard from lack of sleep. The sharpness of his gaze was weakened by the dark circles under his eyes. He had been neglecting his own hygiene routine. His clothing was rumpled, and his stubble was beginning to become a proper beard.

The Soldier could only recount approximately twenty hours total of episodic memory since November thirteenth, with less than forty minutes showing the handler in some mode of repose. The rest of the time was taken up by malfunction.

It could barely recall the episodes, only a blur of racing pulse and disjointed emotional response. Its cognition was a roiling sea of fractured images, scenes without context, sensation with no source. Voices and faces divorced from any names. Phantom pain, bloodied bodies – its own, the targets, even some technicians. The latter was highly unsettling. It could not recall why or how it would have injured superiors. Most of them it could not place in time or geography. There were only endless white walls, steel tables, concrete cells.

It drank again. The song changed. It began with horns, low and melodic. Then a lone coronet rose above the others, and–

– a radio crackled from somewhere down the hallway, the sound echoing off bare stone walls until it crept through the grate of the cell, distorted and off-key, but recognizable. It was Glenn f*cking Miller. The fascist assholes were listening to American music right now, after weeks of interrogating him and mocking his allegiance. He shuddered, trying not to start sobbing again as the familiar tune tugged at his mind.

He had to focus on something else. There were plenty of options. His whole body was a goddamn buffet of different varieties of pain. His wrist was bruised and probably sprained from the iron manacle, feet somehow numb and full of needles at the same time, back bloodied from the whip, stomach cramping with hunger, lungs burning from the ice water, temples throbbing with the constant headache, shoulder like raw meat from being dislocated for the umpteenth time. And, of course, the incessant nauseating emptiness on his left side. The stitches itched and the skin felt hot despite the frigid cell. He’d be lucky if he didn’t die of sepsis before–

“Bucky. Bucky, hey, you’re okay. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–”

Before… Right. He was waiting for someone… They were gonna find him. They had to. He was an officer. A member of an elite unit. He’d been in the news, right there on the front page with… sh*t. Why couldn’t he remember? His chest pulsed with a new kind of pain, dull and hollow beneath his sternum. They were gonna come for him. It wouldn’t be long now. He sucked in a deep breath and forced his battered throat to work.

“f*ck you! f*ck you straight to hell, you Nazi bastards! Barnes! James motherf*cking Buchanan. Sergeant. Three two five five seven zero…”

God dammit. What was the rest of it? The song was still playing, taunting him. “…There you are as lovely as ever. You vowed by every star to love me forever…” It made his head hurt and his heart ache. There was something, somebody he was supposed to remember. Somebody important.

“Three two five five! Seven… Zero… f*ck!”

He rattled the chain. Or at least he tried to. There wasn’t any give, the length of it pulled tight between the ceiling and his remaining arm. His toes were just barely touching the floor, not even enough slack to let him stand on the balls of his feet. He let out a long, ragged scream, trying to drown out the noise.

“Shh, shh, honey. Please. Eto beznopasto. Prosto ya, eto Steve.”

Someone was pulling him down, but he couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see anything now, couldn’t hear the music. There was pressure on both wrists, something heavy and hot across his back. He thrashed against the restraints, whipping his head back and forth and snapping his jaw at empty air. His stitches were gonna start bleeding again. It didn’t f*cking matter anymore. If he was gonna die, he’d take the bastards with him.

“Chert voz'mi! Nakhuy vsekh vas, ublyudki! Scheiß auf euch alle! Ich werde jeden von euch töten! Komm und stell euch mir, Feiglinge! Morirete tutti, cazzo. Pezzi di merda fascisti!”

There was a dull crack and a sharp gasp as his skull made impact. The scent of blood burst into the air and a swell of satisfaction filled his chest. He reared back, ready to strike again.

“Jesus, Buck! It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re safe. It’s twenty-fourteen. Bitte atme einfach. Atme tief ein, schön langsam. Es ist okay, du bist in Sicherheit. Ty v bezopasnosti. Pozhaluysta, prekrati, ty navredish' sebe. You’re with me, in the safehouse, remember?”

He froze. Steve. That was the name. How could he forget Steve? But Steve wasn’t here. It was some kind of trick, another mind game. Steve was… He didn’t know where he was. Probably getting into… something. He was… God, he was what?

“You’re not there anymore. It’s a flashback. It’s not real. You’re safe.”

Not real… That couldn’t be right. Steve was real. He was real, he had to be. If Steve wasn’t real then maybe, maybe none of this was. He felt dizzy. Had he lost blood? But he wasn’t injured, was he? It smelled like blood, but his shoulder didn’t hurt, and there were… There were hands around the… the arms. Two of them. Two arms, two hands holding it, firm and warm and not hurting. The chest heaved and the head throbbed, but the right shoulder was… Undamaged. The room was quiet. The hands moved, up and down the biceps.

“That’s right, baby. You’re okay. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to play that song. Had the damn thing on shuffle. C’mon, open your eyes.”

It obeyed, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to focus. When the room became visible, the throat seized up and the heart hammered wildly.

[Severe protocol violation. Submit for disciplinary action.]

The handler was bleeding, a heavy line of red trickling down from his nostrils and over his lips. The Soldier felt a corresponding ache in the forehead. It had harmed him. It had harmed the handler. It had harmed the Captain.

He was sitting in front of it now, staring directly at it, holding it in place. His breathing was rough, and his eyes shone with tears, whether from emotion or from the injury, it did not know. The plastic nutrition vessel was on the floor, bent out of shape, the remnants of the rations pooling on the floorboards. Blood fell from the handler’s chin, spattering across the front of his white shirt drop by drop. The Soldier forced the body to go limp, lowering its gaze.

This would be the breaking point. It had already damaged the body, the facility, wasted the rations, wasted his time, interrupted his rest. But this… This was completely unacceptable. It did not injure handlers.

[Jaw aching, mold and filth on the gag, the tongue, filling the nostrils. It could not vomit, not with the mouth obstructed. It would lose consciousness, and the procedure would begin all over again. Steel toes to the groin, the kidneys, the–]

No. It had to stay present. It clung to the sharp sensation piercing the chest, to the scent of sweat and woodsmoke. It had to bear the punishment properly so that the handler was not forced to repeat it. Perhaps the pain of discipline would keep the malfunctions at bay. The lips trembled as it spoke.

“Th-this asset submits for disciplinary action, s-sir. M-malfunction. Reset required.”

His fingers flexed, and he exhaled loudly. “No, Buck. It told you, no more resets. No punishment. Bol'she sbrosov ne budet. Nakazanya net, dorogoy.”

A wretched sob tore from the chest. The vision wavered, distorted by moisture. How could he– How could he say that? How could he call it that, when it had– It shook the head, tears finally falling.

“Ser. P-pozhaluysta. Trebuyetsya sbros. Trebuyetsya nakazaniye. K-kurator byl ranen.”

“I’m fine, honey. Ya v poryadke. It’s just a nosebleed, not even broken. Look, it’s already healed up.”

He removed one hand from it and scrubbed at his face with the hem of the shirt. More red smeared across the clean white fabric [red, red, so much red, spilling over the bedsheets and onto the floor, and it looked at the hands, red on silver and red on white and the lungs failed for a moment before–]

“Bucky, Bucky, c’mon, you gotta breathe. In and out. Please, baby. It’s okay.”

His thumb beat the well-worn pattern onto the clavicle. It attempted to comply. The first breath lasted only three counts before the lungs gave out, shuddering back to emptiness and causing the next inhale to come in an audible gasp.

“Keep going. You got it. Here, hold onto this.”

The handler pressed one corner of the wool blanket into the right hand. The fingers wrapped around it like a lifeline, gripping and releasing sporadically, the familiar texture drawing the attention away from the malfunction. Eventually the rhythm came. Eight in. Eight out.

“You’re doing so good, Buck. Vse budet khorosho.”

His left hand stayed on the shoulder, tapping out the seconds. The right came up to the face, carefully moving the hair behind the ear. The cheeks were wet, saline dripping down the chin and onto the dark wool.

[Submit for disciplinary action. Report for reset.]

The shoulders shook. It did not understand. It did not understand this gentleness. It did not understand his refusal to comply with protocol or why it was still allowed the blanket and the clothing and the warmth of the fire and the rations and his rough, kind hands on the face and the chest ached and the head ached and it could not. Stop. Crying.

[“f*cking pathetic. Aren’t you supposed to be a weapon?”]

The body was moved, pulled into the heat of the handler’s chest. It went where it was directed, half-blind and perhaps fully delusional. It was all the Soldier could do to maintain appropriate oxygenation. If it stopped thinking about the lungs, even for one second, they ceased functioning.

The right arm was trapped between its torso and the hander’s, tangled in the blanket. The left hung limply at its side, pressed into the body by the hander’s heavy arm around it. His hands moved across the back, up and down, guiding the action of the lungs. His shirt was wet with the evidence of its weakness. The forehead was pressed into his clavicle, the scent of blood and cotton and unwashed skin forcing its way through the panic.

Christ, Steve was huge now. It was like hugging a draft horse, muscles jumping under his shirt and heat pouring off his skin. Did Steve smell different? Had the serum changed that, or was the sh*t Zola pumped him full of messing with his head? God, he was exhausted. His feet hurt and head hurt and his goddamn bones hurt and he was f*cking starving. It didn’t matter. It was still Steve. He burrowed closer, burying his face in the muddy shirt and finally letting himself shake apart. “Shh, baby–

“ –shh. I got you, Buck. I got you. It’s gonna be alright.”

Chapter 33

Chapter Text

[Submit for disciplinary action. Critical malfunction. Report for reset.]

The irregular treatment continued. Whenever the Soldier became mired in fictitious input, the handler’s voice would guide it back to reality, as patient and persistent as water eroding stone. It lost time, coming to awareness with his hands on the body, restraining it, soothing it. It lost consciousness, waking to warmth and softness. There were so many blankets. A constantly-renewed pile of firewood. Fresh clothing each day.

He played music at all hours, different from the song that had caused malfunction. Even with the poor sound from the phone speaker, the interplay of violin and cello and piano and horns kept the mind stimulated for the short periods in which the Soldier was awake and aware. It had not been privy to such indulgences since the Colonel was the primary handler. He had been partial to Shostakovich. The Captain seemed to prefer Western composers, though there was a variety of eras and styles, all instrumental. Most of the time, though, the Soldier was only partially present, the mind trapped in strange visions, the body moving without its instruction.

[Submit for disciplinary action. Critical malfunction. Report for reset.]

It did not understand why the handler continued pursuing this method of maintaining it. Standard maintenance and reprogramming were not pleasant, but they were efficient, effective, and quick. There was so much time wasted manually calming the disorientation, again and again. It kept waiting for the handler to grow tired of the ordeal and change his mind. He was fatigued, looking more disheveled every day, but he [was too damn stubborn to live] refused to capitulate to necessity.

It informed him of the need for recalibration repeatedly, devolving into begging more often than not. He had said no punishment, but the endless malfunctions were more intolerable than the verbal mechanism or the batons or even the chair. How did this serve any of his goals? The solution was obvious. He had instructed it to report necessary changes, but in this, his usual adaptability was absent. He denied it every time.

“No, honey.”

“It’s not gonna happen.”

“We’re not doing that, Buck.”

“Net. Sbrosa ne budet.”

It grew increasingly agitated. The skull buzzed with it, the cognition so cluttered that it could barely hold onto the current orders. The handler had to guide it through the most basic of tasks – holding the nutrition vessel up to the lips, cleansing it with warm water and soft cloth, removing the soiled clothing – until it malfunctioned again and he began the soothing sequence all over. Even with his voice in its ear and his hands in the hair, the sensations did not stop. It could hardly think over the clamor of the imperatives and strange voices. He still did not punish it. The memory of his face, coated in blood, played through the mind at all hours.

[Submit for disciplinary action. Critical malfunction. Report for reset.]

It had the stray impetuous thought that, perhaps, he was doing this on purpose. Perhaps he had adulterated the rations, poisoned it to test its compliance or… It banished the notion immediately. The malfunctions had been present before the new rations, and the Captain… He said discipline would be clearly delineated. It doubted he would do such a thing. He seemed almost as tortured by the malfunctions as the Soldier, his sleep interrupted and his meals left unfinished. It had not seen him in such a state since…

It screamed. Pain rocketed through the skull and the spine and the pelvis. Immense weight bearing down on the abdomen, crushing organ and bone and it was trapped, trapped and the carrier was going down and the right arm was nonfunctional and the target was approaching. It could not reach the weapons. It had no way to defend itself. It would fail the mission. It was going to die here.

The handler held it in place as it fought against the tide of pain and terror. His latest attempt at a meal, another cold peanut butter sandwich, lay abandoned on the kitchen counter. It wavered between delusion and reality, focusing all of its attention on trying to remain still. This was worse than the days of delirium at… before. Before it had found the Captain. At least then it did not know the contrast between malfunction and the comfort of the safehouse.

This might be some sort of holding pattern. Perhaps it was meant to be decommissioned after all, and he was simply awaiting approval from his superiors. Some prisoners were given last meals and indulgent material before execution. His insistence on soft things and comfortable quarters could be a similar concession. It felt like it might be dying.

It staggered to its feet, gritting the teeth at the grinding of bone against bone.

“Bucky,” he panted, “you've known me your whole life.”

That word again. That voice. Some unnameable response surged through the chest and the skull and it hurt. Everything was pain. The body and the mind and his voice was pain and his eyes were pain but it had to complete the mission. It had to eliminate the source of this horrid sensation. It lashed out, but the target did not defend himself. Blood bloomed from his mouth and it vocalized again as they fell to the floor, the ship shuddering beneath them.

It lost another portion of rations to the waste receptacle. The face was wet, this time from the damp cloth he had used to clean it. The heart juddered out of rhythm, and the lungs burned from lack of oxygen. The muscles in the back twitched with the impulse to strike out in defense, but it could not harm the Captain. Not again.

“P-please, sir,” it gasped. “Please. It will comply.”

He sounded far beyond exhaustion when he said, “Bucky. I’m not gonna punish you,” for what must have been the thousandth time.

“I'm not gonna fight you.”

He pulled off the helmet, his face exposed, pale hair and strong jaw and the pain nearly drove it mad. It could hear nothing but groaning steel and artillery and the white fire at the edges of its vision pressed closer. His weapon fell, a glittering disc of blue and red and silver lost to the churning water. Falling, falling, always falling. Then the target was gone, the Captain was gone, the entire world falling out from under it. It could hear nothing but groan of the carrier collapsing, could see nothing but his unconscious body hitting the water and it was wrong. Wrong. The target– The Captain– It had to–

A noise of desperation escaped it. Pain in the chest, internal and external. Pain in the throat, vocal cords burning. Pain from the teeth clamped around the lip, trying to stem the impending scream. Flesh breaking, a stream of warm fluid down the chin. Pain in the skull, behind the eyes. Hands clenching, tearing at–

“Bucky, stop! Prekrati, soldat!”

The handler took it by the wrists, pulling the hands away from the chest. There was blood staining the fingers. Another wound to the body. Another infraction.

“Please,” it begged. “It requires maintenance. Please, sir. It will comply. It will–”

“Stoy!” His grip tightened, and his expression went hard. “Bucky, please stop asking me for that. I’m not gonna f*cking wipe your memory! Even if I could, even if I wanted to, it wouldn’t solve the problem. You know that, right? It’s not permanent. That’s why they had to do it so often.”

The command stilled its tongue, but the urge to plead with him remained. It was not right. It could not complete the mission… The mission… It was… Rest, he said. Heal. That was it, but it could not rest if it could not control the body. It could not heal if the hands kept opening the wounds. It could do nothing if it could not even obey the handler’s simplest commands. It felt as if it was clinging to reality by the tips of the fingers, dangling over a yawning void, ready to fall at any moment.

This could not go on. It should not be so weak as to plead for mercy. But he had ordered it to report. He said he would not cause undue pain.

“Please, sir,” it whispered. “It hurts. The chest. The head. It hurts.”

Silence, save for the staccato of strained respiration, two sets of lungs set to discordant rhythms. It felt his breath move the hair. The heaving of his chest shifted his entire body, causing him to tug at its arms.

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. He kept saying sorry, and the words did nothing. It was not right. The handler did not apologize. The handler did not yield when faced with malfunctions. The handler was supposed to fix it.

“I’m sorry, baby. I know it’s hard. But your brain is trying to heal. We just have to let it. It’ll get better, I promise. We just gotta get through this. It’s gonna be okay.”

It keened again, barely able to prevent itself from ripping its limbs out of his grasp. It had to obey, could not forcibly move his hands. But it was all words, so many useless words. He wasn’t supposed to lie, the Captain did not lie, it wasn’t right. The fingers closed around nothing, hands held in midair by the handler’s grip, nails digging into the palm, prosthesis whining with suppressed action.

The left hand came down, again and again across that traitorous face, but the target kept talking. He was looking at it with nothing but acceptance and it had failed the mission, failed so irretrievably and his eyes were so blue, locked onto its own, his cheeks purple and blue and red and he croaked, “Then finish it…”

It did not want [The–] to feel this any longer. It did not want to remember the Captain’s face distorted with anguish, bleeding and bruised under its own hands. It did not want to remember his lips cold and his chest rattling. The pain of the chair would be a mercy. It tried to beg, to prostrate itself, to plead with the hands or the face, but it was held firmly in place.

[Submit for disciplinary action. Critical malfunction. Report for reset.]

“Pozhaluysta. Please, sir. It will comply. It will be good, it will be still, please, please, make it stop, ostanovi eto, ser, pozhaluysta, poz–”

“Hey!”

His voice was sharper than it had ever heard, yanking the Soldier back to the present and stunning it into silence. The pressure on the wrists increased. There was no pain, just implacable force holding it still. The handler moved it, placing the hands palm-down on Soldier’s legs. It stared directly forward, seeing nothing but the blue of his shirt, the impression of gold and brown around the edges of its vision.

“Are you listening?”

It gave a short nod, unable to vocalize. It knew it would be punished harshly for this behavior, for so immediately violating an order, questioning his decisions, damaging the body, being ungrateful for his patience.

“Keep your hands there. Flat. No hurting yourself. Can you do that?”

Orders. Clear and concise and simple. It could do that. Despite the cresting fear, the heart rate began to stabilize. It tried to speak, to answer in the affirmative, but all that came out was a hollow exhale. It nodded again.

“Good. Look at me, soldier.”

It took effort to drag the eyes up to meet his. The blue of his irises was aflame with emotion, his face set in hard, commanding lines. The expression it saw there was indescribable, unlike anything the Soldier had previously witnessed. [The devil in his eyes, thin fingers twisted up in the belt.] There was the same determination he had displayed during the transfer, but underneath, suffusing his entire being, was a heat it could not name. The potential energy of his enhanced body was drawn tight, a hammer ready to trip and release a projectile bearing all of the power he could muster. And the Soldier was the target.

A strange frisson of energy trickled down the spine. Not fear. Anticipation, perhaps, but of what, it did not know.

He released its wrists, smoothing up the arms and placing his hands on the shoulders. It expected to feel the familiar path of his fingers combing through the hair, but he stopped there, thumbs pressed into the clavicles.

“The way HYDRA treated you… The resets,” he spat the word as if it was poison on his tongue, “were hurting you. Taking your memory. Taking away important parts of who you are. That’s why we’re discontinuing that procedure. Do you understand?”

It sounded well-rehearsed, as if he had said it before, but it did not remember hearing it. The Soldier had been subject to resets before HYDRA, but it did not correct him. It did not know why the lack of memory would be undesirable. If it lost anything to the chair, that had never impacted its performance in the field.

“N-negative, sir.”

He exhaled sharply, more a noise of frustration than a sigh. “Can you trust me, then? Be honest, don’t just tell me what I want to hear. I know things aren’t like they used to be. I know you don’t remember. But can you trust me?”

The question was not rhetorical, spoken with such gravity that the Soldier was taken aback. It had to pause, to fully assess its understanding. The entire situation was highly unorthodox. It had broken chain of command in order to find him, based only on half-formed memory and instinct. He did not understand protocol, neglected maintenance, had not put the Soldier to proper use, and yet… It searched the mind, the gut, every part of itself. Despite the torturous weeks of malfunction and confusion, it found only one viable response.

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright,” he breathed. “Thank you. I know you’re scared, Buck, but we’ll get through this. Until you’ve healed up a bit more, the flashbacks, the nightmares, they might go on for a while. I’ve got a friend, a doctor–” [gloved hands and steel under the back and pain, pain, pain.]His grip tightened, and he shook the Soldier gently. “Hey, no. Stay with me. No one is coming here. No one will f*cking touch you, I swear. I just asked him a few questions. He says it’s to be expected. You’re processing a lot of information right now, most of it traumatic. Your body is trying to protect you. That’s why you keep losing time, dissociating.”

The handler paused, eyes tracking over its face. It did not know what he could be seeing there. It understood all of those words separately, but the meaning of the statement eluded the Soldier. How were involuntary shutdowns protective?

“The only way out is through, okay? You’ve just gotta keep eating and resting. Your brain is healing. You just keep…” He shook his head. “You’ve done this before. You might not remember, but you keep coming back, sweetheart. You’re so f*cking strong. I know you can do it again.”

His right hand moved, cupping the jaw, thumb tracing along the bottom lip where the damage from the teeth had already begun to heal. The heat in his eyes softened, fondness overtaking his expression. He seemed truly awed, which was not completely irrational. At its full potential, the Soldier was an impressive weapon. But it was currently nothing but a pathetic configuration of misfiring neurons and uncontrolled emotional responses. It could not let such an incorrect assessment stand.

“S-sir, it is not– This asset–” It could barely put together the words. It glanced away – another infraction – and tried again. “Takoy aktiv bespolezen.”

The handler went quiet. His lips pursed, then relaxed, then twisted up again, as if he was struggling to speak as well. The softness in him seemed at war with the fire, uncountable emotions flickering over his face faster than the Soldier could read. After twenty-two seconds of silence, he straightened. The hand on its face trailed across the cheek, fingers threading through the hair. He did not pet it like usual. Instead, he reached for the back of the skull and took a fistful of hair, gripping close to the scalp and tilting the Soldier's head just enough to renew the eye contact.

Somehow, it did not hurt.

A soft gasp parted the lips. The body went lax, a wash of unfamiliar endorphins clouding the cognition. Others had done this, many times. For punishment. For recreation. But never with the look in their eyes that the Captain bore. Never inspiring such an overwhelmingly positive sensation as the warm, tingling weightlessness that now suffused the entire body. It expected the echoes, the haunting voices of past superiors, but there was blissful silence, broken only by the handler’s low, rough Russian.

“Ty ne bespolezny. Ty takoy sil'nyy. Takoy++ dragotsennyy.” His grip tightened minutely, and the heat came back full force, making his eyes gleam in the diffuse sunlight. “Y’hear me? You’re not useless. You’re not worthless. I– You’re the most important thing in the world to me. I swear we’ll get through this, and it’ll be better on the other side. Pozhaluysta, ver' mne.”

The words reverberated through it, thrumming against the taut cords of the imperatives like steel drawn across gut strings. It was an almost tangible sensation, the force of his will crashing against the programming, insisting that it was good and precious. The structures did not move, but it could see the edges of them – dark, looming monoliths cast in stark contrast to the flood of his resolve, gentle yet unwavering, soft and strong as pure silk satin.

In the interstice created by the handler’s voice, the Soldier found it was able to speak wholly of its own power. It was not compulsion nor imperative, not fear nor anticipation that moved its tongue. It was whole, simple truth.

As soon as Buck settled down, Steve stepped out onto the porch, keeping his ears pricked for Buck’s breathing going too fast again. He closed the door as softly as he could, but his hands were shaking, his heart pounding. He couldn’t believe he’d just done that. Just yanked Bucky around like a ragdoll. He was just so desperate, so sick at hearing Bucky beg for obliviation. Steve wasn’t firing on all cylinders, not by a long shot, but that was no excuse. Half the time Buck could hardly even see straight, didn’t know what year it was or where they were. Steve was supposed to be the responsible one here. He was supposed to take care of Bucky. Didn’t he know any other way to do that besides violence? He might as well have slapped him across the face. He used to do that, too.

Satisfaction warred with disgust, stirring up a maelstrom in his chest. His skin still tingled with the sensation of Buck’s hair wrapped around his fingers, and his heart ached with the memory of Bucky’s eyes, ringed red with tears and exhaustion, clouding with pleasure.

He’d been resolved to do whatever he could to bring Bucky some peace, to take the reins and help guide him back to solid ground. It felt so right. But they couldn’t fall back into the old pattern. It was different now. This was a necessity, some tripped out sci-fi scenario that just happened to push all the wrong buttons. But Buck had looked so calm, finally letting go after days and days of being wound tight enough to shatter. So goddamn beautiful, just like…

Steve exhaled shakily and ran a hand through his hair, oily from nearly two weeks without a real shower. He’d sworn over and over again that he wouldn’t be like HYDRA, even if he had to use their framework. That he wouldn’t force Bucky into a mold, any mold, even if it was with good intentions. But he couldn’t just sit there and let him talk about himself like that. It was nearly as bad as the screaming, hearing Buck say he was useless. Just because he was hurting, from what HYDRA had done to him.

He knew Bucky didn’t understand, must think Steve was trying to torture him in a whole new way by making him endure this. But there was little else they could do right now. Some of the standard recommendations were still useful – the breathing, talking through the flashbacks, comforting touch, music – but there weren’t treatments for this because no one else had been through it. Except for maybe Natasha and the other girls from the Red Room. And Nat told him to follow his gut, despite the constant fear of overstepping.

It wasn’t as if his caution had prevented him from messing up and hurting Bucky already. All Steve wanted was to let him know that he was safe, that he didn’t have to live in fear of punishment for every little thing. Trying to verbally explain that was an exercise in futility. But he could show it, couldn’t he? Bucky didn’t remember specifics, but somehow he still knew Steve and trusted him.

Buck trusted him. Natasha trusted him. It was just Steve who kept second-guessing himself.

The things he was avoiding, the old habits, they were sensory stimuli as well. They hadn’t called it that before, but it had helped Bucky stay grounded or process feelings. Steve wouldn’t dare take up a switch or a belt now, but he didn’t have to hit Bucky to get him to focus. For a brief moment, he let himself imagine what, exactly, he would do if he wasn’t holding himself back.

It really wasn’t all that different.

What little routine they’d established seemed to help, but it was obvious Bucky needed more: concrete tasks, praise, and reassurance. He had no idea what Buck thought of the pet names, but they kept coming out of his mouth, and so far there hadn’t been a negative reaction. He touched Bucky, but most often during nightmares or panic attacks. What was wrong with being close when things were going well? Bucky looked forward to having Steve wash and comb his hair. He hadn’t even been all that upset when Steve had to restrain him. He only resisted until he came to and realized what was going on, after which he seemed to relax into the holds.

And then today, when Steve’s walls finally crumbled under the horror of hearing Bucky plead for the chair for weeks – he’d given in to the urge to physically take control, and Bucky had responded instantly. His face, his entire body had just gone soft. At first, Steve had been terrified that it was another conditioned response, like a scruffed kitten unable to fight back, but then Bucky said, “It will trust,” with such blinding conviction he nearly kissed him right then and there.

So what if it felt right for Steve, too? Just because he was filling a new role now, it didn’t mean he had to be miserable about it. He could contain himself. Give Bucky what he needed without crossing the line. And Bucky’s reaction… There was something there, buried under all the programming. They still knew each other, deep down. It couldn’t have been more obvious, eyes locked, suspended in the intensity of that moment like two orbiting bodies ready to crash into freefall.

He’d missed that. He’d missed that so much. Seeing the mask melt away and Bucky’s face soften with vulnerability and trust. It’d been awful, waking up to a world without Bucky, reaching across the empty bed in the soulless SHIELD apartment every night, only to find cold sheets and bitter memories. He’d soldiered on, kept fighting battle after battle because the world needed him, but he was walking wounded, the space where Bucky had been a festering ulcer that no one else could see.

But Buck was here now. Right here, not twenty feet away from him, desperately grasping for security and comfort, and Steve was putting up walls between them because… because he was f*cking scared. Steve Rogers might be a lot of less-than-complementary things, but he was no coward.

He pulled himself together, let go of the railing he was about to splinter, and went back into the house.

Bucky was still awake and upright, curled up with a glass of water in front of the stove. Steve meant to keep his distance, to give him enough space to recover from the ups and downs of the past few hours. Days. Weeks. Forever.

He distracted himself by making dinner – another shake for Bucky, and another three cans of soup all mixed together into beef-flavored mush for himself – and working on the next translation. More mission reports. There wasn’t anything noteworthy, just the same endless cycle of cryo, activation, deployment, cryo. Then he looked up to find keen gray eyes tracking the movement of his hands, and he almost lost the plot.

Bucky was blissed out, limbs loose and eyes hooded in a way that made Steve’s pulse quicken. He tried to curb his reaction, but Buck kept staring at him with this mystified expression, as if Steve was some benevolent god who’d promised milk and honey for the next thousand years. He wasn’t sure what Bucky thought was going on, but one thing was obvious – he really hadn’t minded the manhandling. It might’ve even been comforting, the way it used to be.

Well, Steve had made this bed. He might as well get comfortable in it.

“Idi syuda, dorogoy.”

Bucky snapped to attention, gaze locking onto Steve’s right ear, just a fraction of an inch from actual eye contact. Steve let all of the affection he’d been trying to temper – probably unsuccessfully, knowing himself – spill out onto his face. He didn’t know if the Asset had had reason to understand love, but Steve projected it with every fiber of his being as he gestured for Bucky to come and sit by him.

The order was followed with a graceful economy of movement. Bucky rose from the rug, still wearing the big brown blanket, and took three silent steps over to the couch before folding to the ground at Steve’s feet.

Even half-starved and wrapped up in soft pajamas and lumpy wool, he moved with elegance. All that raw power, all of Bucky’s inborn skill honed to a bleeding edge, until every minute action was perfected. It hurt. God, did it hurt. But there was no denying the macabre beauty of it. Like seeing an ancient tree felled to create a warship. The loss was an immense tragedy – he could never, ever forget that – but the grain of the wood still held life, and the shape of the prow inspired awe.

“Sir?”

He was getting maudlin again. Steve righted himself, renewing the soft smile.

“Status?”

“Functionality c-compromised, sir. Cognitive functionality: thirty-one percent. Physical functionality: forty-seven percent. Prosthesis functionality: seventy-six percent. Continued cognitive malfunction. Re–”

Bucky tensed, teeth clacking shut before the phrase was complete. Reset required. Steve remembered the unintentional order, pleading for Buck to stop asking for the damned chair, and felt like a jerk. No matter how stressful it was, he wouldn’t censor Bucky’s speech.

“Countermand previous orders in regards to verbal communication. Speak freely, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky hesitated. “Standard asset handling p-protocol dictates that reset is required in the case of cognitive malfunction.”

It was so carefully worded, tacitly acknowledging that Steve’s protocol was not standard protocol. Bucky understood the reset wouldn’t be happening, but the report was necessary. Compulsive. Steve brushed the hair back from his face, a gesture that was becoming habitual.

“I know, honey. I know. Sounds like all the protein shakes are doing some good, though.”

“Affirmative, sir. Expected physical r-recovery time given current parameters: thirty-seven days. Recovery may b-be expedited with increased nutrition or cryostasis procedure. C-cognitive recovery time: unknown.”

“Well, we can definitely take care of the nutrition. We’ll bump up your intake again tomorrow. You’ve been doing real good with that.”

The praise softened Bucky’s posture, a stubbled cheek pressing into Steve’s hand almost unintentionally as the rest of his body relaxed. Steve took it for what he knew it was. The Soldier didn’t do anything by accident, at least when in full possession of his faculties. He spent a few minutes petting Bucky’s hair, trying to tame it. He had to pull some of it out from under the blanket where Buck had gotten it all bunched up. The thick wool was good for keeping warm, but less so for maintaining any semblance of a decent hairstyle. It was all frizzed and knotted at the back, despite Steve brushing it out earlier that morning.

“Want me to get the comb?”

Bucky’s lips said, “Your discretion, sir,” but the hopeful glint in his eyes said ‘Please.’

Chapter 34

Chapter Text

“Workin’ on anything new, big guy?”

Tony sidled over, not-so-subtly trying to peer over his shoulder. He didn’t have to try very hard. Bruce didn’t exactly cast an intimidating figure on his own. He gave a noncommittal hum, turning back to the holoscreen. The work itself was innocuous, just a study of protein metabolites. If he happened to be running a comparison on his private terminal against a highly classified blood sample from a certain fugitive supersoldier, well, that was his business. His lab space here was supposed to be completely under his control. Plus, he’d sworn JARVIS to secrecy. The AI was on his side when it came to Tony’s destructive tendencies.

“Same as usual,” he shrugged. “Trying to solve world hunger.”

“My hero, my Hulk, champion of the people.”

Bruce ignored that one. Hand on his chest, Tony feigned a swoon in a poorly disguised attempt to get a closer look at the screen. He could look all he wanted. Bruce knew he would understand the chemistry, but Tony had no reason to suspect that the research was for the benefit of the errant Captain. Or, more precisely, his long lost friend.

It was risky, getting tangled up in all of this. But when Natasha contacted him about someone who’d been involuntarily subjected to the serum, used as a weapon, and was now wanted by multiple government agencies, well… he couldn’t really let that slide. The first time he’d opened Barnes’ medical files, he had to lock himself in the Hulk cage until he calmed down. It wasn’t a full Code Green, but it was damn close. What’d been done to Barnes was beyond cruelty. Bruce knew people could be bastards, especially power-hungry pseudo-government organizations, but having it all laid out in the flesh of one man was almost too much.

He was doing what he could with the information, but his options were limited without being able to see Barnes in person. Which was probably the only way to go about it, if Nat’s assessment of his current state was accurate. Putting an unstable assassin with medical trauma and a semi-stable researcher cum rage monster in the same room was a recipe for disaster.

“This is boooring, Brucie-bear. Everyone already knows what amino acids do. Come down to R&D with me. I have some new toys that need impact testing. You don’t even have to take your shirt off. You can use the rocket launcher.”

Tony grinned like… well, like Tony Stark talking about explosives. He didn’t look drunk, just his now-normal amount of hungover. The shirt he’d picked out only had a few small holes in it, and he’d actually attempted to do his hair. It was an improvement.

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to help you blow up another Iron Man suit. That’s boring. This is actual research.”

He was lucky Bruce was here at all, given his behavior the past few weeks. Bruce had come up one evening to make sure he'd eaten dinner and found the lab in shambles, Tony screaming drunk. He’d cussed about Steve, cussed about Natasha, and finally, almost incoherently, cussed about Barnes being responsible for his parents’ death. Bruce tried to sympathize, but family matters were not his area of expertise. All he knew about Howard came from a cursory lesson in graduate school and Tony’s previous rants. He thought Tony hated him.

When Bruce saw the specs on the ‘memory suppressing machine’ they’d used on Barnes, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the assassination had been out of his control. Neither Bruce nor Tony had been in any state to argue about it at that moment. It was a good thing wrestling a belligerent billionaire into bed wasn’t on the list of things that set off the Other Guy. The weeks of intoxicated yelling definitely tested his patience, though. Bruce had to do a lot of processing of his own daddy issues, listening to Tony curse and crash around the Tower. But it didn’t trip him up. Heinous crimes against human autonomy on the other hand…

“What about smashing a HYDRA base with me? Doesn’t Jolly Green wanna come out and play? C’mon, sweetie pie, I know you’re mad about the evil science Nazis too. There’s a downright delightful depot of chemical weapons down in Rio we haven’t hit yet. I already packed extra pants. I’ll buy you churrasco, we’ll call it a date.”

“Thanks but no thanks, Tony. I’ve got a lot to work on here.”

Bruce stepped around him to get back to the keyboard. It was tempting. He was mad about the evil science Nazis. But he could do more good here, trying to help their longest suffering victim through malnutrition and withdrawal and who knew what else, than causing extensive property damage and endangering civilians. Bruce knew Tony valued him for more than his indestructible alter ego, but he sure wasn’t acting like it right now. At least Tony had taken a break from the manic manufacturing, even if it was just to badger Bruce about another unsanctioned deployment.

“I thought we were friends,” Tony wheedled. “I thought you, of all people, would want to help me process my grief through the violent application of chemistry. Or at least a long, heartfelt conversation over greasy meat.”

“You know I’m a vegetarian, Tony. And I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I’m not that kind of doctor. PhD’s aren’t interchangeable.”

“They aren’t? Huh. Is that why the EPA keeps rejecting all my policy drafts? Here I was trying to do a public service. We should have bullet trains already, but those assholes at AAM keep trying to play hardball. Have you seen the numbers on corn subsidies this year? It’s criminal. Ethanol is for drinking, dammit. I could be powering the whole country for pennies, but these idiots have such a boner for combustion engines they keep squeezing their fuel outta corncobs like f*cking cavemen. Did you know…”

Bruce sighed. Tony rambling about climate policy was a clear cry for help. He did actually care about it, usually, but the only thing he’d devoted any attention to lately was the hunt for Rogers and Barnes. First, he’d been holed up in the lab, poring over satellite imagery frame by frame like some kind of conspiracy theorist, drinking himself to sleep when he wasn’t up for three days straight. Bruce had tried to coax him out of it, but he’d been met with sarcastic sniping or utter silence.

“… can’t believe those shills even call themselves farmers. They’re goddamn profiteers. They’ve got more drones and heavy machinery than a mining operation. And the erosion rates, f*ck, have they heard of the Dust Bowl? Is our education system really…”

Then, when Tony kept running into dead ends and fakeouts, he changed tack. It was non-stop action, blasting every remaining HYDRA facility off the East coast – not that there’d been that many left after Steve got done with them. Then the Gulf coast. Then South America. Bruce had stayed locked in his lab, distracting himself with Helen’s latest cellular regeneration models until Natasha asked for his help.

“... and the entire highway system is f*cking racist, they redlined it all to hell then bulldozed the poor neighborhoods, like ‘oh sorry, were your kids playing there? It’s a six-lane now. Seriously! I can’t even…”

He still wasn’t entirely clear on how Tony could hold both HYDRA and Barnes responsible, but they hadn’t talked about it. Tony had barely spoken to him except to vent about Steve’s ‘betrayal’ or ask if the Hulk wanted to join in the destruction. Bruce was maybe just a bit resentful about it. But this was progress. Tony was upright and awake at eleven AM and actually asking for company instead of just acting out. Bruce should probably encourage this new behavior. He relented, if only to keep Tony from getting into another shouting match with Rhodes. Or the President.

“… honestly not that much of a shock that they were housing HYDRA. They’re all f*cking fascists, when get you down to it. Especially Stern. I knew there was more than the usual amount of slime coating that guy’s grody little fingers. Did you hear about how he–”

“Alright!” he interjected a little too loudly. “Alright. I’ll do lunch. Give me an hour? Helen’s expecting my revisions by Monday.”

“Lunch? Yes! Yes, lunch. Masala? They like me there. I’ll buy you all the rice and vegetables you can fit into your body. And the Hulk's body. I’ll buy out the entire menu. We should invite Cho. She likes tandoori, right?”

“Helen’s in Seoul,” Bruce said absently, still thinking about ways to shove more calories into the same protein structure without causing stomach upset. The serum was more than capable of healing the intestinal damage from repeated cryostasis and gastroparesis. Barnes should be able to eat solids relatively soon, unless there were other issues at play. He didn’t appear to be missing any teeth, though some of them were artificial. Weird that he didn’t just regrow them. Then again, Barnes’ version was different from his and Steve’s. Bruce really needed a fresh blood sample.

“That’s fine,” Tony chirped. “Let’s go to Seoul! They have vegetables. They have vegetables I haven’t even heard of yet. Those weird radishes and the tiny pumpkins and that green stuff that isn’t seaweed. I’ll call the pilot.”

He looked up to see Tony already tapping away at his phone. He was really gonna call in the jet. Bruce should not have been surprised.

“Tony. It’s midnight over there.”

“So? Midnight curry is a thing. Let’s make it a thing!” Tony threw one arm out and grinned a bit too wide. Okay, so he wasn’t as sober as Bruce had estimated. At least he was relatively peaceful right now. Bruce had no idea what might have changed. The sudden shift in attitude was pretty normal for Tony. It could have any number of causes, most of them chemical. Maybe JARVIS or Rhodes had talked him down. Maybe he’d just finally tired himself out, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Let’s not,” Bruce deadpanned.

Hilariously, his own digestion was a bit sensitive. The Other Guy could literally eat a tank and be fine, but Bruce paid for it after the fact. They all thought he was some kind of hippie, always drinking green tea and avoiding meat, but really, too much protein just resulted in weird dreams and high blood pressure, which he did not need. Tony returned his attention to his phone, typing out something much longer than a flight plan.

“Why is Cho still so far away, anyway? Doesn’t she know I’m building her a brand new lab with lots of shiny organic fabrication equipment? I made 3D printers that can do blood vessels. She’s gonna love it.”

Helen did not know that. Bruce didn’t even know that. It was another one of those things that Tony thought everyone else knew because it was already solidified in his brain. For how long, Bruce had no idea. It might have been another flight of fancy fueled by sleep deprivation. All the lab space in the Tower was either full of Tony’s manufacturing equipment or rented to other researchers on a solid five year lease. The only direction in which to expand was up.

“Where are you gonna put that? Above the penthouse?”

“Nooo, I’m turning the old warehouse into a new facility,” Tony said, flapping his hand dismissively. “New compound, new labs. New Avengers. f*ck getting the band back together, and f*ck Fury. I’m starting my own thing. Private contracting. I do a better job than Captain Assface at Nazi removal anyway. HYDRA-free, guaranteed, or your money back!”

Well that sounded dangerously close to ‘privatizing world peace.’ Was Tony actually going to start charging people for the Avengers’ services?

“Wait… A whole new facility? When did you start that?”

“Last night. It was Rhodey’s idea. Well, he actually said ‘Tony, I think you need a vacation, get outta New York for a while,’ but I like my version better. What do you think about a paintball course? Barton would love it. Oh, hell. J, remind me to put in a doggy daycare. He’s gonna wanna bring that mutt along. I guess I’ll have to add a few more cleaning bots, too.”

JARVIS had been utterly silent through the rest of Tony’s rant. He blithely intoned, “Of course, Sir.”

At that, Tony turned on his heel and started out of the lab, still entrenched in whatever he was scheming on his phone. “C’mon, cabbage patch, we’re gonna be late for lunch!”

Fearing that Tony was about to fly halfway around the world with no adult supervision – his employees didn’t count, they were too scared of him to stop him – Bruce hastily shut down the terminals and grabbed his jacket.

“Tony, slow down. What’re you gonna do with the Tower?”

_______________________________________________________

He woke in a cold sweat, tangled up in the sheets. Not the parachute. Not Ripstop. Bedsheets, soft jersey cotton. Twenty-fourteen, Washington DC. He looked to the right – always to the right – and saw the picture of mom and Sara and the boys lit up by the glow of the alarm clock. 0443. Sam exhaled, long and slow, and reached for his water bottle. It wasn’t that early. Might as well get started on his run.

He shrugged out of the blankets and tried to shrug off the nightmare. He hadn’t had that one before. It started the same as always, cold and dry and dark except for the flare of missiles blazing past. Then the hit. The sound of impact, metal shearing, and a pained scream, and a body falling through empty air, spiraling downward towards death. Same as always. But it wasn’t Riley this time. It’d been Steve.

Sam shook himself, pulling on his shorts and pacing to the living room to grab his shoes. The coffee maker hadn’t switched on yet. He didn’t need it. He was too riled up already. In one intuitive motion, he grabbed his keys and opened the door, jogging off to the south in the eerie orange glow of the streetlamps.

It made a kind of sense. He hadn’t seen Steve fall, but he’d been on comms. He’d heard the ships going down while he was fighting for his life against that greasy snake, Rumbo or whatever his name was. Then he’d made the leap of faith himself, busting out that window four hundred feet up, without his damn wings.

He’d just gotten them back, too.

In and out, Wilson. It was a bit too cold for just a t-shirt and shorts, but the chill helped clear his mind. He pushed harder, grateful that the streets were relatively empty at this hour. It was kind of unsettling how quickly the city had recovered from the events of Insight. There hadn’t been much damage apart from the Triskelion itself and the… traffic incidents on the bridge. The Capitol was, unfortunately, used to bouncing back from attacks like this by now. At the end of mile three, the tension of the nightmare had almost entirely dissipated. But the unease didn’t.

Romanov insisted Steve was safe. He believed her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worried. She’d dropped some pretty heavy hints that things were rough. Barnes was a f*cking tank, and Sam couldn’t even imagine what a flashback looked like for that guy. And there was no doubt he was gonna have flashbacks. Sam hadn’t seen everything, but he’d seen enough. Nobody went through that and came out stable. He really hoped Steve could handle it. He was already having a hard enough time without all this on his shoulders. Sam rounded out mile five, slowing to a jog when he came back to his street.

He opened the door to the welcome smell of fresh coffee, sighing as he poured a cup. Only an hour left until he had to be at the office. It was good work. He knew it was. He was making a real difference in peoples’ lives, helping them get back on their feet. But it was getting harder to focus the longer he went without an update.

Steve was his friend. They’d put their lives in each others’ hands, taken down the entire national security apparatus, then been crammed into tiny cars and sh*tty motels for a month, trading jibes like they’d known each other for years. Sam might not be a soldier anymore, he might not be an Avenger, but he was something, dammit. He wasn’t gonna fly one mission then call it quits. He itched to get out there and help, but he wasn’t as stupid as Steve. He couldn’t go off half-co*cked chasing two supersoldiers around the country (or the world) with no intel.

He refreshed his coffee and shoveled a bowl of cereal into his mouth. Then he texted Romanov and double checked his Google alerts for Captain Dumbass – still nothing – before starting toward the shower. When he got out, Romanov's reply was waiting for him: no updates. holding pattern. I got a new gig. radio silence next month. don’t panic, they’re fine.

Sam scrubbed at his hair and tossed the phone onto the bed to get dressed. Great. The only contact he had with Rogers was gonna be cut off. He had to stop freaking out about this. Steve was a superhero. But he wasn’t indestructible. Barnes had proved that pretty well. And now they were on the run together with only Romanov to keep them in touch with the outside world. They needed a f*cking support system, not just one inscrutable spy.

A car honked outside. Right. 0740. Time for his carpool. Turns out his insurance didn’t cover ‘brainwashed assassins trying to commit a coup,’ and he hadn’t exactly been on the books for the op in the first place, so there wasn’t any compensation for his poor Impala. Steve had offered to buy him a new one, but Sam didn’t feel right taking his money. If Stark ever got his sh*t together, he’d be more than happy to let that rich asshole bankroll him. He was kinda surprised Romanov hadn’t just dropped off the Corvette. Maybe it was a SHIELD loaner.

Sam filled his thermos, grabbed his bag, and locked up.

“Mornin’, Dan.”

He climbed into the passenger seat of Dan’s ridiculous truck. Dan didn’t even go hunting or anything. Why’d he need a big thing like that in DC? He was a good guy, too, not one of those dick-swinging types who drove souped up cars to feel like a badass.

“Wilson! You’re draggin’ on me today. You good?”

“Sorry. Weird night.”

“Tell me about it. I had the freakiest dream about an orange treacle. Don’t even ask.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, I won’t.”

Dan waited until he was buckled in to swing them around in a three point turn and ease into the morning traffic. Say what he would about the choice of car, Dan was a better driver with three limbs than most people were with four. They shot the sh*t for the fifteen minutes it took to get to the VA, to a soundtrack of weather reports and Kenny Chesney, bless Dan’s simple heart. Sam couldn’t help checking his phone a few times, but Romanov hadn’t given any more details. Typical.

“You gotta hot date lined up or somethin’?”

“Nah. Just tryna check on a buddy of mine. Sorry. What were you saying about Christie?”

“She’s thinkin’ about leavin’ the hospital," Dan said. "Can’t stand the other nurses there, and they keep screwing with her schedule. I haven't seen my wife in three weeks except to say goodbye in the morning!” He flung his hand off the spinner knob for a hot second before grabbing it again to pull into the parking garage.

“That’s rough, man. I heard they were hiring at the respite home over on First, if she’s up for that kind of thing.”

“I’ll let her know. I guess I gotta text her,” Dan sighed. “She’s working night shift all this week too.”

“Y’all’ll figure it out. You got through the mother-in-law debacle, didn’t you?”

“God, don’t remind me. I’m still traumatized. Can’t even look at green bean casserole without breaking out in a cold sweat.”

Sam chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder, then made to dismount from the oversized vehicle. They crossed the street into the office, and Dan diverted to the elevator with a wave. He was up on the fourth floor with the disability claims guys. Sam did not envy that work. He gave a mostly-genuine smile to Lori, the receptionist, and she returned it with a hint of desperation in her eyes. The phone was ringing off the hook, as usual, but they couldn’t afford to hire another admin person, as usual.

His first appointment was already waiting outside his office. Just a check-in, thankfully, on a pretty successful case.

“Mornin’, Carl. And I see we have a special guest today. How are you doin’, Miss Darla?”

Carl’s niece grinned up at him, her little hands wrapped around what looked like an AP science textbook. That girl was scary smart. And she was only ten. She was probably gonna give Stark a run for his money once she hit high school.

“Hi, Mister Sam! It’s take your child to work day, but momma says I shouldn't go to the hospital during flu season. So Uncle Carl is showing me his new job!”

“Is that right? Well, I’m looking forward to hearing all about it. Why don’t y’all come on inside while I get myself together.”

Carl levered himself up off the bench with a grunt. He was an older vet, sent out for Desert Storm, and he had a lot of chronic health issues from chemical exposure. It’d taken far too long for the doctors to figure out what was wrong, and by then the damage to his lungs and joints was pretty extensive. He’d+ been homeless for a time, and that brought its own health troubles, physical and mental, but after they managed to find him an accommodating job and a rent-controlled apartment things had been going well. His sister Martha was an angel, but she was a single mom with a stressful job, and she could only do so much. Sam waved them towards the rickety folding chairs and settled into his own questionable office chair, pulling out his notes.

“So how’s the new apartment treatin’ you? You need me to call and cuss out that supe again?”

Carl gave a rusty laugh. “Naw, it’s been real good. Met some ’a tha neighbors, they’re nice folks.”

Darla interjected, “Uncle Carl had a date with Miss Olivia from 3B. She’s really pretty.”

He scoffed. “It wadn’t a date. She was kind enough to offer me dinner after she found out I was livin’ by myself.”

Sam smiled. “Well ain’t that somethin’. I’m glad you’ve got some more folks lookin’ out for you. And if they happen to be pretty ladies…” He waggled his eyebrows at Darla, and she broke into a fit of giggles.

The rest of the session went well. Carl had some decent news from his doctor, a new medication that was finally helping his joint pain. And the job at the courthouse was going well. It wasn’t exciting work, but it allowed him to sit when he needed to and didn’t require as much talking as some of the admin jobs they’d looked into. He was still thinking about going back to school, but he claimed he was ‘too old and rusty’ for the kind of IT work that a lot of vets got into. Sam figured he was probably discouraged by some of the neurological symptoms he struggled with. He had some delays processing verbal information, but his memory was getting better now that the brain fog wasn’t so bad. Sam would keep pushing the option. Carl had been trained as an engineer with the Army, and he could definitely do something more rewarding than filing traffic tickets. He just needed to get his confidence back.

“So I’ll see you back next month? The twentieth okay?”

“Can do.”

As Sam waved them out into the lobby, Darla stopped and tugged at Carl’s sleeve, pointing at the muted TV in the corner.

“That’s him! That’s the library man.”

On screen, the news was showing a picture of the Winter goddamn Soldier, still a wanted fugitive. Sam had managed to stop thinking about Rogers and Barnes for a whole hour, but apparently he couldn’t escape the ‘drama spiral,’ as Stark had so eloquently put it. And did Darla say she’d met Barnes? His heart rabbited up into his throat as he imagined all the ways that could go horribly wrong. How was she still alive?

“Are you sure, honey?” Carl asked.

“Yes, I told you! He was wearing normal clothes, but I saw him, Uncle Carl, I really did!”

“I believe you. Did you tell your mom? The police are looking for him, y’know.”

“I told her, but momma says we don’t talk to cops.”

Carl huffed. “Well, she ain’t wrong.”

They turned to head down the hallway, but Sam rushed after them, trying not to run over anybody in the crowded lobby. He caught up before they got out the door, swinging around in front of them, still panting a little. Carl jolted and looked at him like he’d lost his mind. He probably had.

“Hey, hey, sorry. I heard you say you saw the Soldier.” Sam glanced at Carl, who just shrugged, then knelt down to get on a level with Darla. “When was that?”

“It was the day after the helicarriers fell in the river.” Of course she knew the proper name for the aircraft. She’d probably looked up diagrams of the engines. “He was outside the library where I go after school.”

“And you talked to him? Wasn’t he kinda scary?”

“No!” She shook her head, making the beads in her braids clack together. “No, he was real upset, but he was nice. I thought he might’a needed help. He kinda looked… Well, I thought he might be a soldier like Uncle Carl. I told him he should come talk to you, Mister Sam.”

Sam sighed. That would’ve made life a lot easier. It also would have probably ended with the feds being called to his apartment, or a damn heart attack when Barnes appeared in his kitchen uninvited like the ghost of Soviet regimes past.

“Did he say anything? Maybe where he was going?”

“No, he just said ‘no, thank you,’ when I asked if he wanted help.”

She looked up at him all wide eyed innocence, and Sam put a cautious hand on her little shoulder. “That was really nice of you to do, Darla. But you gotta be careful talking to strangers, okay?” Especially creepy white guys with far too many guns, he decidedly did not say.

“I know. But momma says we should always try and help people when we can.”

Lord save Sam Wilson from people with big hearts and no sense of self preservation. He gave Darla a soft smile. “Yeah, but you gotta watch out for yourself, too, little lady. You’re not quite big enough to beat up the bad guys yet.”

“He wasn’t a bad guy, though. He looked lost…” She bit her lip and scrunched up her eyebrows. “He’s not gonna get in trouble with the police is he? I didn’t mean to tell on him.”

“I don’t think so. I think he’s gonna find some people to help him out real soon, and they’ll keep him safe.”

Darla nodded, setting her chin. “Good. I hope he finds a friend as nice as you.”

Sam didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry at that. Oh, if only she knew.

_______________________________________________

“Wait. So there’s another bird guy? And this… Winter Soldier. Like the Winter Soldier? The legendary assassin that even Fury couldn’t find and also the scary dude that taught you how to kill people when you were fourteen and then later was kind of your boyfriend but then shot you… He’s Steve’s boyfriend too? From the forties?”

He couldn’t have heard that right. Clint went to adjust his hearing aids, but they were securely in place, and the mics were on the right setting. He redirected to scratch at his head, then leaned down to try and scratch his ankle, but soon gave up and shoved a headless arrow shaft under the plaster. Ahh. That was better. Casts sucked. And he still had four more weeks in this stupid thing.

Natasha eyed his improvised scratching stick. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

“What the– How– “ Clint almost threw his hands up in the air, but then remembered he was holding half an arrow in one and a beer in the other. “I’m outta the country for three weeks and SHIELD blows up and there’s Nazis and suddenly the Winter Soldier just, pops outta the woodwork for the first time in five years in DC? And now there’s another bird guy? Nat,” he whined. “What’s going on?”

She pet his arm, only somewhat condescendingly, then stole his beer and finished it off. Rude. He wasn’t even taking the painkillers anymore, he could have as much beer as he wanted. Now he’d have to get up to go get another one. Maybe he should train Lucky to fetch beers. They had those doggy pull cords for the fridge. But then he’d just steal all the leftover pizza…

“SHIELD was HYDRA,” Nat said, very slowly. “HYDRA had James. And Wilson was just a lucky catch. Don’t worry, his bird thing is totally different from your bird thing.”

“HYDRA from like… Like the Red Skull guy?” Clint said. He thought he remembered that from some SHIELD briefing or something. Or maybe school. But that was a long time ago, and history class was boring, and he had dropped out the semester they were doing WWII. “That HYDRA? That’s why I was getting shot at instead of the nice sneaky extraction I had planned?”

Nat rolled her eyes. She’d probably already explained this, but that was three beers ago, and it was really, really weird, okay?

“Yes, that HYDRA,” she said. “They were embedded in SHIELD for decades. I had to dump all the classified files online. Every undercover operative got burnt. It was the only way to make sure they wouldn’t be able to hide anymore.”

That was really unlike Natasha. She never risked her people, and definitely never shared more information than necessary. The bad guys must’ve been in real deep for her to do something like that.

“So we were working for HYDRA the whole time?”

“Yep.”

“What the f*ck?”

“Yeeep.”

She sighed, shoving herself further into the couch. She didn’t look angry, exactly. Probably feeling very betrayed, though. It’d taken a lot of convincing to get her to turn herself in to SHIELD. Clint should be more mad about it, but it wasn’t that much more shocking than his brother stealing all his sh*t and running off with one of his tenants, or space lizards taking over Manhattan and gods being real. Mostly annoying. Sketchy government agencies were sketchy. At least they hadn’t fried his brains with alien magic and made him kill people he actually liked.

“Well…I guess that does explain some things about STRIKE Alpha,” he said. Those guys were weirdos. Always a bit too friendly after ops. sh*t. Had they been trying to recruit him? Not like he’d wanna hang out with a bunch of jocks who smelled like Axe and hair gel all the time. Why were bad guys always so greasy?

“You have no f*cking idea,” Nat growled.

Wow. Strike that. Nat was pissed. That was her ‘I am going to commit murder very soon so everybody better clear the f*ck out’ face. Clint wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He grabbed her free hand and gave a squeeze, trying to be comforting. Hopefully she wouldn’t slap him. He was already injured.

“So what are we doing now?” he asked.

Nat took a very intentional breath and put away the murder face, squeezing back. “Hill’s getting some things together.” His leg was readjusted where it was laying across her lap, and she fiddled with one of the stray fibers on his cast. “But mostly we’re laying low and tracking HYDRA funds to find where they’re regrouping. I’ve gotta go play secretary at some finance conglomerate and see if I can get intel on their backers.”

Dammit, Clint wanted to help beat up the Nazis. But there was no way Nat would let him in on her corporate espionage thing with a broken ankle. Maybe if she needed a distraction. He was good at distractions. Not as helpful with the computer stuff. Where was Stark? Nat said he was mad about something, but Clint had been trying to wrestle himself into a less gross pair of boxers after she landed on his balcony, and he hadn’t really heard all of it.

Cap was out of the picture, taking care of the boyfriend right now. Was he dating a bad guy? Steve wouldn’t date a bad guy. He was too… Steve to do that. Even if the bad guy was really hot. Was he hot? It was kinda hard to tell with all the kevlar and bullets on the video. He was good at shooting things, Clint had to give him that. And knives. Very good with knives. But nobody knew what the Winter Soldier looked like, besides HYDRA. Also Nat. He was probably hot if he dated Nat. Wait. Maybe that was later, after the whole teaching her to murder people thing. Best not to think about it. Nat's romantic history was kind of hellish.

Clint was a one-off, if you could call what they did dating. He still wasn’t really clear on it, but one does not simply Define The Relationship with Natasha Romanov. He got cuddles and kisses, and he got to see her without makeup when she was sad and tired, and that was so, so much more than he ever expected. He hadn’t done anything to deserve that much trust. He’d just pestered her until she stopped shooting him and let him feed her American pizza and then, apparently, tricked her into working for the bad guys again. Aw, sad thoughts, no.

“Does this mean we have to do double dates?” he blurted. “I hate double dates. Wait. Is other bird guy with someone? Triple dates? Are they gonna have a superhero threesome? No one ever invites me to the superhero threesomes. Well… except for that time with Fury, but I’m pretty sure that was just his Cantonese being terrible. Wait, go back. Is Fury a zombie?”

Nat snorted and shook her head. “No double dates. James isn’t exactly fit for human consumption right now. And Nick is alive, he’s just being a dick about it.”

“Oh. That tracks.” Fury was so weird sometimes with the cloak and dagger stuff. Though, if Clint had been running a secret Nazi club without realizing it he’d probably try to fake his death too. “Wait, what’s wrong with J- uh, with the Winter Soldier? He looked like a badass in the news footage. Is he still trying to murder Cap? Is he trying to murder you?”

He looked Nat over again, suddenly worried. sh*t, he hadn’t even thought about that option. The Soldier might actually be a threat to her. He almost took out Cap. But she was unruffled. She’d talked about him like an old friend. One she had to beat up a few times, but still, a friend. That was pretty normal, for them anyway. Clint ran into an old circus buddy a few months ago when the guy tried to steal his wallet. He got the asshole into a headlock before they recognized each other, but they finished the fight, just to be fair. Clint won, of course. Then they got beer. Ah, beer.

“No, nothing like that,” she said. “He’s just having a rough time adjusting. I told you, he wasn’t exactly a willing volunteer.”

Clint shuddered. He knew a little bit too much about that kind of thing. And if the Soldier really was Bucky Barnes like Nat said, they’d made him try and kill his old best friend slash boyfriend. Yeesh. No wonder he was messed up about it. Clint was still trying not to be messed up about shooting SHIELD guys he'd only known for a few years. And Coulson. He knew it wasn't technically his fault, but. f*ck.

“Well… that sucks,” he said.

He felt bad for the guy, but he couldn't think about it too hard. He really didn’t feel like starting the Loki nightmares up again. This conversation needed more beer. The beer was so far away. He looked longingly towards the refrigerator, then towards Lucky, who was asleep in the corner. He’d been so excited when Clint came back from the hospital they had to play couch fetch for like an hour, and then he was so pooped he hadn’t even sniffed when Nat dropped in. He was probably used to it by now.

Nat flopped her head back, letting some of her exhaustion show. The lines around her mouth deepened, and her day-three ponytail scrunched up against the cushion and got even more frizzy. She was glaring up at the ceiling like there was really offensive graffiti up there, but Clint hadn’t defaced his apartment in that particular manner. Yet. Whatever they did to Barnes was probably horrible if it made Nat look like that. She must really care about him. Clint was not gonna be weird about it. He totally wasn’t.

“Yeah,” she sighed again and shoved his leg aside to stand up. Ouch. “It really does.”

Chapter 35

Chapter Text

It blinked, and it was in the sleeping quarters, horizontal on the pallet of blankets. The handler was resting soundly, his breathing deep and even. The clock read 0412. It could only assume that its last period of awareness had been the night immediately prior. It usually did not lose more than a few hours at a time. The Soldier was unsure if malfunction had stolen all of the time since the nutrition routine, or if it had experienced the prescribed unconsciousness, the ‘sleep’ the handler insisted on, for part of it.

It assessed the body. The ache in the skull was there, though it had eased. The stomach clenched, but it was not yet time for first rations. There was no additional pain. No debris on the floor. No hands clawing at the skin. No burning lungs or throat dry from screaming.

It assessed the prosthesis. The plates shifted, nerves twinging with the impulse to recalibrate, but that would create too much noise while the handler was sleeping. There was no new damage.

It assessed the cognition. There was no episodic memory since approximately 2150 the previous night. The echoes of malfunction were still present, but muted. The previously incessant imperatives were utterly silent. Something had shifted.

The Soldier eased itself upright, mindful of any other impediments to its functionality. The unease of the past… however many days, was less prominent. It did not seem so unmoored, so subject to the vagaries of the failing cognition, though there was no evidence of this besides the tenuous feeling of solidity in the chest, the feet, the backside. It adjusted its position, flexing the glutei, acutely aware of the firmness of the floor beneath the blankets, and took a steadying breath. The fingers played over the material of the topmost blanket. Nubbly and warm and slightly rough, enough to just barely activate the sensors of the left hand.

The tension between the Captain’s will and the programming had faded, but the memory of the sensation lived on, settled at the back of the skull, right where the impulse to run, to fight, to fuel the body by any means necessary lived. It could still feel the force of his hand in the hair, the instinctual surrender, the wave of serenity that had come over it. It should have been disquieting, but there was only a vague sense of wonderment, along with a hint of the same clarity that had come after the transfer. Could this man, whose idle words could cause pain, whose touch so easily moved the body, actually be capable of altering programming without the chair?

It sat there, puzzling over this sudden change in status, until the handler’s alarm sounded at 0500 – a quiet, melodic chime from his phone. He mumbled into the bedding and reached for the device, silencing the noise, then lay still for six point one minutes longer before extricating himself from the blankets. He pulled on new socks, then shrugged a gray long-sleeved shirt marked ‘ARMY’ over the white tee he’d slept in.

When the handler saw that it was alert, his expression shifted, eyes widening and brows lifting [consideration, curiosity.] The Soldier came to attention, locking the arms behind the back. Even if the imperative was nonfunctional, it could clearly remember the injury to the handler, the gush of blood across his face.

“Mornin’, Buck. How you feelin’?”

“Potential malfunction, sir. Loss of consciousness from 2150 to 0412.”

“Oh.” His forehead contorted as he rubbed at his eyes. “You were uh. You were pretty stable last night. We laid down at 2215. You sure you weren’t just asleep? Did’ja have any nightmares?”

“Unknown, sir. No other evidence of malfunction.”

“Hm. We’ll take it as a win, then. I’m glad you got some rest.” He knelt, smoothing over the hair for seven seconds, his gaze soft with sleep. “I’m gonna go make breakfast, I’m starving.” The stomach emitted a low grumble, and he huffed, “You too, huh? C’mon, I’ll stay with you in the bathroom, just in case.”

It rose to follow. There was still a significant risk of malfunction, and the handler would not be pleased if it further damaged the safehouse.

The procedure was largely uneventful, with only a few stuttering seconds of time lapse when it stepped into the cleansing facility. Part of it, still stuck several days in the past, expected to see the shattered glass and the blood on the tiles. A sheet of cardboard hung in place of the mirror, and the floor gleamed clean and white [and cold against the bare feet, halogen bulbs flickering above.] It completed the cleansing routine as quickly as possible: bladder, hands, face, teeth. The handler did not use the plastic comb, simply directing the hair back into position with his fingers.

This was routine, as much as routine had been possible during the recent chaos. It sat on the colorful rug. He brought the wool blanket and placed it across the shoulders before he handed it the now lumpy plastic vessel. The Soldier observed his movements as it slowly consumed the rations. He made coffee, heated bread in the oven, then applied peanut butter to the bread. The substance was even more pungent when it was warm. Were there no eggs? He did eat a significant quantity of them, and no additional supplies had been delivered or procured since their arrival here. At least, none that it could remember.

After his meal, he performed physical training. Only calisthenics. He had been neglecting his running habit in order to monitor the Soldier. A twinge of guilt soured the taste of the rations. He refused maintenance, claimed it was harmful, but the result caused so much disruption to his own duties. Two hundred pushups, two hundred crunches, and two hundred lunges later, he turned to address it, face only slightly pink and breath coming evenly.

“Still feeling okay?”

“Acceptable, sir.”

“Alright. I’m gonna take a quick shower. I’ll leave the door open.”

It nodded. He had not been able to attend to his own hygiene in so long. It was unacceptable. The Soldier resolved to keep itself together, to avoid impeding his routine for as long as possible. It pressed the fingers of the left hand into the knee – not enough to cause damage, just to create sensation on which to focus. It counted the seconds, tracked the breathing, and drank the rations, sip by sip.

The water fell, pattering against fiberglass, and steam began to fill the air. There was hardly time for the scent of his soap to waft from the cleansing facility before the handle squeaked and the water stopped. Two point eight minutes. His first shower in uncounted days, and he allowed himself only two point eight minutes. [Cracked plaster and heavy curtains. Candles clustered on the table, casting the room in a soft orange glow. Cigarette smoke and whiskey and rough laughter. “They ain’t rationin’ hot water out here, Rogers.”]

“Buck?”

It flinched. The handler was in front of it, ruddy and wet and clean shaven. He was wearing different clothing. The cleansing and the previous night’s rest appeared to have been beneficial to his health. His eyes were much less shadowed. He knelt down to look more closely at the face. The Soldier tightened its grip on the nutrition vessel.

“Sir. M-malfunction. Loss of consciousness. Estimated less than point five hours.”

He squeezed the right arm. “You’re okay. Just a few minutes that time. No harm done.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stood, but did not immediately take his place at the computer. While the Soldier resumed the nutrition routine, he leaned against the kitchen counter and read from his phone. Exactly twenty minutes after it swallowed the last of the rations, he pocketed the device and approached its position.

“I wanna try something,” he said. “I think it might help with the dissociation. Remember what I said, though, about anything causing pain or distress?”

Was this training, or had he finally decided to punish it for all of the damage it had caused? But it would be illogical to report pain during punishment. That was the point. Unless the handler desired a report of its effectiveness. It could not know. The heart rate did not increase. The Soldier did not allow it to. The Captain was to be obeyed. To be trusted.

“It is to report immediately, sir.”

“Good. That’s right, sweetheart.”

A hand on the cheek, another drop of praise, another smile, another flood of warmth. He released it and stepped away.

“Let the blanket go for now.” It did so, the heavy wool pooling around the hips as it fell. “Put your left foot on the floor, knee up. Keep the right leg out. Bend your knee a little. Good. Push your sleeves up. Left arm on the left knee, right hand on the floor by your hip. Scooch your elbow a bit, let your hand relax. That’s it. Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

Despite its response, it heard the squeak of the stove door, the thump of two logs, and the crackling of the fire. The handler removed the empty nutrition vessel and adjusted the hair. Then, he walked a full circle around the Soldier twice, assessing its posture. It knew this. It had been a display piece before. [“Was für ein wunderschöner Hund. Züchtet er gut?”] A hint of unease unfurled in the pit of the stomach, but the Soldier quashed it. It was the handler’s right to use it as he saw fit.

“You gotta knife on you?”

“Three, sir.”

“Pick one, hold it in your left hand.”

It removed the nearest blade from the left boot, the Gerber Yari II, and returned the arm to position. Without thought, the fingers manipulated it in a familiar pattern, flipping it over the back of the hand so that it landed in a forward grip. The action was highly satisfactory. Too late, the Soldier realized that this might have been interpreted as a display of aggression. That was especially unacceptable during recreational use, but the handler had ordered the weapon drawn. It glanced toward him to gauge his response. The smile was still there, accompanied by the strange heat in his eyes. He gave a short nod.

“Alright, now put your head however is most comfortable and find something specific to focus on. Doesn’t matter what. Then I want you to hold position until I say." [“Toys don’t move, do they?”] "But you tell me if you get uncomfortable or upset. Sound good?”

“Understood, sir.”

It adjusted as instructed, tilting the head approximately fifteen degrees to the right and fixing the gaze past the sitting area, to the place where the front door met the floor. Most of the room was visible in this position, with only five meters between the stove and the kitchen at the Soldier’s back. This was similar to the stress position exercises, but the body did not struggle to hold the pose. Keeping the eyes in place, it could see the handler move in its periphery. He retrieved something from the bedroom, but instead of approaching the Soldier again, he took his usual place on the couch. Music began to play from the little phone speaker, a simple arrangement of violin, viola, and cello. A variation on Mozart.

It was like any other day, with one exception. Where normally the computer would rest on his lap, now he held a thick spiral-bound notebook. He was observing the Soldier intently, as if drafting a report on its behavior. It held position, making the breathing shallower to minimize the movement of the chest. There came the sound of pencil on paper, his eyes darting from the page to the Soldier and back. [Sunlight through the curtains, pale pink and flax and summer blue.] It had been perfectly still for four point three minutes when the handler exhaled in a short huff.

“Buck, honey, you can breathe normally. And blink, for chrissakes, you’re gonna hurt your eyes.”

It obeyed, allowed the lungs to fill fully, then slowly closed and opened the eyelids several times before refocusing on the door.

The sound of the pencil resumed. It was not the same rhythm as writing. The handler still did not move from his place on the couch. He did not order it to come to him, to remove the clothing, nor to arrange the body into more appealing postures. He did not say ‘open up, whor*,’ or kick it, or laugh. He simply sat, and looked, and moved the pencil. After twenty-eight point nine minutes, it began to doubt that he intended to initiate either recreational use or discipline.

Perhaps this was like when the Colonel would station it at ease in his office, in the corner by the soft chair that smelled like cigar smoke. No purpose save to keep it near as he worked, subordinate operatives coming and going, phone ringing, notes being taken, while the Soldier sat, ensconced in the relative safety of his presence. The office had been warm and quiet, and he would allow it to sit on the soft carpeting, as long as it was out of the way. The Colonel had never made use of the secondary function, though the field handlers would do so when it was off base.

It slowly, cautiously allowed itself to settle into the pose. Something about the concrete orders, the mundane task of holding the body in place, the feel of the weapon in its hand, shifted the malfunctions to the back of the mind. The unease gradually dispersed. The entirety of its awareness was taken up by the chosen focal point, the angle of metal on wood, the shadows growing shorter as the sun shifted, the scritching of the pencil.

Time went liquid, but did not disappear. The dance of dust motes through the shafts of light seemed to correspond to the music playing from the handler’s phone. For once, it was able to follow entire compositions from beginning to end. Tchaikovsky. Stravinsky. Bartok. Dvorak. [Light feet shushing across polished wood, lithe bodies under the hands, hair flying, red and black and gold.] It could track the minutes, and was aware of no gaps in its perception. The echoes came, a few images, but none of them overtook its cognition entirely. They were gone before it could begin to analyze them. It did not matter. The Soldier had an objective to complete, a role to fill. It was being useful to the handler, serving as an object for his… what was he doing?

It could not look directly at him without breaking position. He was still bent over the notebook – no, sketchbook, he was drawing, pencil moving in short bursts all over the page – and the angle of the paper hid whatever he was working on. The sky had clouded, the illumination from the open windows dimming. The brow furrowed involuntarily. There was nowhere near enough light for him to work by. He would strain his eyes, and then–

“I think I’ve got it.” He set the pencil aside and leaned forward where he sat. “You can move now, at ease. You did real good. Did you stay with me the whole time?”

The Soldier shifted. It lowered the left leg, sheathed the knife, and turned the head to properly address the handler. “Yes, sir. Minimal malfunction. No loss of consciousness.”

The smile he produced moved his entire body, spine lengthening and hands flexing around the notebook. “Really? That’s great. Y’know you used to–” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t drawn in a while. It was good to get back into it. I’m glad it worked for you, too. C’mere, you wanna see?”

[The Asset does not want.]

It said nothing. There was… curiosity about what he had been working on, but it was his prerogative to share the information or not.

The handler gestured, and it came to heel. He turned the paper towards it. There, in lines of gray and black, he had described a figure dressed in loose clothing, with dark hair, shadowed eyes, and… Oh.

It was the Soldier. He had drawn it just as it sat. The image was nearly photographic, down to the patina of the stove and the grain of the wood siding. It expected the same jarring disorientation it had experienced in the museum, in front of the mirrors. But it felt only mild interest, eyes lingering on the careful shading under the folds of fabric, the detail of the left arm and the knife. The handler’s technical skill was impressive. He had conveyed the fine plating of the prosthesis with exacting accuracy, and in less than two hours.

The fingers itched to trace the lines of the drawing, but that would be horribly improper, as well as damaging to the graphite. It kept the hands firmly against the thighs.

“Th-thank you, sir.”

It was not entirely sure what it was expressing gratitude for – the effective training session, the lack of malfunctions, his willingness to share his skilled observations – but it seemed appropriate.

“‘Course. C’mon, time for second breakfast. You’re on the hobbit schedule now, I guess.” It was not aware of this protocol. He laughed, then suddenly looked contemplative. “Actually… Well, you might have to tell me if that’s a good idea or not. We can give it a try. There’s gotta be a copy of the book around here somewhere.”

_________________________________

Over the next week, the handler continued the drawing exercises daily, increasing the complexity of the poses as the Soldier’s functioning improved. He also began instructing it to hold non-regulation positions when he was not using the sketchbook.

It stood on the balls of the feet in the kitchen for six point two minutes while he prepared rations. It sat with the knees up and the hands on the shoulders for twenty-one point eight minutes as he read reports. It laid with the arms stretched above the head and the heels lifted from the floor for eleven point seven minutes while he sorted the clothing and linens from the washing machine.

When he was not otherwise engaged, he would observe it closely, assessing the posture with something like amusem*nt in his eyes. It must look ridiculous, fixed in place like some sort of mannequin. But the exercises caused no negative sensation in the body. No heat in the face or tightness in the chest, only the mild warmth of engaged muscles. He did not laugh at it or shove it to force it to compensate and scramble back into position. He did not remove the clothing or tell it to open the mouth and look pretty. He simply nodded approvingly and said, “Good job, Buck.”

If it had thought him expressive before, he ascended to a whole new level of emotionality. He spoke more frequently. Casual observations. Simple orders. Praise for things that did not seem praiseworthy. He spoke to it jovially, as if addressing a confidant, his seemingly innocuous statements carrying mountains of significance it could not interpret. He spoke to it firmly, as if it was a beloved companion animal, a prized horse that only needed to be soothed to perform at its peak. He spoke to it fondly, like a child, like… It did not know, could not find the words.

And he kept smiling at it. Every time, the Soldier’s pulse would stutter and the head would light up with the same hormonal response as a reward, though it could identify no cause for one. It was like standing too close to a fire, little embers randomly jumping out to hit the skin and send jolts of sensation across the body.

He changed the designated inactive position. It was stationed further from the stove, with the back against the base of the couch, though it did not grow cold. The heat of the handler’s body radiated through the blankets and warmed it bone-deep. Each day his touch was surer, the pressure increasing until the Soldier would involuntarily relax and the mind would go quiet.

He combed the hair at least once a day, and his fingers carded through it frequently, far beyond the requirements of hygienic or even aesthetic maintenance, as if the activity was as rewarding for him as it was the Soldier. But that was impossible. Perhaps he was simply growing bored, using its body to occupy his hands while he worked on the computer, his fingers curled against the back of the skull, threaded under the hair, gently massaging. For hours. It spent much of the day sitting at his feet, hazy with hormonal responses when it was not lost to the malfunctions.

Slowly, incrementally, the cognition began to return to normal parameters.

It took note of certain things only in their absence. The anticipation that had been coiled in every fiber of muscle ebbed by a few degrees. The ache in the skull was much less distracting after multiple portions of nutrition and hours under the handler’s touch. It still performed the perimeter checks, but found itself checking the alarm system less often. It lost time, but the episodes became shorter, and the handler less distressed when it came back to awareness.

The music he played took on new depth, the cognition improving enough to identify the patterns of theme and variation. There were fewer incidents of damage to the body. The echoes persisted, but they were less disruptive, the Soldier able to function despite the phantom noise. It could not tell if the malfunctions were decreasing in severity, or if it had simply run out of furnishings to break. The remnants of the kitchen chairs were piled by the stove, ready to be used as kindling.

There was still no cryo. No chair. No punishment. Nothing but nutrition and cleansing and long hours by the fire.

The Soldier was stunned, nearly in awe. It did not know how he did it, but the handler had reduced the malfunctions and begun to nudge at the frayed edges of the programming. That he could provide relief from the malfunctions with such unsophisticated procedures… it was difficult to comprehend. If this was possible, then why– But it was such a slow process. The handler had spent the last month in direct contact with it near constantly. It was highly inefficient, and still not entirely successful. The chair was more practical, even if it was unpleasant.

It wondered if it were true. If things would be better. If it could become functional enough to finally serve him properly.

Chapter 36

Chapter Text

“Sir.”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Please clarify. What is the purpose of this instruction?”

The computer was in the customary position on his lap, but the screen was tilted so that the Soldier could see. There was a video of a group of five immature domestic cats, displaying typical cat behavior. They were so young that they could hardly walk properly, stumbling over each other and collapsing into their bedding. It had seen something like this before. Commander Rumlow had not approved. [The facial muscles twitched as it observed the little animals batting at a small colorful object. Suddenly the device was removed. Plastic and glass shattered in the Commander’s hands. “Godammit, Blake! It’s a weapon, not your f*ckin’ buddy.” Knuckles across the cheek. “Get off the damn bench.”] But the Captain had selected the files himself. This footage must serve some function.

He laughed, low and rumbling. “I told’ya. It’s just for entertainment. Something to pass the time. Don’tcha get tired of staring at the stove and listening to violins for hours?”

It inclined the head, careful not to dislodge the lock of hair he was holding. The handler had been toying with it absently, twisting a piece, then letting go, then another piece, then a careful stroke of his fingers through the disturbed strands to set them back to order, over and over again. It was unsure if the question was rhetorical. If he did not desire that it remain on defensive duties, then he should place it in cryo storage. But he had refused, many times. It did not require… entertaining. It stood guard. It maintained the fire. It consumed the rations. He did not initiate the secondary function, despite his obvious restlessness. What else was it to do?

“Negative, sir.”

Another laugh, this one drier. “Just give it a try. If you don’t like it, we can stop.”

[The Asset has no preferences.]

“Yes, sir.”

The Soldier returned its attention to the screen. The cat with the most orange in its coat collided with one of the brown spotted cats, resulting in both animals rolling onto their backs with their feet flailing wildly, futilely attempting to right themselves. They squeaked in dismay. The handler chuckled. The Soldier’s chest tightened. There was someone recording, voices nearby, and yet no one came to assist the cats in regaining mobility.

The video ended and another began to play. A trio of three black cats – was all of this footage about cats? – skittered down an alleyway towards the camera. The frame shifted downward to show a can of what must be foodstuffs, open and waiting for them. They cried loudly as they approached, vying to be the first to reach the nutrition. One of the cats sprang forward and landed on a smaller cat, knocking it to the ground. It was uninjured, but it lay dazed for several seconds as the two others began consuming the canned rations. The third cat finally stood, shaking itself, and approached with a distinctive, displeased yowl. The video ended before it could determine if the third cat was also allowed nutrition. The discomfiting sensation grew stronger.

It did not understand. How was this at all useful?

The next segment depicted a large striped cat curled up with four kittens, her offspring presumably, in a cardboard box lined with towels. Three of the kittens were comfortably arranged against their mother, but the fourth teetered along the edge of the bedding, occasionally stepping on its littermates. It whined and meeped at the mother, fussing about some unmet need, and then tumbled from the box entirely. It landed safely on the carpeting, but–

The mother was nowhere in sight. The Soldier searched with eyes and ears and even with its nose, but it could find no trace of another animal. Snow obscured any scent and made visual assessment difficult. The little gray cat was all alone, shivering and vocalizing at the Soldier as it stared down at it. Its tiny feet left toddling tracks in the snow that were wiped away as soon as the wind shifted. It was too cold out. The animal would not survive. It was far too small to produce enough body heat on its own. Night was falling, and the temperature would only grow more deadly.

“Soldat!”

It knelt, quickly collecting the cat and tucking it into the heavy wool coat. The Colonel would not let it die. He was not a cruel man. The cat had done nothing wrong.

“Soldat! Gde ty, chert voz'mi?”

The Soldier turned and made its way back to the rendezvous point. The Lieutenant would not appreciate tardiness. He was likely already preparing to–

“Bucky. Soldat, pogovori so mnoy. Ya zdes'.”

Warmth on the face, skin on skin, over the zygomatic process and behind the ear to the back of the skull.

–to discipline the Soldier for delaying the transport to base. The boots crunched over the ice, the right hand curled under the animal’s rump to hold it in place against the chest. But would the Lieutenant allow the cat onto the transport? If only it had time to get to–

“Come back to me, Buck. C’mon. You’re okay. You’re safe. Eto bezopasno."

Firm pressure on the neck, back and forth across the occipital. It blinked, the white and gray of the city fading. The rich brown of the safehouse resolved before it, broken by the pale pink of the handler’s face, the muted gold of his hair, the clear blue of his eyes, narrowed in concern.

“Buck? Say something, baby, please.”

[Cognitive malfunction. Report for reset.]

He was kneeling in front of it, the… The computer. It had been observing the videos. The computer was closed, leaning on the arm of the couch. It cleared the throat, complying as quickly as possible.

“Ser. Neispravnost'.”

He sighed. It could not determine if it was an expression of frustration or fatigue or something else. The malfunctions had declined in frequency, but it knew he was still weary of them.

“What happened?”

“Cognitive m-malfunction, sir. Irregular input. Delusional sensation. F-fictitious images. Reset required.”

The handler’s eyes narrowed further. He had said no reset, it knew this, but the words came tumbling out automatically. The fingers in the Soldier’s hair flexed, scrubbing softly at the roots. His other hand was on the right shoulder, massaging the trapezius.

“What kind of images? What did you see?”

He had never asked about specifics before, perhaps too occupied trying to contain its physical reactions. It struggled to hold onto the phantom sensations; they were already dissipating like smoke in a strong wind. It could only recall part of the imagery brought about by the malfunction.

“There was… a small cat. It was cold. And it… Unknown, sir. Insufficient data.”

It did not know what had become of the little cat. The sternum twinged. It did not matter. The cat was not real. It was not a mission objective. But the Soldier could not halt the physiological response.

“Do you remember where it was? What year?” the handler asked. He sounded…hopeful?

“A city, sir. C-concrete and brick. Snow. Location indeterminate.” It tried to focus, to revive any part of the picture in the mind. There were only vague impressions, but it did know the voice. “Lieutenant Andreyev was present. Field commander approximately nineteen seventy-one to nineteen seventy-six.”

His face screwed up as if he was disappointed. Fear crept into the Soldier’s gut. This was not the most disruptive incident by far, but it could not assess his current emotional state with any accuracy. After seventeen seconds, he shifted, exerting upward pressure on the arms.

“Kneel up for me.” It complied. He directed the body with his hands, pulling it forward by the shoulders so that the quadriceps and glutei were engaged in order to maintain balance. He rotated the wrists and placed his hands, broad and warm, beneath its own, lifting them until the elbows bent at ninety degrees. They hovered in midair, palm up, extended towards the handler as if in supplication. “Keep your hands right there. Take a deep breath. Another one. That’s good, Buck.” The praise loosened the coil of anxiety by a degree. His attention returned to the hair, one hand tracing long strokes from crown to nape. “Are you feeling okay? Any other sensations?”

It inhaled again, slowly, and reported. “Tension in the chest, sir. Increased heart rate.”

“Alright. Good job telling me. Keep breathing.”

It did so. He continued petting the hair for one point six minutes as it counted the breaths. Eight in. Eight out. The body slowly unwound. The handler remained before it, on his knees, his gaze fixed on the Soldier’s face. His eyebrows turned upwards and his lips pursed slightly [hesitation, curiosity] before he spoke.

“I think that was a memory, Buck. At least, it sounded like one.”

A…memory. It felt the brow furrow, the mouth turning down. It was only allowed what memory the handler determined appropriate. All extraneous information was removed. The malfunctions were– They were simply misfiring neurons, the result of too long without maintenance. Bugs in the code.

It was not designed for so much data storage. It had to be reset, after the missions, to ensure that it returned to base programming. Otherwise the cognition would be cluttered with long days lying in wait watching empty windows or the babbling of dying men. The handler’s hand shifted, fingers finding their way to the collar of its shirt, brushing along the exposed skin.

“You remember I said your brain is healing?”

“Yes, sir.”

It recalled that clearly. It was the day that he had defied the imperatives. He had been insistent that the resets were damaging it, that they were taking away important pieces. It could not know if this was true. It did not know what pieces were missing.

“Well I think you’re getting some memories back. Good and bad. You’ve been having a lot of flashbacks. You might not remember them very well after they happen. That’s normal. A lot of it’s probably… negative sensations. But this one didn’t seem too bad.” He gave a quiet laugh, his expression softening. “I bet you've met a lot of cats, in a lot of different places. Maybe the videos reminded you of one of them.”

The Soldier was silent. This information was almost more difficult to integrate than the aberrant protocol. It was resistant to the notion for some reason it could not name. But there was logic to it. It could not remember many of the malfunctions, but those it did… They were similar to things that might have been part of its missions or maintenance.

It knew it had been on the steel tables many times. It knew it had held weapons and detonated bombs and witnessed bloodshed. It knew that the Commander had touched the face and called it ‘kitten’ and told it to get in the damn van. But there was no reason – at least before its post with the Captain – that the Soldier would lie in front of a fire and hear music, or smell baking bread and lilacs, or purposefully interact with a cat. They were just figments, the products of its damaged cognition. Weren’t they?

“Watch the elbows, soldier.”

It returned the focus to the body, adjusting the limbs back into position, and took another measured breath.

“Status?”

“Acceptable, sir. Mild functional impairment. Cognitive functionality: forty-three percent. Physical functionality: fifty-eight percent. Prosthesis functionality: seventy-nine percent. Intermittent cognitive malfunction. Reset required.”

“Good, thank you. This is probably gonna keep happening, but I don’t want you to stress about it. It’s a good thing. If you’re comfortable, you can report these kinds of images to me. But I understand if you want to keep some of it private. If there’s… If you see something you don’t understand, I might be able to help explain it. Even if what you remember is upsetting, we’ll work through it, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Soldier did not have secrets. It did not have a use for privacy. It would not hide the malfunctions from him. Even if he would not correct them, it was imperative to report. But now the handler was insisting that the malfunctions were a positive thing. That they were fragments of something real. It still could not align this theory with the internal structures of its cognition in a satisfying way. The concept floated about like an untethered buoy, knocking into things and causing dissonance. The heart rate had settled, but the Soldier still felt on edge, waiting for a reprimand or more frustration from the handler. His fingertips pressed into the iliac crest, reminding it to remain at the angle he had dictated. It straightened by a degree and ensured that the arms were still in the correct position.

“I think that’s enough cat videos for now. Maybe we’ll just stick with music.”

The first attempt at music had also caused malfunction. With its cognition so damaged, the Soldier was skeptical that there was any form of input that might not cause its mind to spiral into delusion. The accursed organ seemed to cling to the most irrelevant details, spinning them into these strange scenarios.

“Yes, sir.”

He reached forward with both hands, cupping the back of the head, and took hold of the hair at the roots. Again, there was no pain, only pressure enough to silence the din of its thoughts.

“You did good, honey. Molodets.”

The reward flowed over it like the hot water of the handler’s indulgent showers. It did not vocalize. It did not allow the spine to soften or the eyes to close. It exhaled through the nose, slowly and intentionally. Its hands were close enough to his chest that it could almost feel the sensation of cotton and warm flesh against the knuckles. Something inside of it settled more firmly into place, a key slotting into the appropriate lock. He stayed there, kneading gently at the scalp, pulling and releasing, for four point one minutes. When he let go, his hands slid from the back of the skull to the neck, resting heavy and warm against bare flesh.

“At ease, Buck.” It slowly lowered the arms, but otherwise did not move. It would not dislodge the handler’s grip. One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Let’s get some food, then we can take a walk. It’s supposed to get colder soon. Might as well enjoy it while we can.”

________________________________________________________

As they walked the well-worn path around the perimeter, the Soldier inspected the sensors. Nothing was obviously damaged, but one was nonfunctional. It alerted the handler and relocated the device to the south side of the tree it was attached to. The solar panel had simply become too shaded as the angle of the sun shifted. So close to the solstice, the days were growing short.

There were patches of snow under the canopy, where the sun had been unable to reach. The air bit at the skin, even through the additional layers the handler had given it. The Soldier paid it no mind. It had operated at much lower temperatures. It had seen winter in Siberia. It had–

Trained in the storm for five days, digging out shelter in the snow banks and drinking ice melt to maintain hydration. There were traps and snipers in the forest, but it evaded all of them, arriving at the evac point six hours ahead of schedule.

When the technicians came to retrieve it, the feet were numb and the lips blue. But it stood and followed. The first sip of warm broth burned the mouth, though it was barely above room temperature. The body quaked violently throughout the ride back to base, shaking so much that it rattled the steel bench. It would survive. It had done this before, after…

It did not allow the feet to falter as it was led to the medical suite. The General assessed it as it entered the room, his mouth twitching in a vague hint of satisfaction. It stood tall. “Otlichnaya rabota, Soldat. Ty byli–”

“ –bezopasno. Ty v Amerike so Steve. Vos’moye dekabr' dve tysyachi chetyrnadtsat' goda”

Pressure on the hands and bright light on the face. America. Twenty-fourteen. The Captain. It inhaled crisp air, pine and mud and sunlight, and refocused. The handler was standing closer now, rubbing at the knuckles. The right hand was naked against his, the left wrapped in the sleeve of the cotton jacket, a barrier between the cold metal and his flesh.

“You alright?”

“Yes, sir. Acceptable. M-minor cognitive malfunction. Additional visualizations.”

“Yeah? You wanna tell me about it?”

It knew that he was not actually asking if it had a desire. It was simply an irregularly phrased command. “T-training, sir. Survival and evasion in adverse conditions. Exercise completed successfully. High likelihood of… factual accuracy.”

If his proposed explanation of these, these flashes was correct, that they were memories or distortions of memories, then this one fit well into the Soldier’s understanding of the past. It was not sure why it would have been erased in the first place. The Soldier had completed the objective. It had done well.

“Training. In the winter. In Russia?” He raised one eyebrow [skepticism, amusem*nt?]

“Affirmative, sir. Approximately nineteen-fifty to nineteen-sixty.”

“Any other sensations?”

“It was c-cold, sir.”

“I bet," the handler chuffed. “I’m guessing you did better than the Germans, anyhow. Thank you for telling me, Buck. You okay to keep walking? We’re just about done, then we can go in and get warmed up again.”

“Yes, sir.”

He stayed in physical contact, taking the right hand in his left, squeezing at the fingers and smoothing his thumb across the back of the knuckles. It was… irregular, but not unpleasant. The input drew enough of the attention to keep the mind present, but did not distract from its duties.

Besides a few sensors one or two centimeters out of place, there were no other issues with the alarm system. Everything was functioning as intended. If this facility was Romanov’s design, she had selected high quality equipment. It was not harmed by the weather, nor by the activity of the deer, scratching their antlers against the bark of the trees. It was not surprising. She was… [cognitive error.] She was a highly effective operative.

The handler was silent through the rest of the circuit, taking in the landscape with a soft, if somewhat tired, smile. His condition had improved greatly in recent days, with the Soldier interrupting his rest less often. When the malfunctions arose in the night, it remembered the breathing and touched the wool blanket. It thought it might have accomplished a complete ‘sleep’ protocol several times, but it was difficult to distinguish the waking malfunctions from the unconscious ones.

Sometimes, it woke in the morning with no memory of lying down. Sometimes, it laid on the blankets throughout the night, alert to the handler’s vital signs. Sometimes, the hours passed in a jumble of delusion and it came to consciousness with the handler sitting by the pallet, his hand in its hair.

It could remember most of the days now, though the time was chopped into pieces with ragged edges, and many of the activities were the same. Rations and skritching pencil and warm hands on the back and “Hey, Buck” and gentle smiles.

It puzzled over the largest piece, the one that stuck out of place but would not be moved no matter how it tried to dismiss it. Memories. The things it was seeing, feeling, hearing – they were somehow real. When it had reported similar malfunctions in the past, maintenance was quickly implemented. [The man on the bridge. It knew him. “Wipe it.”] The other handlers did not want it to remember… but the Captain did. The Captain, the first handler, whose hands and voice were known to it, but whose time as handler was gone from the memory. The other handlers had erased him, or tried to.

A flash of anger rose up at the thought. His preferred protocol was strange, but it was effective, even if it was slow. And he was so good, so generous. If the images it saw during malfunction were true, then he had always been like this. He had held it close and praised it, and… It did not know when or why he had been removed as handler. It had seen him in combat. His performance was exceptional. He would doubtless be an effective field commander. It could see no reason for his dismissal.

There must have been a political shift. Just as it had changed hands from the Department to HYDRA, from the Colonel to the Secretary, it was taken from the Captain and delivered to the Soviet Army, and… It attempted to piece together an accurate timeline, but it was like trying to assemble a weapon using parts of incompatible manufacture.

The Soldier was not a political strategist. The machinations of power and bureaucracy were above it. That was the realm of the handlers. It was simply the Fist, the force used to implement desired change. It had only a cursory understanding of the geopolitical landscape of the twentieth century, and it could not place itself or the Captain satisfactorily in that picture. The pieces did not fit, and there were still many missing.

When they returned to the safehouse, the handler wrapped it up in the blankets and busied himself preparing the rations.

He had said it should ask questions, had he not? It thought he had said that, as part of the new protocol. He did not seem inclined to express anger at curiosity. It pondered as he ate – two ration bars and another peanut butter sandwich. [A wide smile and sticky fingers. “Not allergic anymore, can ya believe that?”] When he finished the meal and settled onto the couch to resume his intelligence work, it turned to address him, eyes fixed on where his hands rested on the keyboard.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, honey?”

"An inquiry, sir."

The handler inclined his head indulgently. "Go ahead."

“The Captain… If you were the first handler… Wh-why was it transferred, sir?”

He stilled. It saw his lips purse and heard him swallow. His right hand clenched into a fist, then released. Had it misunderstood the protocol?

“You weren’t transferred, Buck. You were… The Soviet Army captured you, after–” A strained inhale. “After you fell off a train, on a mission. I thought you were dead.” A shuddering exhale, and his hand came to rest on the shoulder, squeezing firmly. “I didn’t know they had you, and then I… Well, I wasn’t around for a long time.”

It remembered this, or parts of it at least. The Captain had been locked in ice, held in stasis for decades before he was discovered. It risked a glance to his face. The pain written there was echoed in its chest, some unknown response taking hold of the heart and gripping hard. He looked down at it, his eyes tight and lips thin.

“I’m so sorry. If I’d known you were alive, I would’ve moved heaven and earth to find you.”

They had stolen it from him. The anger flared again, twining with the pain in the chest. The Soldier was rightfully his weapon, and it had been taken without his knowledge, and… [cognitive error.] Were all of the other handlers illegitimate, then? But they had the book, and the chair, and their protocols were fixed in the mind like iron pylons.

It still did not fully comprehend the sequence of events, but it was reluctant to cause him additional distress with more questions. It had no words, knew no way to assuage the handler’s upset. It leaned into his hand, the left shoulder pressing into the side of his knee. The small movement seemed to please him. His mouth turned up into a tight smile, still tinged with negative emotion, and he rubbed across the back.

“But I got you back. I still can’t believe it some days. It’s a goddamn miracle.” He shook his head. “I hate that you had to go through all that, but… I got you back.”

Chapter 37

Chapter Text

The initial routine resumed, the one that had been established directly after the transfer. The handler took his runs, and it took watch. After a week with no unintentional violence, he allowed it to perform minimal physical training. “No running, no pushups, but if you wanna warm up or something, go for it.” It completed the standard stretching routine while it monitored their surroundings.

It consumed rations every other waking hour. It was again responsible for the maintenance of the body, though the handler admonished it for not using the hot water during cleansing. It was unnecessary. The procedure was just as effective without the indulgence, but he insisted on it, just as he insisted on the blankets and the fire and the thick cotton and wool clothing.

The Solder did not understand. But it did not have to. The handler was pleased. It was finally pursuing mission objectives, albeit very slowly. Growing closer to improved functionality as if tracking a target through a dense forest, each footstep taken with care to avoid noise or hidden snares. The situation was highly irregular, but it was… tolerable.

What was not tolerable, what was completely unacceptable, was the handler’s next proposed course of action.

“It’ll just be for a few hours. I’ll have the cellphone. There’s messaging and VOIP programs on the laptop. If you need to reach me, you can.”

“Sir.” It attempted to convey its meaning without insubordination. The safety of the handler was the highest priority. “There is a nonzero chance of engagement by enemy agents.”

“Buck,” he sighed. “I’m not gonna get shot at in the grocery store. It’s fine. I cleared it with Natasha. I’m getting real tired of canned soup, and we gotta restock on other stuff before the snow comes. We can’t ship in all our groceries, someone will notice.”

The threat of inclement weather was legitimate. The remote location of the safehouse and lack of organizational support would make resupply challenging. It was bad enough that the handler himself was required to perform such duties, when they should have been assigned to an operative of lower rank. But he should especially not be traveling alone, not when there were multiple known enemies attempting to track his movements.

“Sir, the abilities of SHIELD and Stark to identify targets through remote surveillance present a substantial threat. Current defensive capabilities are limited. This asset should accompany the handler in case of engagement. Current functionality allows for defensive duties.”

“I know you’re feeling better, but you're still having episodes. And if someone recognized you, you’d be taken into custody immediately. I won’t risk that. You need to stay here. Tony’s looking for two people traveling together. It’s safer if I go alone. Even if he found me, Natasha could come and get you. Worst case scenario, I meet you at another safehouse after I bust out. But none of that is going to happen. I’m not even going into town. It’s just a tiny little country store that probably doesn’t even have cameras. I may not be a superspy, but I’m not an idiot.”

It took one step forward, following him as he collected his belongings to prepare for travel. “Unknown persons are more noticeable in rural areas, sir. Civilian attention may be aroused. There is significant documentation of the Captain’s appearance.”

The handler rolled his eyes. It was a known gesture, often a precursor to discipline, but did not seem to carry as much weight when he used it.

“No one's gonna recognize me without the suit. And if anyone asks, I’ll tell ‘em I’m visiting family for Christmas. I’ve got fake IDs, the phone is jammed, and I’m using cash. Honestly, if you don’t trust me to blend in, at least trust Natasha’s planning. She’s got a dozen contingencies for every way I could f*ck up this literal milk run.”

He was not incorrect. The Black Widow was well trained in counter-surveillance. She was a defector, yes, but she was allied with the Captain now. She would be acceptable backup for this operation. If she was here. The Soldier had witnessed him traveling in civilian areas, though the memories were clouded by malfunction. He moved like a man unaware of his own size, oblivious to the impact his appearance had on passers by. A coat and a hat would not disguise his height, his gait, the broad line of his shoulders. His crooked nose and bright eyes [–bruised, blood streaming down his face. His nose was probably broken. Again.] The thought of harm coming to him caused almost physical pain.

“Sir, it is–”

He turned to face it, his jaw set. “No, Buck. That’s final. I’ll be quick as I can. ETA 1600. If I’m not back by 2000, contact Natasha.” It felt a noise of distress rising in the throat, but bit it back. The handler’s expression shifted, the hard line of his mouth gentling. “It’s gonna be fine, honey. Try and get some rest while I’m gone. I prepped two shakes, they’re in the fridge. One at 1400, one at 1600, okay?”

He squeezed the shoulders again, fingers digging into the flesh arm and pinging the sensors of the prosthesis. It forced itself to settle. It had its orders.

“Understood, sir.”

The handler released it and went to the counter where the computer sat, open and unlocked. Music began to play, the same arrangements that had filled the safehouse for weeks now. He crossed the room to put on his boots, then picked up the leather jacket. Instead of putting it on, he returned and laid it across the Soldier’s shoulders, tugging the collar carefully into place. His eyes tracked over its face, lingering on the mouth for two seconds longer than usual.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he repeated. “Stay inside unless there’s an immediate threat. Watch the fire. Rest.”

“Yes, sir,” it said softly.

It watched as he collected the last of the refuse bags, opened the door, and shut it behind himself. He reset the alarm from outside, the console emitting a single beep to indicate active status. It shifted to observe his progress through the crack in the curtains, the tension in its jaw increasing as the battered old truck drove out of view. It waited for eighteen point five minutes at the window, but the vehicle did not return. The Soldier moved away, pulling the fabric tight to minimize visibility into the facility.

Rest. Maintain the stove. Complete nutrition routine.

It was 1249. Still one hour eleven minutes until the next portion. It was capable of waiting. It was capable of functioning alone. It had done so many times before. It could perform its duties without the handler’s observation.

The Soldier completed a thorough sweep of the entire facility, re-checking every window and door, inspecting the cellar, confirming the status of the audio surveillance devices. The Widow knew of the Captain’s movements. Was she actively listening at all times, or were the devices recording for later playback? It could not know. Had not thought to ask. Surveillance was standard practice in all facilities where the Soldier had been housed before, both audio and video, but this was different. The Captain was different.

The safehouse was desolately empty without his presence. The fire was insufficient to prevent a chill settling under its skin. It stopped its pacing – when had it begun pacing? – long enough to adjust the jacket, threading its arms through the sleeves and fixing the front closure. It was still loose on the Soldier, but less so now. The scent of graphite and sunshine rose up as it manipulated the material. Safe. Its location was known only to one other allied operative, who would not break under interrogation. There were multiple levels of security in place. It was safe.

But the handler was not.

It could do nothing to ensure his security. It could not even assess his location. His phone actively prevented tracking. A necessary precaution. An impediment to the Soldier’s duties. It returned to the window to observe the exterior. No movement save for the trees swaying in the wind. The sky was clouded. It could feel the barometric pressure shifting, an ache along the scapula and patellae. What if the storm came early? What if his vehicle was unable to traverse the roads? What if he was detected and it could not reach him in time? Every potential avenue of failure played through its mind until it was nearly vibrating with unease.

It checked the clock again. 1307. Not even half an hour had passed, and it was spiraling into irrational behavior. This response was absurd. The Captain was effective in combat. He had nearly bested the Soldier. But he did not have his weapon. The shield was sitting in its case by the bed. That was logical. It was far too distinctive. Was he carrying a sidearm? He had at least one pistol in his possession, but it had not seen him arm himself today. It could check his belongings to determine if it was still there, but that would be another violation. The handler’s possessions were not to be interfered with.

The Soldier pushed away from the window. It had its orders, as strange as they were. Adding another log to the stove, it took up the usual position on the rug. It considered the thick wool blanket folded by the couch, fingering the fabric with the right hand. Rest. It was supposed to rest. All it had done for weeks was rest. How much more rest could it need? It should be with the handler, should be… [watching his six, the big idiot.] It should be guarding him. This was not correct. It was not– [Cognitive error, insubordination.]

The handler had been so patient with it. This was just another test of its compliance. The first time he had left it alone while under his command. It would be good. It would obey.

It pulled the blanket on over the leather jacket. The scent of woodsmoke and hair cleansing agent blended with the sunshine smell, a thin layer of calm overlaying its circling thoughts. It did not position itself horizontally. It should maintain situational awareness, be ready to move if necessary.

The minutes ticked by, glacial and empty. It stared at the door. Stared at the alarm console. Stared at the shuttered windows. The heart rate increased and decreased seemingly at random, the skin growing colder despite the fire and layers of fabric. The body fizzled with pent up energy. It could not just sit here. There had to be something– No. He’d said to rest. But what if he had tried to send a message already, and the communications were compromised? That was highly unlikely. Romanova would not allow it. She would never… She would…[invalid data.] It did not know. It was only aware of her reputation, and the profile it had been given as part of the previous mission briefing. It had to ensure the handler’s safety itself.

The Soldier rushed to its feet, discarding the blanket in its haste. The handler had left both the messaging and VOIP programs open. There was no activity. It spent several minutes re-checking the security of the channels, ensuring the connection was stable. There were no impediments to communications. There was no activity on the perimeter alarm. Everything was as it should be. It could not bring itself to return to sitting. It remained there, staring from the computer to the alarm console, eyes flicking back and forth between the two screens. Nothing changed. The music played. The fire crackled. The refrigeration unit hummed. The tap dripped, once every five point seven seconds. Plink. Plink.

Plink. The Commander tapped his nails against the side of the bottle in a regular rhythm. He was bored, restless. He looked over to where the Soldier stood, naked and freezing, and sneered. It had tested his patience too much already. He shifted, straightening and re-crossing his legs. An explicit reminder. It was not even allowed to apologize properly for the infraction. “Seriously, Brock? You’re just gonna make the rest of us look at its shriveled balls all day?” “f*ck off. It hasn’t earned clothes. Can’t even f*ckin–”

It stumbled backwards, narrowly avoiding causing damage to the computer. The only avenue of communications with the handler. It could not lose that. It could not leave him without backup. It could not–

[Cognitive malfunction. Report for reset.]

The knees impacted the wooden floor with a resounding thud, pain juddering through the joints, up the spine, exacerbating the pounding in the skull. It felt the lungs constrict, the heart stutter. Was that real, then? Had the Commander– [cold leather on the face, boot to the ribs, the crackling of–] No. No, no, no. It would not give in to malfunction right now. It had to remain alert. The handler might need it. It had to monitor communications, to maintain the defenses.

It took a shamefully long time for the Soldier to remember the new procedure for mitigating malfunctions. It knelt, gasping, head spinning, fingers digging into the knees, until the information slowly surfaced. The handler had shown it many times. He was not here, but it was capable of self-management. It could control the body. It could damn well count to eight.

Unconsciously, the fingers flexed along with the counted seconds, rubbing against the soft cotton pants and providing another point of sensation on which to focus. Inhale. Eight. Pause. Exhale. Eight. Again. Again. Again.

It was functional. The malfunction was under control. Eventually, the body obeyed its directives. It stood, still vaguely dizzy, and attempted to orient itself.

The computer chimed.

Arrived okay. Don’t forget to eat.

Another heavy exhale left the lungs. He was safe, for now. The timestamp on the message read 1411. It was past time for the rations. The Soldier took three more steadying breaths before retrieving a glass of water and the prepared nutrition solution.

The water was consumed hurriedly, standing before the sink. The rations, it took back to the sitting area. One sip. Inspect the stove. Add another log. Another sip. The solution was cold, exacerbating the chill, and the Soldier was nauseous in the wake of the malfunction. It waited until the stomach settled to resume the nutrition routine. That was the handler’s instruction. It would not waste the rations. The entire process took forty-nine minutes. There was little to occupy the mind while the Soldier waited between sips. It tried to attune its mind to the music, but the other sounds kept catching its attention, the hum and the plink and the ever-louder howl of the wind. It was growing darker outside.

As it returned the cup to the kitchen, the computer chimed again.

On my way. All clear.

1507. The initial journey had taken one point eight hours. The handler should return at approximately 1650. Still well within the outer bounds of his given timeframe. The errand was nearly complete.

It went to place the cup in the sink and took note of the unwashed dishes still left from his midday meal. It had not been assigned this duty, but he had encouraged self-determination. And the handler was already completing tasks below his station. Surely there would be nothing offensive about the Soldier performing the work in his stead. It could not recall ever cleansing kitchenware before, but the process came easily. Soap. Water. Sponge. Friction. Caution with the left hand, that it did not mar the finish of the ceramic. [“Don’t you crack my good china, now, boys. And quit yer splashin’!”] This was good. Simple. It occupied another fourteen minutes that would otherwise have been idle.

When every item had been washed and set to dry, the hands moved of their own accord, running the sponge across the edges of the steel basin, over the faucet. There was an objectionable amount of debris on the food preparation surfaces. The handler should not eat in such unsanitary conditions. He might become ill, and it was already midwinter. It would only become colder now…

Sixty-three minutes later, it emerged from a haze of scrubbing, wiping, and sweeping to discover that it was again late for the nutrition routine. There was a sheen of perspiration and dust coating the exposed skin, and the knuckles of the right hand were bright red.

What had just happened?

It deposited the cloth it was holding into the unsteady pile of soiled linens. The heap was nearly as tall as the machines. Perhaps it should… No. No, it was time for the rations. It had already disobeyed the order to rest and deviated from the given timeline. [Submit for disciplinary action.]

Halfway through its consumption, it paused to assess the exterior for any sign of the handler’s arrival. It was 1642. He should be back soon. It parted the curtains to reveal a flurry of white falling from heavy clouds. No. This was unacceptable. The handler was already in transit. Alone. With unknown reception to his phone. Traversing kilometers of unmaintained logging roads. The truck was old and in disrepair. It did not have nearly enough ground clearance required to pass the rough roads if they became obstructed with snow. Did it even have the proper tires? It could not remember, though it knew it had fully inspected the vehicle.

There was nothing to be done. It forced itself to finish the rations. It would need the nutrients if it were necessary to retrieve the handler. The Soldier could only sip, stare at the clock, and stare back out the window. 1650 passed with no sign of the handler. Then 1700. 1710. 1720

At 1728, with approximately three centimeters of snow blanketing the ground, the perimeter alarm pinged. It leapt to the console just in time to see the image of a low, black pickup passing the gate, then sped back to the window to confirm that it was, indeed, the handler.

He was here. He was safe. One hour twenty-eight minutes past the ETA, but here.

It had to stop itself from bolting outside to meet him. Stay inside, he’d said. It stood at attention a meter from the front door. Four point seven minutes dripped by as it waited, listening to the sounds of crunching snow and slamming doors. The Soldier heard him struggling with the knob and rushed to disable the alarm and let him in.

The handler stood, disheveled and surprised, with an uncountable number of plastic bags laced across his arms and one hand outstretched toward the open door. He blinked, and then gave a short laugh. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. There was a tree down across the road, and a lot of folks at the store, gettin’ ready for the storm same as us.”

He was smiling. Mostly relaxed besides the weight of the supplies weighing him down. There were no injuries visible through the thin cotton of his–

Its cognition skittered to a violent stop. T-shirt. He was wearing nothing but jeans and a t-shirt and it was negative two degrees outside. His hair and shoulders were dusted with snow, his face flushed bright pink, the tips of his ears and nose chapped by the wind. No hat. No gloves. [God dammit, Rogers–] He did not even have a coat. Because the Soldier was currently wearing his coat. It felt the face contort in some unnameable reaction, the hands flexing involuntarily. This was a severe violation, but of what protocol, it was not sure. It moved without thought, taking him by the arms and pulling him into the cabin with a rustle of plastic and paper. “Buck, what–'' It closed the door, resetting the alarm, and took off the leather jacket as quickly as possible.

“Sir.”

The Soldier rounded on him, removed the supplies from his arms, placed them on the floor, and went to spread the garment across his shoulders. The hands were five centimeters from his torso when the reality of what it had done slammed into it.

[The Asset does not initiate physical contact with superiors. Submit for disciplinary action.]

It fell immediately to its knees, still clutching the worn leather. The shock of the movement lit up pain in the already-bruised joints. The eyes went wide, the breath catching. Dropping the jacket, it locked the arms behind the back and lowered its gaze.

“Apologies, sir,” it gasped. “Apologies. Malfunction. This asset submits for disciplinary action.”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright.”

The handler knelt in front of it, reaching out for the left shoulder. Wrong. Irregular. He should not lower himself. It had violated protocol, put its hands on him without invitation, moved him forcefully, it was–

“Buck, c’mon. Look at me, honey.” It obeyed. His expression was strange. Still half smiling, his brows drawn. [Amusem*nt? Concern?] “Did you remember something specific?”

“N-negative, sir. Incomplete p-protocol. Unknown source.”

His smile grew minutely wider, but there was tension around the corners of his eyes. “It was cold out there, right?”

It nodded, hair falling in front of the face. “Y-yes, sir.”

“You were just worried. I get it. You… You used to take care‘a me in the winter.” His voice took on a slight drawl, slipping into a nonstandard accent. “But I’m fine. I don’t get sick no more, same as you.”

[“I ain’t made‘a glass, Buck.”]

Worried. It had been worried. It had allowed the emotional response to overtake it, had forgotten that the handler was enhanced, that the weather itself presented no threat to his safety. Perhaps it was not as functional as it had estimated. He exerted more pressure, thumb running along the clavicle.

“Why don’t you help me put this stuff away?”

He rose, tugging it up with him. It complied and followed him to the kitchen, carrying the majority of the supplies on the left arm. The handler stopped short before he reached the counter. A sharp laugh burst from him, shoulders shaking as he spoke.

“Oh my god. You must’ve been really upset, huh? Jeez, I can see myself in the oven door.”

“S-sorry, sir.”

“No, no, you don’t have to apologize.” He set his bags down and ran a hand through his hair. It was in complete disarray. It was– [so ridiculous, can’t take you seriously with that cowlick, Stevie.] “Thank you for working on that. I’m sorry if you didn’t get much rest, but it’s good you kept busy.”

It had not fulfilled the orders. It fought the impulse to go to its knees again. The handler took the rest of the bags from it and began unpacking. There were uncountable canned foods, meat and cheese and eggs and milk, at least twenty more jars of peanut butter and a dozen loaves of bread. He set aside non-food items for storage elsewhere: multiple cleansing products and more of the plastic razors and some sort of small elastic bands of unclear function. It remained still, unsure of which part of the task would be most appropriate to assist with, which actions might result in another infraction.

“Did you have both of your shakes?” he asked, his head obscured by the door of the refrigeration unit.

It could not even report satisfactory completion of that objective.

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

“Yes, sir. 1413 and 1619. Delayed consumption of rations due to…” It was not malfunction. It had been the Soldier’s own distant thoughts that impeded the task. It was unprecedented for it to be so careless. Unacceptable. “Due to inattention, sir. Unassigned duties performed in neglect of primary mission: rest. This asset submits for disciplinary action.”

It lowered the head again, making itself as small as possible without kneeling. The handler’s movements stopped, and it heard the door close with a soft snick.

“Buck. Soldier. Come here.”

It obeyed, crossing the room in four strides and keeping its eyes on the floor. He placed both of his hands on the shoulders, before sliding one up the back of the neck and into the hair. It surrendered to his direction, prepared to accept the coming discipline.

He used his hold on the hair to pull the Soldier closer to himself. The full length of his torso pressed up against its own. It could feel the steady thump of his heart, the heat of his body through the layers of thin fabric between them [–hot as a furnace, even in the middle of the damn Alps.] The Soldier shuddered. This did not feel like punishment. The handler directed its head to his shoulder, his other arm sliding around its back. He was not wearing the jacket, but the same scent rose off of his skin, his hair. It was warmed through from all sides, the expanding of the lungs pressing its chest closer to his. He tightened his grip, tugging against the scalp firmly enough to muffle the demands of the imperatives, if only by a degree.

“There’s no punishment for being a few minutes late for lunch or cleaning the damn kitchen.” His voice vibrated through the Soldier’s ribcage in a soothing rumble. “Nakazaniya net. You’re alright. I know it was a rough day, but you did so well. Tell me you understand.”

“Yes, sir,” it exhaled, the breath glancing off of his shoulder and disturbing his hair. “Understood. N-no punishment.”

After three point five minutes of this treatment, the cognition calmed enough for it to recall his most recent update to protocol.

“Sir. There were additional m-malfunctions,” it said into his shirt. “Imagery consistent with previous missions.”

“Yeah? Another memory?”

“Instance of d-disciplinary action, sir. The C-Commander was displeased. Clothing privileges revoked. Suboptimal t-temperature. No additional data. Infraction unknown.”

The handler’s arm tightened around its torso, and he gave a forceful sigh. It suspected that this might be anger, but it could not assess his facial expression. The hand in its hair did not pull harder, and his voice was low and even when he said, “I’m sorry, Buck. You didn’t deserve that.” He rubbed across the back, the heel of his palm working tension from the right trapezius. “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you. Did it last long?”

“N-negative sir. This asset employed the b-breathing exercises. Malfunction abated within six minutes.”

He turned his head so that his cheek pressed into the side of its skull. It felt his jaw move as he spoke, and it could nearly visualize the softening of his eyes, the look that always accompanied these particular words.

“That’s so good, baby. That’s perfect. You did such a good job.”

Chapter 38

Chapter Text

Buck was starting to get antsy.

It took three days for the snow to clear enough for them to go back outside. At the end of it, the house was spotless. Steve felt kinda bad about that one. He wasn’t a slob by any means, but his level of cleanliness had never measured up to Bucky’s. And this was all Bucky. He couldn’t imagine the Winter Soldier playing housekeeper, or having cause to glare suspiciously at sandwich ingredients that might have sat on the counter a bit too long. Steve wasn’t about to waste them, and he hadn’t gotten food poisoning since forty-one.

Bucky never treated him like he was breakable, but after growing up with lectures from Ma Rogers, he’d always kept the apartment as sanitized as possible, scrubbing everything with bleach until Steve sneezed uncontrollably. Steve wasn’t gonna say anything about it now. If Bucky was remembering, even subconsciously, he had to let that happen on its own. Pushing it would just confuse him or cause more pain. And cleaning kept him from climbing the walls like he so obviously wanted to.

They’d hit the goal of eight shakes a day. Steve removed the time restrictions on drinking them, and Buck didn’t seem to have any issue with the new schedule, which was a relief. Otherwise, he would literally be sipping at one every waking moment. There wasn’t a scale here, so all he had to go on was how many ribs he could count. There were definitely fewer visible now, and the bruising around Bucky’s shoulder had faded to a dull yellow. He was still too skinny, but Bucky reported “sixty-three percent physical functionality, sir,” so Steve okayed more exercise.

He checked the records again to find that Buck had only weighed two-thirty when he’d been deployed in DC. The arm alone was sixty goddamn pounds. With the serum, he should easily top two-fifty. HYDRA had been keeping him underweight intentionally. The reported reason was to make sure the Asset didn’t stray too far from his handlers, the only source of viable nutrition. But Steve was pretty sure it was because they were scared sh*tless of what Bucky could do at full strength.

Buck spent two hours every morning stretching and doing some kind of intricate shadowboxing that left Steve with several conflicting emotions he refused to analyze. He asked Steve’s permission to incorporate knifework into his exercise routine, and Steve gave it, watching in fascination as Bucky flipped and spun the blades with expert hands.

The way he moved, the speed, was nearly unbelievable. The style was something Steve didn’t recognize, similar to Natasha’s, but better suited to Buck’s height and weight. It was fast, brutal, and efficient. He was secretly grateful Bucky kept his shirt on. Steve could see pride in the tilt of his shoulders and satisfaction in the set of his jaw. It made his heart ache, to witness Bucky so comfortable and confident. Despite knowing that those skills had been honed through cruelty and pain, he couldn't help but smile. Buck always did like his knives.

He finally got around to setting up a boxing rig. It was more like the wooden dummies he’d seen in Chinese martial arts movies – Natasha loved them, the weirder the better – a stripped log with several branches jutting out of the sides, strung up from a tree with spare rope from the basem*nt.

Steve treated it like a punching bag, trying to avoid the protrusions as he hit it at half-strength, just to keep himself occupied and in practice. He’d prefer not to get splinters in his knuckles, and they didn’t have any tape.

Bucky went at the thing like a one-man sawmill. He struck out almost faster than Steve could follow, the blade of his hands, flesh and metal alike, impacting the joints of the branches as if he was aiming to dislocate his target’s hips and shoulders. The impromptu dummy was reduced to kindling within minutes.

Steve strung up three more and let Buck loose for half an hour, until he got worried that he’d overexert himself or break his hand. But Bucky was fine. Whether it was extensive conditioning or just precise hits, he’d barely gotten bruised. He stepped back after the last log was demolished with his chest puffed up and a hint of amusem*nt playing on his lips.

Bucky very nearly preened when Steve okayed him for target practice, just to make sure the guns were still in working order. They couldn’t do it too often without wasting ammo or alerting people to their location, but a few rounds shouldn’t draw attention out here. There were plenty of hunters around. Bucky hit every single target (plastic bottle cap lid) dead on. With a handgun. From a hundred meters. On a windy day.

He almost met Steve’s gaze when he asked, “Will it have a new mission, sir?” with an indescribable light in his eyes. It was like Bucky actually wanted to get back in the field.

“Maybe,” Steve had said. “We’re still working out the details.”

It wasn’t a lie. There were more reports of HYDRA cells forming every day. Despite decades of files being exposed and their very public defeat in DC, they seemed determined to live up to the old motto. They were scattered now, at least in North America. A few upstart ‘Heads’ had rallied the remaining personnel and taken over various facilities, some defunct, some new acquisitions. There was money flowing in from Europe to fund some of them, especially on the East coast.

Steve was getting a bit anxious himself. The northwest was home to a lot of people who rallied behind Second Amendment talking points and had more guns than sense. It was ripe for the kind of homegrown terrorism that HYDRA was seeding. And there was a lot of wilderness out here. The same remote conditions that were supposed to be keeping them safe were also sheltering new bases, many of them difficult to track via satellite imagery. The pot growers in this area, Natasha said, had a lot of experience avoiding federal agencies.

They needed to get started before HYDRA got a solid foothold. But whether that meant Steve leaving Bucky alone out here, calling in backup to watch him, or both of them gearing up, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to use Bucky. Didn’t want to force him back into more missions, even if it was to destroy the people who’d hurt him. All Bucky had known for years was violence. He thought of himself as a living weapon, killing his only real purpose. Would it even be good for him to be doing field work, psychologically? Steve himself itched for revenge, but he couldn’t assume that was what Buck wanted. It was hard to get an answer out of him that wasn’t just rote compliance.

_______________________________________________________

The body sang with satisfaction, the limbs cycling through forms on instinct, hands and feet striking out in near-perfect patterns. [“Yeshche raz, Soldat. Bystreye.”] It was different from the poses, or the other allowed exercise. The mind was alight with potential, the cognition more effective than ever. The strength in its limbs was returning. There was a minute delay in the prosthesis. Some remnant damage from an old mission, perhaps. It did not know. It did not care. It was finally allowed physical and weapons training, and it would not squander the opportunity.

The boot connected with the target again, force traveling precisely through the back, the hip, the leg, as the heel followed through the end of the kick. The log splintered and fell, joining the other shattered targets in the snowbank. Highly positive. The handler smiled as he hung another, his body loose and easy with the same pleasant thrum of exertion that the Soldier felt. [Lungs burning, feet aching, sweat soaked skin on skin, furtive eyes and hidden smiles.] It was good. It was so very good, to know that the training had not faded, that it could still function acceptably for combat. It was good to see the handler do the same, though he still held himself back.

There would be a real mission soon, the Soldier was sure of it. There was more communication with the handler’s team lately, more intense focus as he read. It was healing. It was so near his given parameters for active status. And he was pleased. His eyes followed the Soldier’s movements closely, lips quirked up and brows raised. Assessing, but pleased.

He settled back to observe, arms crossed over his chest. His shirt was slicked down with perspiration, pectorals bunched up under the thin fabric. [Better'n a dame, sweetheart.] It would be highly rewarding to witness him perform at full strength again. The memory of the DC mission was still there, though it was muddied with the frantic energy of the drugs, the haze of the wipe. The Soldier had been too occupied with combat to truly appreciate the Captain’s form. But he was far more concerned with its performance than his own exercise right now. It would not allow distractions to detract from its training.

It set in on the new target with another series of efficient, direct strikes aimed at a weak point in the wood. The log cracked under the force of the prosthesis, dangling unevenly from the rope. The Soldier ended the sequence with a more acrobatic movement, just to test if the body was still capable of it. It pushed off with the left leg and spun midair, bringing the right heel down on the target from above. The two halves of the log flew away from each other at one-hundred-eighty degrees, clattering into nearby trees and shushing into the snow. Perfect.

It returned to attention as the handler approached, the chill air prickling at the skin through the clothing. It forced the mind to calm, to not anticipate what reward he might bestow for completing this exercise well. This was not exceptional. It was simply a modification of the Soldier’s standard physical training, adjusted to accommodate the limited resources of this facility. The handler was smiling so widely that his teeth showed, moving with a swagger that made the cognition flicker with irregular responses.

“That was beautiful, Buck. Still feeling okay? No pain in your shoulder?”

“Negligible, sir. The joint is functioning within standard parameters.”

His face screwed up for a moment, then he stepped closer to place his hand on the jaw. There was something akin to grief in his eyes. But that did not make sense. It knew it had done well. The expression faded, and the smile returned, softer this time. The blue of his irises was brilliant in the clear winter sunlight, heat radiating off his body despite the ambient temperature. The scent of his exertion was even more pronounced here, in contrast to the crisp air and the smell of pine sap that wafted through the clearing.

“Great, now my hair’s gonna be sticky.”

“What, like it wasn’t already? You use more pomade than the rest of the army combined.”

“Shut it and get back to work, Rogers.”

“Yes sir, Sergeant.”

Hands on the waist, pressure against the backside, breath against the neck–

It blinked rapidly, suppressing the urge to shake the head. Was that… Had the Captain…

“Sir. M-minor malfunction.”

He co*cked his head. “What was it?”

It grasped for the image, struggling to describe the sensations, but before it could find the words, the picture faded. It was his name, his voice, but… It had not seen his face. It could not be certain. It would not submit a false report. “Apologies, sir. Cognition error. Insufficient data. It was the… the pine sap.”

The corner of his mouth turned up, and he ran his thumb across the cheek. “That could be a lotta things, huh? Bet you’ve seen plenty of forests. Thank you for telling me.” He broke contact and stepped away. “Let’s call it for today. Help me bring these inside?”

The Soldier was capable of at least three more hours of physical training at this intensity before failure, but it nodded assent and began gathering the split wood, stacking it into the crook of the left arm. This exercise was an efficient use of the most abundant resource: both physical training and preparation of fuel. The handler left one of his hands free to open the door, leading it inside to pile the wood by the stove. Unencumbered, the Soldier rolled the shoulders back, relishing the burn of the muscles for a moment.

It had not experienced proper physical training in… in a long time. It was highly rewarding in itself, but the handler’s reaction was even more gratifying. It had done well. It knew it had done well, had felt the body move in perfect coordination, and then he had said so, smiled at it and praised it and touched the face. The handler dusted his hands off on his pants, kicked off his shoes, and moved towards the cleansing facility.

“C’mon, let’s wash up and get something to eat.”

The cleansing routine was ostensibly the same, but the heat of the shower against the chilled skin and sore muscles was so luxurious the Soldier nearly melted onto the floor of the tub. It slid from the tension of faux-combat into a contented puddle as the handler massaged the scalp. It would have fallen to its knees and kissed his feet if he had not caught it. He guided it into another plush towel, then gave it fresh clothing and directed it back to the sitting area.

He threw a cushion onto the floor. The Soldier stared at it, uncomprehending. It was not time for the sleep protocol.

“Sit down on that, honey, on your butt. No kneeling. Your legs have gotta be sore.”

The handler left to prepare rations. It hesitated for three seconds, hovering by the couch with hands full. The Soldier quickly applied the garments and hung the towels to dry. It circled the lump of polyester and stuffing as if inspecting a bomb. Completely irrational. There was no threat. The handler had instructed it to use pillows before, but under the head, not the backside. It lowered itself to the designated position, legs crossed and back erect. The thick batting did not cause the same disorientation as the bed. The surface was firm, and the few centimeters of height allowed for better alignment of the spine. It was… not objectionable. It settled, flexing the feet inside the thick cotton socks. Perhaps this was a reward for its performance during training.

“Here. Gatorade first, and there’s a little extra to make up for all the exercise. Take it slow, and stop when you’re full.”

He placed a bottle and two glasses before it, one only half-filled with the liquid rations. It began the nutrition protocol as the handler returned to the kitchen to retrieve water and his own food. He sat behind it on the couch, slightly to the side, at its eight-o-clock. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he consumed the first sandwich in four bites. As he started on the second, he reached toward the Soldier to touch the hair, then stopped and laughed to himself. There was peanut butter on his fingers.

“Sorry, Buck. I’ll wash my hands in a minute.”

It said nothing, only inclining the head to acknowledge his statement. It was his prerogative to initiate physical contact, sullied hands or no.

“You did real good today, baby,” he said, the words somewhat muffled by the food in his mouth. “I’m glad you had some fun.” It was unsure of his meaning. Physical training was necessary. The Soldier did not… have fun. The handler swallowed, then took a drink of the water to clear his throat. “Are you sure nothing hurts? I mean, nothing… Hell. Any damage to report?”

“Negative, sir. Minor contusions to the right hand and lower limbs, healed within twenty minutes of formation.”

“Good.” He nodded, then finished off the second sandwich. He stood to refill the water glass and to remove the debris from his hands. When he returned, his fingers went to the hair immediately, petting it as he swiped at his phone. The Soldier allowed itself to relax as it continued slowly sipping the rations. The handler was correct. After the exertion, the stomach was eager for nutrition.

“So,” he said, once it had finished the first glass. He settled forward, looking down at it with one hand still pressed against its scalp. “I wanna talk to you about something. There might be some work out there for us. But I need to know what you really want.” [The Asset does not–] He held his other hand up, as if to silence any objections.

“I know… I know that might be hard to talk about right now. But I’m not gonna send you into the field just because it’s what you think you should do. Remember I said I wanted you to have autonomy?” It nodded. “I want you to have a choice, Buck. If we have a mission, it’s gonna be against HYDRA. That means fighting the people that used to control you. It might mean seeing agents you know, or things that remind you of how they hurt you. I want you to really think about it, try to picture how you’d feel in that situation. I’m not gonna ask you to fight if it’s gonna set back your healing. Mentally or physically. Do you understand?”

The Soldier lowered its gaze, the brow knitting as it considered his words. It had no loyalty to HYDRA, no compunctions about harming previous superiors. They had taken it from him. He was the first handler, the rightful handler, and he was– [cognitive error.] Seeing the technicians, the medical tables, the chair, it knew that those things might incite malfunction. They had caused dramatic physiological responses even before the resets had been discontinued. But it could not allow the potential of malfunction to prevent it from serving the handler. That was its highest duty. That was… He said not to agree simply because it was what protocol demanded. The Soldier did not know any other way to judge the efficacy of each path, but it would try to understand.

“Yes, sir.”

“If you don’t feel ready for fieldwork when the time comes, I won’t be upset with you. Your place with me is not dependent on active status or mission success. No matter what, Buck, you’ll be safe, and I’ll come back to you. I promise.” His hand flexed against its head, fingers working further into the roots of the hair. “There’s no punishment for being honest.”

It was silent for five point two minutes, trying to give the proposal as much consideration as it could. It knew… it knew he was not lying. There was a high probability that this handler truly would accept a negative answer, though it could hardly fathom that option. He seemed to enjoy simply keeping it near him. He had not yet made use of it, but then, it was not yet fully functional. Perhaps as it healed further, the risk of malfunction would decrease. Without the chair, it could not be sure. But he had said no chair. He had pushed back the malfunctions with soft words and thick blankets and steady hands. This handler had been so good to it. It could not imagine any other option but serving his goals. That was what it was made for. That was what it was best at. It was his weapon to use as he saw fit.

The gratification of physical training was still fresh in the mind, humming through the fibers of the muscle. To be in real combat again, to serve the Captain and eliminate his enemies, to feel the knife move through flesh and see the bullets find their place, it was… [The Asset does not want.] It looked back up to see the handler studying it, patient and calm.

“It will be ready, sir.”

Chapter 39

Chapter Text

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.” Steve raised his voice slightly to be heard over the wind howling outside. “Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort…"

He looked back down to where Bucky was scrubbing at his tac jacket. Steve worried that this might go the same way as his anecdotes, causing Bucky undue pain, but there was no sign of dissociation. Buck’s hands moved diligently across the ridiculous straps and buckles, eyes focused and unclouded.

“Anything?”

Bucky glanced up briefly to answer. “Negative, sir. There is no negative sensation.”

Steve couldn’t help the wide grin that came across his face. Finally, he had something besides basic necessities to give Bucky. Something unrelated to combat. The kind of thing Sam had been trying to remind him of before the mess in DC, that he’d forgotten in his years attempting to bury the grief with action.

“Oh, thank god,” he sighed. “This was– Well. It’s a really good book. Just tell me if that changes, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

He continued the narration, his cadence becoming more natural as he read. Bucky returned to the task at hand. Steve kept watch out of the corner of his eye, wondering if the stress of his grocery run was worth it in Buck’s opinion, now that he had new bootlaces and leather cleaning supplies to keep the gear in good repair. Bucky wasn’t quite smiling, but, despite the furrow that appeared between his brows as he examined the seams of the tac jacket, he appeared at ease.

He looked so much better lately. He was putting some real weight on, and Steve had trimmed the ragged ends of his hair so that it fell just under his chin in soft waves. It was long enough that the elastics Steve bought barely held it back, little pieces falling out of the tail and into Bucky’s eyes. Steve couldn’t bring himself to cut it. He had no idea what Bucky might prefer, no way to get a real opinion out of him. And it looked… nice. It suited him somehow. Buck used to be so vain, always following the fashions. If he’d been concerned with that kind of thing now, he might’ve appreciated how modern it was. A little rebellious and a lot pretty, framing his jaw and contrasting so beautifully with his pale eyes.

Steve turned his attention back to the book. It was just as enthralling now as it had been back when Buck read it aloud to him. Fantasy wasn’t usually Steve’s cup of tea, but Tolkien wove so much depth into the story. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d been moved to tears several times by the sequels. Impressions of his father’s war shaped the text, the grief and hope so raw and familiar. And the climactic scene, Frodo nearly lost to Mount Doom… Well, The Hobbit wasn’t quite so heart-rending, which made it a good first step. He wasn’t sure if Buck was really listening to the content, but the act of reading aloud, sharing something like this, was enough.

“Out of the dark mass of the trees they could now see a light shining, a reddish comfortable-looking light, as it might be a fire or torches twinkling. When they had looked at it for some while, they fell to arguing. Some said ‘no’ and some said ‘yes.’ Some said they could but go and see, and anything was better than little supper, less breakfast, and wet clothes all the night…”

When both of Bucky’s jackets and his careworn boots had been set aside to dry, Steve saw him go still, eyes falling closed, seemingly entranced by the story. He kept reading until the end of the chapter, then took a break to rest his voice and check in.

“Still good?”

Buck blinked up at him, a little dazed. Not the fog of pain or dissociation, just the ever-increasing blissful calm that seemed to creep in without Bucky noticing. Steve hoped it meant he was learning to accept the new routine, finally feeling safe in both body and mind.

“Yes, sir. This asset could…” A moment of consideration, head tilted, lower lip finding its way between Bucky’s teeth. “Might it also provide maintenance for the handler’s equipment?”

Between the familiar gesture – Buck had always had a bit of an oral fixation – and the request to, essentially, shine his shoes, Steve’s cheeks heated dramatically. Bucky used to really go in for that sort of thing. It’d become a joke between them. ‘Shine my shoes, Rogers?’ even though Bucky was the one who did the polishing, figuratively and literally. Same way he’d called Steve ‘punk’ just to rile him up or try and embarrass him in front of certain friends. But Steve never… played catcher. Just didn’t like the feel of it, and then after… well, he just didn’t like it, not in the way Buck had, going all desperate for it and yowling like a cat in heat when Steve would–

Jesus, he had to stop thinking about this. He was losing it, stuck out here with no contact with the outside world. And very little privacy. Steve pulled himself together and packed in his reaction. Bucky was just trying to be helpful. It didn’t mean anything except that he was feeling better and probably getting bored.

“Sure, Buck. I don’t have much, though. Just my boots. There’s the jacket, but I kinda like it all soft and scuffed up.” He gave a little laugh, trying to keep his embarrassment from coloring his voice.

Bucky’s “Thank you, sir” sounded genuine, eyes going bright with interest. The boots were retrieved from the doorway and unlaced in a matter of seconds by sure, nimble fingers. Steve’s inappropriate thoughts aside, the enthusiasm was heartening.

Things were… good. For a certain value of the word. There were still bad days, nightmares and flashbacks, but overall Buck was showing an astounding amount of improvement. Only a few weeks into this frankly bizarre arrangement and Steve felt like they’d hit a stride. The structure and orders helped, and Steve heaped as much praise and touch on as he could, trying to solidify the new protocol as a positive thing. Bits of Bucky’s personality kept showing through more each day, in defiance of HYDRA’s damnable programming.

The Asset does not want. Bucky leapt at the opportunity to get back into shape, covetously cleaning and organizing his weapons, and he stared at the comb in Steve’s hands like it was the holy grail.

The Asset does not own. Every blanket Steve handed Bucky eventually ended up piled into the nest in front of the stove, and he sometimes saw Buck running his hands across them one by one, as if he was counting them.

The Asset does not express preferences. Bucky drank water multiple times per day without prompting. The Gatorade remained on the counter, untouched, until Steve suggested it would be good to have some.

The Asset does not initiate eye contact with superiors. Bucky’s gaze lingered on Steve’s chin, his ears, and he often saw Buck looking away quickly when he turned around.

The Asset does not initiate physical contact with superiors. Bucky leaned into him any time Steve came close, nudging his head against Steve’s hand and sighing happily.

There was still a long journey ahead of them, but he finally felt like he could let himself hope. Bucky was already halfway done with the boots when Steve realized he’d just been staring, mesmerized by the precise, rhythmic swipes of cloth over leather, the hint of tongue peeking from between Bucky’s lips. He cleared his throat and started on chapter three.

________________________________________________________

The smell of mink oil and woodsmoke made something in the stomach curl with contentment. [“Think you missed a spot, darlin’.”] The hands moved confidently, wiping away dust and working in the conditioner. Returning the worn material to its proper luster. Making it right again. It was being good, serving the handler, and his approval was clear. He was settled close with one hand on its back, smiling as he read. The mind was drifting easily along the melodic rise and fall of his voice.

The same voice that it woke to, time and again, like a rescue line thrown from somewhere high above, pulling it from the icy chasm of the empty place. The voice that had moved the Soldier to tears, firm and sincere, the handler stumbling over a language foreign to him in order to reach through the malfunctions, to bring it back to reality. ‘Ty v bezopasnosti, dorogoy.’ The voice that matched the summer blue eyes and golden hair, the long fingers and crooked nose, the sunshine smell. Safe and correct.

It could barely comprehend the depth of his generosity. He treated it like something precious, indulged it nearly to the point of pampering. It had taken on additional duties in an attempt to display its gratitude, tending to the maintenance of the safehouse so that the handler would not be burdened with menial tasks, but it was not nearly enough. He gave it blankets and hot water and peppermint candies, and he spent hours holding it, putting himself at risk of harm, so that it was not ripped away by the tide of malfunction. And now, he was using his time to provide mental stimulation with his own voice, so low and deep and soothing [–purring up against the neck, “Good boy.”] It could not sufficiently repay him with simple chores. The Soldier had to do something more, to properly acknowledge his gifts.

“Buck? You with me?”

The hands had stilled right in the middle of equipment maintenance, stained cloth hovering over black leather, making the Soldier’s inattention evident.

“Yes, sir. Apologies, sir.”

“No apologies necessary, honey. Just making sure you’re still feeling okay.”

“Functional, sir.”

He ran his hand over its cheek, smoothing back the hair, and gave another smile. His eyes tracked over the mouth, the throat, the hands. He chewed at his lip, staring down at where the Soldier was removing dust from the cracked leather of his boot for eight seconds before he looked away. It still could not name the expression that came across his face at times like this, when he would study it for long, tense moments, eyes wide and clear and achingly vulnerable. It was not the hungry stare of the Commander, not the possessiveness of the Secretary, nor the pride of the Colonel, though at times it seemed to share something of each of those responses.

The handler was silent for a while. The Soldier’s mind wandered as the hands worked, examining potential avenues by which it might express its gratitude to the handler. He had asked nothing of it but quiet compliance, had given it so many unimaginable kindnesses. It had cleaned all that it could clean. The weapons were in working order. The facility was secure. It could not yet serve him in combat. But there was something else it could offer.

It understood now, with the improved cognition, what the Captain intended. The procedure was rarely pleasant. But then, neither were cross country manhunts or extended interrogation, and the Soldier excelled at them.

The secondary function was unique in that the Soldier had been encouraged to initiate it, the one exception to the forbiddance of initiating physical contact outside of fieldwork or training. And the handler had explicitly stated that he wanted it to make choices, to display initiative. He had approved of the facility maintenance activities, shaking his head and smiling when he saw the results of the Soldier’s efforts. He was pleased with its performance during physical training. He promised a mission, but seemed doubtful about its abilities. If it was to serve the primary function, it should first prove its devotion to him with the secondary.

The curl of contentment in the stomach turned sour. The Soldier attempted to ignore it.

It would have been ideal for the technicians to remove the emotional response to the secondary function. They had eliminated all other such malfunctions. In the field, it felt no fear, no hesitation. On base, there was the ever-present threat of punishment, but there, fear had a function. It helped the Soldier learn. Even if it could not recall a specific infraction, the body remembered the pain and told it to avoid the action. In pain there was order.

It had never been able to discern the purpose of the confusing tangle of responses that arose during the secondary function. Often, there was fear and pain, but something else always crept in. Like nausea, but it lived in the chest instead of the stomach. It was overwhelming, and it caused unbidden vocalizations. The Soldier would beg and cry, weeping like a child. The face would burn hot, cheeks filling with blood as saline flowed over them. There must be some benefit to the handlers in this display of weakness, otherwise they would have cut it out of the Soldier like so many useless things before.

Nominally, the purpose of the secondary function was to cement the chain of command and provide gratification to those the handler deemed appropriate. Sometimes it was a punishment, but in retrospect it was difficult to determine which sessions had been disciplinary and which had been recreational. Other times, it was employed to facilitate better relationships with allies. The Soldier could recall at least one mission in which it was required to perform the secondary function with a target in order to place him in a compromising position. It had not cried then.

There were a few memories in which the Secretary or Commander Rumlow made use of it with minimal pain. They also employed irregular designations, calling it, ‘kitten’ or ‘slu*t’ or ‘whor*.’ The Captain might be similar, if his gentle touch and casual form of addressing it were any indication. It could not clearly remember serving him previously, in either the primary or the secondary function, but some of the sensations during malfunction… He must have made use of it. He was the first handler, the best handler. He knew the body so well.

It considered leaning in closer, using the hands or the mouth to indicate its availability, but the handler returned to the book and resumed his narration. Not yet, then. It would not interrupt him. It finished the second boot, polishing it until the leather shone like new, and set it aside, satisfied. The Soldier came to informal attention, hands placed on the thighs, spine and face softened, simply listening.

“Now they could look back over the lands they had left, laid out behind them far below. Far, far away in the West, where things were blue and faint, Bilbo knew there lay his own country of safe and comfortable things, and his little hobbit-hole. He shivered.”

The material was strange, the story obviously fictional. It served no purpose in its training that it could determine, but it was a gift, to be bathed in the pleasant tones of his voice, even if the words were nonsense. The handler continued reading for twelve point three minutes, glancing toward it with increasing frequency. His smile only grew when he took note of the state of the equipment. He was pleased that it had taken on the maintenance duties. Pleased with its progress in the mission of rest and heal.

Eventually, he set the book aside and resumed petting the hair, relaxing back into the cushions. There were no documents or devices commanding his attention, no pencil in his hand, no work that would be interrupted. The Soldier seized the opportunity. It lifted the right hand to trace his inseam, a standard initiation technique. [“Show me how good you can be, kitten.”] The rough denim tingled against the fingertips, sensitized by over an hour of scrubbing thick leather. They trailed slowly up from his knee, following the well-defined line of his quadriceps toward the groin.

The handler bolted upright, and his hand came down on the wrist in an iron grip.

“Bucky,” he said, his voice hard. “What are you doing?”

It relaxed, showing no resistance. “Sir.” It tilted the head to one side, exposing the neck, and looked up at him through the eyelashes. It was well trained. It knew how to make itself inviting. “This asset intends to demonstrate gratitude for the handler’s generosity. Current functionality is more than adequate for the secondary function.”

His face was unreadable, the muscles of his jaw jumping as he spoke. “What does that mean?” he demanded. “Define ‘secondary function.’”

Perhaps the function had had another designation during his first stint as handler. The tongue darted out to moisten the lips, and it replied with as much passivity as it could, wary of offending him with the correction. “Recreational use, sir. This asset is skilled in providing physical gratification. It is the handler’s prerogative. It will please you, sir.” It used a more informal term, one he might be familiar with. “It is a good f*ckhole.”

The pressure around its wrist increased for a millisecond before disappearing entirely. The handler ceased all physical contact, extricating his fingers from its hair with utmost care. There was silence for nineteen seconds, his posture growing increasingly tense. Anger radiated off of him in palpable waves, more dramatic than the effects of a thermobaric weapon. The Soldier’s gut churned. The heart rate increased dramatically, and the entire body went stiff. It had miscalculated, offended him, touched him without permission again.

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

It cautiously moved the right hand, replacing it on its own thigh, and lowered its gaze. “S-sorry, sir.”

“Bucky,” he seethed. “Is this something your old handlers did?”

“Yes, sir.” It had to exert conscious effort to keep the vocal malfunction from recurring. “The secondary function was frequently employed by previous handlers and selected superiors.”

His breathing was audible now, his barely-suppressed rage vibrating the entire couch. Another fourteen seconds with no verbal response. His next words dripped with dissatisfaction.

“I need you to listen to me. I’m not angry with you. I need to–” He gasped, exhaling shakily. “Please just. Just stay here. I can’t– I haven’t made your food. I haven’t–” His voice broke, nearly a sob. “God. f*ck. f*ck!”

The book flew across the room, impacting the far wall and landing with a flutter of loose pages. [Shattered glass and broken plaster and “Useless piece of sh*t!”] The Soldier remained motionless, attempting to prevent the body from slipping from its control, but it could not stop the unconscious response. It swallowed compulsively and forced the right hand against the thigh to disguise the trembling.

“f*ck. I’m sorry. I’m so– God f*cking dammit.” The handler stood abruptly, his knee nearly impacting the Soldier’ face. “sh*t, sh*t, I– ” He reached towards it, then stopped, hand hovering in midair before closing into a fist. “I’m sorry, Buck. I can’t– I’ll be back. I swear. I just– Please stay here. I just need a f*cking minute.”

He strode purposefully into the sleeping quarters and retrieved his weapon. The shield hurt, it knew. The flat of it created large amounts of concussive force, and the edge sliced through air and impacted like a dull ax. It could damage the prosthesis without much effort. The Soldier lowered its head further, presenting acceptance and submission despite the tremors wracking the body. It could hear nothing but his heavy footsteps and the pounding of its own pulse, then the crack of the front door when he slammed it shut.

The Soldier held position, frozen in place, nails digging into the flesh through the soft cotton pants. Stay, he said. Perhaps he had gone to retrieve some previously unseen tool of discipline. The handler was so angry. It could not begin to imagine how he might punish it. There was a shotgun in the eaves of the porch, though the weather might have damaged it by now. It could not remember what else he had stored in the vehicle, could barely think through the suffocating shroud of fear. [The tire iron across the back, face impacting the concrete with a sickening thud, nose broken, boots on the fingers, knife at the belt and it was–] It was not the Soldier’s concern. All it had to do was endure. It would be good. It would be still.

Chapter 40

Chapter Text

Clang.

Crack.

Whumpf.

Clang.

Crack.

Whumpf.

Clang.

Crack.

Whumpf.

Again and again and again, until his arm was black and blue from sloppy catches. He’d probably altered the satellite imagery with the ever-growing clearing he’d made in the forest. The wind was bitter, and sleet whipped at his face, cutting lines of ice across his skin. He didn’t care. He couldn’t stop. It might’ve been minutes. Might’ve been hours. He kept throwing the shield, harder and harder, until he was felling full grown trees with each strike. He’d regret it later. He knew he would.

But he couldn’t f*cking stop.

Clang.

Crack.

Whumpf.

Bucky. They raped Bucky.

Clang.

Crack.

Whumpf.

Over and over until it became a standard goddamn function.

Clang.

Crack.

Whumpf.

Until Bucky thought it was normal.

Clang.

Crack.

Whumpf.

Until Bucky thought that was how he was supposed to repay basic human kindness.

Clang.

Crack.

Thunk.

The shield finally stuck, vibrating uselessly in the side of a huge evergreen. It was probably old growth. He was destroying an old growth forest in a blind rage. Because he couldn’t stop f*cking up everything he touched. He’d been sitting there thinking about that while Bucky had been expecting him to hurt him. For months.

He should go get the shield. He should go inside and help Bucky, who was doubtless in the middle of a panic attack. He should go straight to hell and take his perversions with him.

He fell to his knees and sobbed.

Might’ve been minutes. Might’ve been hours.

When he finally got control of himself, his chest was aching and his face felt like someone had scrubbed sandpaper across it. His throat was raw, but he didn’t remember screaming. He could barely see straight. The light had changed, the short day giving way to night, a clouded moon casting eerie shadows over patchy snow and half-bare trees. sh*t. He’d been gone for far too long. He’d lied to himself. He was a coward. He finally found a problem he couldn’t punch his way through, and he’d run from it. Abandoned Bucky. Again. Left Bucky to suffer alone. Again.

He was useless. So goddamn useless.

Steve wrenched himself away from the spiral of self-pity and stumbled toward the tree he’d maimed. He pulled the shield out with a bit too much force, staggering backwards a few steps. The tree probably wouldn’t make it. He ran back to the cabin, trying not to look too closely at the rest of the destruction he’d caused. That was all he was good for. Tearing things down. He was a goddamn wrecking ball, set loose on the world with nothing to stop him from smashing into something important.

But there was a better target out there. Lots of targets. The boiling in his blood resolved into an icy rage, sharper and crueler than before. If he’d ever known mercy, it was gone now. He’d take down every last one of the bastards. No more survivors. It was the least he could do. He hadn’t stopped Bucky from being hurt, but he could still stop the monsters that’d hurt him. Right now, though, he had to get it the f*ck together. Bucky needed him, and he didn’t deserve Steve’s anger.

He took a few more seconds to calm himself before he opened the door. As soon as he stepped inside, he was hit with the sharp scent of urine and fear. His heart fell so fast he was nearly sick. Bucky was still where Steve had left him, eyes wide, back ramrod straight, utterly still, the goddamn boots sitting next to him.

The fire had died down, and Bucky only had one shirt on, and no blanket. He had to be freezing, but he wasn’t shivering, wasn’t moving at all. Buck hadn’t shifted the entire time. Hadn’t eaten. Couldn’t even get up to go to the bathroom. Steve hadn’t thought he could hate himself any more than he already did. He was wrong. He dropped the shield and rushed over to the couch, desperately trying to figure out how to make this better.

“Bucky. God, Buck, I’m so sorry. Can you hear me?”

Buck was unresponsive, totally catatonic. His sweats were soaked, and there was blood seeping from a ragged hole torn under his right hand, his fingernails stained rust red. Steve was hesitant to touch him, afraid it would scare him even more, or pollute Bucky with his awful, selfish thoughts. He’d tried so hard to be careful, to keep himself in check, but it didn’t f*cking matter. The worst had already happened.

“Sweetheart, please. Please.” He couldn’t start crying again. He wasn’t sure he had enough water left in his body to do so, but he would probably dry sob for the rest of the night if he got going. “C’mon, Buck. Come back to me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

Nothing. Buck was barely even breathing.

Get it together, Rogers. Think. Fix this. It hadn’t been Steve’s touch that scared him. He’d been… God, he’d been touching Bucky with no reservations for over a month now. It hadn’t been the hand in his hair or even Steve’s too-tight grip on his wrist that set Bucky off. No, he was fine until Steve let his anger take over. He just had to stay calm. He could do this. They could do this.

He cautiously placed his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. It was ice cold, skin nearly the same temperature as the air, like he’d gone into shock just from anxiety. Steve instinctively tried to rub some warmth back into the frigid flesh, his fingers flexing against the side of Buck’s neck.

“Soldat.” He wanted to hate it, knew he should despise having HYDRA’s language on his tongue, but he was so far beyond hatred right now he couldn’t summon a single f*ck to give. Nothing mattered except Bucky. Whatever worked was what he would do. “Ty slyshish' menya? Eto prosto Kapitan Rogers. Ya zdes'. Ty v bezopasnosti.”

Still no response. Steve squeezed a bit harder, trying to avoid the worst of the scarring as he applied just enough pressure to get Bucky’s attention.

“Dyshi, soldat. Vam nuzhno dyshat'. Medlenno i gluboko.”

He pressed half-circles into Buck’s collarbone, measuring out the rhythm, the same pattern they’d used time and again now, praying that Buck could hear him. It felt like doing CPR. His panic and anger and fear were miles away. He just had to keep counting, keep talking. He had to get Bucky back. Steve stepped in closer and knelt down in front of him, hoping his body heat would start to warm Buck up.

“Davay, dorogoy. Ty mozhesh' eto sdelat'. Prosto dyshi.”

He took another calculated risk, threading his fingers under Bucky’s sweat-slick hair. He didn’t grab, didn’t pull. Just ran his fingertips over the scalp, smoothing from Bucky’s temple to the back of his head, over and over again. There might have been a deeper inhale. It was hard to tell. Steve kept it up, repeating the same phrases. You’re safe. Just breathe.

After what felt like an age, Bucky took a full, shuddering breath in. Steve felt his own lungs expand in sympathy. “Eto verno. Eto khorosho. Prodolzhay dyshat'.”

Another inhale. Bucky blinked, but his eyes were still distant.

“Hey, Buck. I’m here. It’s okay. You’re okay. Eto prosto Steve. Ty v bezopasnosti.”

Buck made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whine. Maybe trying to speak, Steve couldn’t be sure. He just kept talking, kept touching, until Bucky came further into focus. When he saw some eye movement, Buck finally tracking things that were in the same room, he let himself lean a bit closer.

“That’s it. You’re alright. You’re doing good.”

A thin, reedy whisper, “S-s-ser.”

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Steve. I’m right here. I’m so sorry honey. I won’t leave again, I promise. I’m right here with you.”

“P-prostite. Pozhaluysta, p-pomiluyte, ser.”

All the pain came rushing back, piercing Steve’s heart like a thousand bolts.

“No, baby, no.” Don’t f*cking cry, Rogers. “Nakazaniya net. Ya ne prichinyu tebe vreda.”

Words, even in a more familiar language, weren’t working. Bucky’s rigidity turned into violent tremors. His fingers curled, nails scoring the same lines into his leg. Steve carefully took his wrist to move his hand away, and flexed his fingers in Bucky’s hair, just barely holding on.

“Hey, hey, Buck. C’mon. Come back to me.” His voice was cracking, and he tried to push away the renewed guilt long enough to pull Buck back to consciousness. “You’re alright. You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

“S-s-sorry, sir. S-sorry.”

Steve couldn’t take it anymore. The begging, the apologies. Not when he was the one who should be f*cking apologizing. He couldn’t argue with Buck’s trauma. He could only try and show him that he was safe. He pulled Bucky into his arms, muttering a refrain of reassurance, unsure what language he was even speaking. He held fast, pouring whatever comfort he could muster into the embrace.

He wasn’t good at this. He wasn’t made for caretaking. Before he’d been turned into a wrecking ball, he was just an assemblage of sharp edges. Buck was always the soft one, the perceptive one. The one who’d taken Steve’s bristly attitude with ease. Who’d bandaged Steve’s knuckles time and time again. Who’d been tender with him, even when he didn’t know why Steve was spitting mad. Who hadn’t looked askance at his crooked back or spindly arms, not once, not even after–

He couldn’t go there. Not right now.

Another age passed, and Buck’s trembling finally eased up. He was still shivering, still too cold, but no longer paralyzed with fear. Steve felt a slow, shaky breath against his neck, then another. He realized he’d been tapping out time against Buck’s wrist and went at it with more intention.

“That’s right, just like that. I got you. I’m with you, Buck.” Bucky didn’t try to speak again, but his breathing evened out, and he relaxed the tiniest bit. Steve released his grip on Bucky’s hair and went back to carding his fingers through it. “You’re okay. Everything’s gonna be okay. Can you hear me?”

A nod.

“We gotta get you cleaned up. I’m gonna bring you some new clothes. Is that…” He couldn’t ask if it was okay, or if Bucky wanted it. He’d just get more non-answers. After what he’d just learned, it seemed unthinkable to ask Buck to be naked under his hands. He felt like a complete bastard for doing it before, and he could only imagine what Bucky had thought was going to happen. But Bucky was frigid and filthy, and Steve had to do something. “I’ll be right back, I promise. Just one minute.”

He left only long enough to grab clothes and a washcloth, talking continuously so Buck would know he was still in the house. He tried to guide Bucky through changing into clean clothes himself, but when Steve pulled him up to his feet, Buck just stood there, blank and unresisting. Being as impersonal as possible, he shucked the soiled pants and cursorily wiped him down. Bucky didn’t even blink. It was like manipulating a life-sized doll. He held his own weight, but he wouldn’t move except by Steve’s hand. Steve narrated every step of the process, moving as carefully as he could. He hurriedly got Buck dressed, then sat him in front of the stove and piled four thick blankets over him before he stoked the fire.

“Sit tight. I’m just going to the kitchen, ‘kay?”

Bucky glanced up briefly, and Steve hoped it was an acknowledgement. He quickly and quietly cleaned up around the couch, still trying to keep up the comforting chatter. Buck didn’t need to feel bad about this on top of everything else. Steve tossed the towels in the laundry and washed his hands.

He was about to make another protein shake when he remembered the cocoa powder he’d gotten at the store. Buck used to love it, and he needed something comforting right now. It didn’t have any dairy in it, not like those instant mixes, just raw cocoa. He microwaved water in the biggest mug he could find, then mixed in the cocoa, a couple scoops of sugar, and half a measure of protein powder. Steve took a sip to make sure it didn’t taste horrible. The sweet, rich flavor hit his tongue and immediately muted some of his own panic. God, when was the last time he’d had hot chocolate? The texture was a bit strange, but Buck probably wouldn’t know the difference right now.

When he returned to the living room, he made sure to approach from the side so Bucky could see him coming, and sat down on the rug next to him. He had to rearrange the blankets to find Bucky’s hands. They were encouragingly warm, even the metal one. He pressed the mug into Bucky’s grasp, guiding his fingers around it and holding it there until it seemed like he had a good grip.

“Here. Drink this, real slow.”

Bucky obeyed, staring vacantly into the middle distance as he lifted the mug to his lips. At the first taste, he jolted and blinked a few times, then his eyes locked onto the drink in an expression of pure bewilderment. Steve rubbed at his back, hoping it would be felt through the heavy blankets.

“It’s just cocoa,” he said.

Bucky’s tongue darted out, hesitantly exploring the remnant flavors. His lips fell open, gaping softly, and he brought his left hand up to steady the mug before taking another sip. Bucky started shaking again, and Steve nearly shattered when he saw tears welling up in his eyes. He’d f*cked up, triggered something and sent Buck right into another flashback. He was half a second away from reaching out to take the mug when he heard the whisper of attempted speech. It was barely a breath, a shaky wh-noise, like Buck was going to ask a question.

“Cocoa, honey. Like chocolate. I put some of your protein mix in, too. It’s the same thing, just hot.”

The explanation didn’t help. Bucky looked devastated, eyes wide and overflowing, tears falling in heavy lines down his cheeks. “Wh– Why. Re-w-ward.”

It was a slap to the face, knocking Steve’s breath right out of him. The question had been awful the first time, the utter wonderment at a hot shower, but now, with the implication that HYDRA had given him chocolate as a reward for… He tamped down on the renewed anger, massaging firm circles into Bucky’s right shoulder.

“Not a reward, Buck. It’s to help you feel better, get some food into you, warm you up. You don’t have to drink it if– If it’s not good, or if it’s making you upset. I can make it like usual instead.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to Steve’s chin, then quickly away. He was clutching the mug almost dangerously tight, his face a mask of disbelief and overwhelm. Whether it was a reaction to the taste of the cocoa, Steve’s behavior, or the memories he was still fighting, Steve couldn’t know.

“You can look at me, but only if… You don’t have to. Either way is fine, but you can look at me.”

He took him up on it. Steve felt like he was being picked apart by that intense, crystalline blue. Buck appeared to be fully present now, despite the tears. He stared right into Steve’s eyes, then tracked over his mouth, his jaw, his shoulders, his hands. Cataloging every part of Steve’s body language and facial expression. Buck might not understand his own emotions very well, but, like a beaten dog, he was deeply attuned to his handler’s attitude, always prepared to appease at the first hint of anger.

The very thought made Steve seethe, but he wouldn't let the feeling overtake him again. He looked right back at Bucky, focusing on here and now and being a solid, loving presence. After a while, Bucky’s gaze slid back down to the floor. His shoulders were still shaking, his breathing a little rough, but he took another sip of the cocoa. There was no peaceful acceptance, no sudden moment of calm. His confusion was obvious, but Steve’s attempt at controlling his reactions seemed to have at least convinced Buck that he wasn’t going to be punished.

They sat like that, the room silent save for the crackling fire, for a long time.

He didn’t look at the clock, didn’t heed his own growling stomach. Just kept rubbing Bucky’s back as he slowly drank the rest of the cocoa. His ass was falling asleep and his eyes growing heavy when Bucky finally stirred. The mug clunked to the floor, and Bucky hung his head before speaking, so very softly.

“Ap-pologies, sir. This asset submits for d-disciplinary action.”

Steve almost broke again. He transmuted the urge to scream into a slow, heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry. I was a jerk, running off on you like. I just, I hate that they hurt you. I hate that I wasn’t there to stop it. I didn’t know, sweetheart. I didn’t know, and I–” He gasped, realizing that he was talking a bit too loud. “You don’t owe me anything, but especially not sex. God, Buck. I won’t ever, ever ask that of you. Did I… What made you think I’d want that?”

A flash of obstinance overtook Bucky’s face for a second, his brow scrunching and mouth pulling into a scowl. Steve almost cut off the argument before it started, but he kept quiet. Bucky needed to try and process this, in whatever way he could. The expression softened again before he spoke.

“It is the handler’s prerogative, sir. Th-there are so many gifts...So many t-touch rewards, and it…” His bottom lip bunched up as he swallowed, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “This asset has not earned them.”

Steve pressed his lips together, willing himself to keep a cool head for once in his goddamn life. He’d been playing right into Bucky’s skewed perceptions, racking up an uneven score that Buck felt like he had to repay. Just by being kind and trying to show Bucky he was cared for. Deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. He was so f*cking exhausted, run ragged by his own raging emotions and the enormity of this pain. Part of him wanted to tell Bucky they’d talk about it in the morning, but he knew if he let it fester that Buck would just get more and more worked up instead of sleeping.

“You don’t have to earn it. I do it because I care about you. I want to give you nice things. Every minute of every day. You’ve been so strong, even though I keep messing up. When I touch you… It’s meant to help you feel safe. But if it doesn’t, I’ll stop.”

Bucky flinched at that, freezing up again. Steve had no idea what might’ve been read into his statement, so he tried to clarify.

“Does it make you uncomfortable, when I touch you?” He had to lay it out in a way that didn’t rely on emotional descriptors. “Is there any pain or other negative sensation? Nausea or increased pulse, maybe?”

An immediate, definitive shake of the head. “N-negative, sir.”

Well that was something. But there was a big difference between not being afraid of something and actually wanting it. Steve couldn’t ask the question directly, but he had to know if his pawing all over Buck was actually welcome. It might not be the only reason Bucky thought he expected sex, but it was definitely a contributing factor.

“If you were given the choice between receiving touch like I’ve been giving it, or some other kind of…” Don’t say ‘reward.’ “Positive sensation, like the cocoa or, or a hot bath or something, would you choose something else?”

Bucky’s eyes went wide, and his fingers flexed against the edge of the blankets. Trying to hold on to the other ‘gifts,’ maybe, or just an instinctive protective motion. Steve saw his lips twitch minutely before he looked away and said, “Your discretion, sir. The Asset has no preferences.”

God, it was like pulling teeth trying to get a real answer. But this was too important to just let slide. “It’s just a hypothetical. I’ll make the final decision, but I want your feedback.”

It took Buck a long time to work up the courage to respond. Steve kept his eyes on the pattern of the blanket and his hand on Buck’s shoulder, not showing any hint of his own preference.

“T-touch, sir.”

One individual tendril of the self-reproach that had crawled into Steve’s heart unwound, and he let out a silent gasp of relief. He should’ve asked more often, should’ve made sure it was okay, but at least he hadn’t been causing more pain. Bucky deserved as much kind touch as he wanted, no strings attached, no ulterior motives.

“Good. Thank you for letting me know.” He reached up to tuck the fallen hair behind Bucky’s ear. Bucky closed his eyes, visibly torn between leaning into Steve’s hand and staying still. “If that changes, please tell me.”

He had yet another horrible realization. As often as Buck went non-verbal, waiting for him to say something might not be the best option. Going still and quiet was probably the default method of dealing with repeated assault, when he couldn’t lash out against superiors without even more torture. Steve took Bucky’s right hand in his, pulling it gently away from the blanket.

“If you ever feel any negative sensation when I’m touching you, I want you to signal, like this.” He gave three firm taps to the back of Bucky’s hand. “Anywhere you can reach, just try to do it where I can feel it or hear it. Got it?”

Bucky nodded, still apprehensive. “Yes, sir.”

They might have to practice later, drill it until it became instinctive, but Steve didn’t have the higher level thinking to come up with ways to do that right now. He took a couple more breaths, rubbing his thumb across Buck’s knuckles.

“Do you have any other questions, honey? Anything you wanna talk about?”

“N-negative, sir.”

‘Negative.’ Always ‘negative,’ and never ‘no.’ Steve swallowed against a wave of nausea, schooling his face into calmness. “I think we should get some rest, okay? You can choose whether you sleep out here or in the bedroom. Either one is fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

Buck rose immediately to take his cup to the kitchen, letting the blankets fall to the floor. He returned and checked that the stove was safe for the night, then came to attention. He was still tense, acutely aware of Steve’s mood, but he was trying so hard to keep up the routine and be good.

Steve took his time getting to his feet. His entire body ached from hours of being wound so tight and bashing himself up with the shield. He gathered up all of the still-warm blankets and, when he saw that Bucky was following him to the bedroom, laid them out one by one on the makeshift bedroll in the corner, saving Buck’s favorite to spread on top of him. Bucky hesitated for a moment at the edge of the pile, but eventually laid down.

As wrung out as Steve was, sleep didn’t come. He laid awake listening to Bucky’s breathing, the utter stillness of a body carefully not moving under layers of fabric. His mind was going a mile a minute, pursuing every detail, picking apart all the ways he might’ve hurt Bucky since they found each other. He wasn’t sure if the detachment he felt now was actual objectivity or just his heart finally going numb after all the stress, but he tried to use it to his advantage while it lasted.

There were only a handful of moments he could identify where Bucky had shown fear. At the motel, when Steve took him to the shower, and then tried to put him on the bed. f*ck, the bed here, too. Steve clenched his fist around one of the pillows, and it gave a threatening groan. Nothing to do about it now. Figure it out, Rogers. He’d never gone below the belt outside of hygiene, and besides those few misunderstandings, he’d never felt Bucky pull away even when Steve was wrapped around him like a heated blanket. Buck hadn’t even looked upset when he… when he offered that. He didn’t seem to understand that what had been done to him was wrong.

Steve tried to picture how he might want to be treated in a similar situation. He didn’t– It wasn’t anywhere near the same. But he would’ve hated pity and saccharine sympathy. They just pissed him off. He couldn’t stand to be seen as some fragile, pathetic thing… He’d just wanted everything to go back to normal.

Both Bucky’s body language and his words confirmed that Steve touching him was almost always a positive thing. Good enough to be considered a reward. Just because he couldn't say he wanted something didn't mean he didn't feel that want. As awful as it was – and it was, horribly, gut-churningly awful – it was something they could work with. If he'd had to stop touching Bucky entirely, he would have, no questions asked. But at least this way he could keep giving Buck some sort of comfort. Hot showers. Touch. Cocoa and blankets. It seemed paltry in comparison to everything Bucky had gone through. Steve would’ve given him the world (or more realistically, the heads of his rapists) on a silver platter if he could, but right now that was what he had, so that was what he would give.

Chapter 41

Chapter Text

The Soldier was alert throughout the night, keenly aware of every sound coming from the handler’s bed. He did not sleep until 0239, the rustling of fabric and strained breathing belying his stated intention to rest. Even when he finally shifted into unconsciousness, his body expressed his agitation. The bedsprings squeaked when he moved, fighting with the blankets, and he mumbled curtly between bouts of gasping.

His reaction to the offer of recreational use was perhaps the most disorienting thing it could recall in all of its limited memory, even more unsettling than his disregard of standard maintenance. He had been so angry, but he had not struck it. Not even when it was unable to respond to his commands, or when the malfunction caused it to soil the clothing and the floor.

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

Instead, he had given it chocolate. Warm and sweet and thick, that did not cause the stomach to rebel. Not a trick or a test, at least not that it could determine. Perhaps it had been a form of coercion. He had asked so many questions. It could not remember all of the details. The scene was clouded with emotional responses and false images, but it thought he had been… kind, after he came back. Surely his patience could not last much longer.

It could not name the sensations that welled up in the chest and the gut and the head as it tried to make sense of the handler’s behavior. The limbs ached with the memory of hours spent locked in place. The eyes were dry and inflamed, the face irritated by excessive saline exposure [jaw slack and wrist aching and it didn’t stop, never stopped, it–] The stomach churned, and there was ice creeping in around the heart. The skull pulsed with the pain of malfunctions and unheeded imperatives.

And yet, the back was still alight with the sensation of the handler’s firm touch through heavy blankets. The body was warm, the extremities buzzing with unspent energy. The tongue was sour and sticky from the sweet beverage. The clothing was dry and the skin did not itch with the evidence of its failure. Had he cleaned it?

It felt the impulse to move, to go to the handler and beg for him to initiate physical contact again, in any way he saw fit. [The Asset does not want.] Punishment or gentleness, it would not matter, so long as his hands were on it. But it would not be so impertinent again, so disrespectful. His sleep had already been disturbed far too often.

The Soldier lay there in semi-darkness, watching his back rise and fall, his hands clenching around empty air or soft bedding, as the light shifted from LED red to predawn gray.

He woke to the alarm at 0500 only long enough to silence the noise and return to his previous position. It waited for an indication of his waking, but his breathing settled back into the pattern of unconsciousness within minutes. It considered rising without instruction. It could attend to some duty or other, prepare the facility for the handler’s morning routine. The machine that made his coffee was not complicated, and it had observed the procedure dozens of times now. But it would not risk further offense by taking such liberties. It had attempted to anticipate his desires last night, and that had been an unmitigated disaster.

Unconsciously, the right hand found the edge of the bedding, trailing over each piece of fabric in turn. There were a total of five blankets in its designated resting area: four under the body, cotton and polyester and thick batting, with the wool one on top. Perhaps he would realize his error and remove them, after the rejuvenation of sleep allowed him to see the Soldier’s behavior with more clarity. [Frigid concrete under the back, breath fogging in the air, hand trembling so hard it could not even–]

One point eight hours ticked by, the glowing digits of the clock keeping the time. As first light crept through the miniscule gap in the curtains, the handler shifted again, pulling one of his blankets over his head protectively. His breathing picked up, and after another three minutes he let out a beleaguered sigh. He was awake, even if he did not want to be.

It lowered the eyes when the handler rose. There were more sounds of frustration. He paused beside the pallet where the Soldier lay, then crouched down to inspect it more closely. It did not attempt to hide its wakefulness.

“You get any sleep?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, “Me neither. Are you… How are you feeling?”

“It is functional, sir.”

He closed his eyes and gave another heavy sigh [frustration, anger].

“Okay. No rush to get up. It’s f*ckin’ cold in here. I’ll get the fire going.” His hand landed on the left shoulder. It did not flinch. He squeezed at the hard metal of the prosthesis once, then released it. “Leisure hours today, I think.”

It was unsure how the current handler would implement that protocol. The Commander had declared leisure hours before [“Play time, boys.”] but the Captain could not mean that. Not if the secondary function was so repugnant to him. Perhaps he meant true leisure, the absence of all activities. So far the majority of its time with him had been spent in idleness, and it did not know how it could possibly become more leisurely.

It said, “Yes, sir,,” and remained still as he walked away. It listened to him use the cleansing facilities, activate the coffee machine, and stoke the fire. The flurry of cognitive energy had dissipated, leaving nothing but blank compliance in its wake.

The clock read 0807. Past time for the first rations. Still, it did not move. He had said ‘no rush,’ but that was vague. It was safer to avoid disturbing him.

At 0815, it heard him returning to the sleeping quarters, saw socked feet approaching in the periphery, felt the shift of floorboards beneath the blankets. He placed a glass of water before it, and a steaming ceramic cup. It smelled like… It could not be.

“Here, take your time. I’m gonna skip the run this morning. I’ll be in the kitchen. Come out whenever you’re ready.”

A careful touch on the forehead, his fingers barely brushing the skin as he pushed hair out of the eyes. It did not dare look directly at his face, but it caught a glimpse of pursed lips and tight eyes [stress, disappointment]. The handler left the room again. Footsteps. Metal on glass. The smell of hot oil [and burning flesh, but it would not scream, it would not–] The crack of eggs into a pan.

The Soldier cautiously sat up. He had not yet removed the bedding. It pulled the wool blanket around the shoulders and inspected the provided rations. The body nearly betrayed it again when it saw that the scent of chocolate was not a hallucination.

How could he– It did not understand. It did not understand, and it did not deserve this, and–

The chest hitched, twinging with pain when already-sore muscles were engaged. It was an order. This was the nutrition it was to consume. It would not disobey. It would not reject rations. [“Clean it up.”] They might be the last it was given for a long while. A mercy, perhaps, before the punishment it was due.

It lifted the vessel with both hands, careful not to damage it. The first taste captivated the tongue and sent a shiver of sensation through the skull. It could only vaguely remember the previous portion, and with full awareness it was indescribable. The cup radiated heat into the palms, and the increased temperature made the viscosity of the solution more appealing, thick and sweet and creamy in the mouth, heavy and warm in the stomach.

Two errant drops of moisture trailed down the cheeks. It swallowed thickly and took a heaving breath, determined not to let more fall. The Soldier drank the rations, slowly, tentatively, and then the water. It waited for any signal from the handler, but there was nothing. He ate his morning meal and placed the dishes in the sink, then settled onto the couch. It did not hear the click of the keyboard. He had not completed his physical training, and was neglecting his intelligence work. The discipline would likely require much of his attention today.

At 0908, the demands of the body overruled the imperative to remain unobtrusive. It rose to make use of the cleansing facilities, then returned the empty vessels to the kitchen. The sink was less occupied than usual. Only one plate, one ceramic cup, and the pan he had used for eggs. The handler had not eaten his evening meal yesterday, too distracted by the Soldier’s excessive malfunctioning. [“This disruption will not be tolerated.”] He had gone without dinner. He had not even consumed any of the chocolate mixture himself. It was completely unacceptable.

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

The Soldier stood there, gaze fixed on the metal basin, and attempted to determine the next course of action. It could not properly compensate for the infractions. It did not know how. It could clean what was there. He had approved of that activity previously. But the routine had changed. Facility maintenance might not be permitted during ‘leisure hours.’

“Buck? You with me?”

It turned, taking in the handler’s attitude. He was sitting on the couch, his sketchbook propped up on one knee, pencil gripped tightly in his right hand. It could not see what he was drawing from this angle, but there appeared to be a significant amount of graphite on the page. There was tension evident in his posture, though he was attempting to conceal it. His brow was furrowed deeply. His eyes were ringed in pink, still slightly irritated. Last night, it remembered, he looked like he had been crying. [He never cried. Not even when his ma–] His whole face had been red and splotchy with it. Had the Soldier caused him harm during the malfunction?

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

“Bucky? Say something, please.”

He was waiting for it to comply. Waiting for it to follow disciplinary protocol. It had not responded to his previous inquiry. It was behaving irregularly, dawdling in the kitchen with no purpose, staring across the room at the handler’s fingertips, stained silver from his drawing. It hastily corrected the error.

“Yes, sir. Apologies. Malfunction.”

He narrowed his eyes, looking it up and down. “What kind of malfunction?”

“Inattention and failure to report, sir.”

“Christ, you scared me for a second,” he breathed. “You’re tired, honey, it’s fine. Go get your blanket and come sit down.”

It quickly obeyed. It had to assume that he was referring to the brown wool blanket. That was the one he most often designated for its use. It neatly folded the fabric, trying to avoid wasting time by touching it excessively. It was so warm. The Soldier did not deserve it.

It returned to the sitting area to kneel at attention, ignoring the itch of healing where it had damaged the right leg. The rug had been cleaned, but it still bore the faint scent of urine, lingering evidence of its abhorrent behavior. [Bad dog. Bad dog. Bad–] It lowered the head and presented the blanket to him.

“This asset submits for disciplinary action sir.”

The handler edged forward in his seat, putting the sketchbook aside.

“For what?”

“Multiple violations, sir. Inattention. Failure to report. Previous cognitive malfunction resulting in injury to the handler. Damage to the body. Negligence of cleansing routine. Soiling of base material. Unapproved initiation of physical contact with the handler. Behavior resulting in disruption of the handler’s scheduled activity and meal times.”

He simply sat there for eight long seconds before he reached up to adjust the hair again, pushing it back from where it hung in the Soldier’s eyes.

“Buck. I told you, I wasn’t upset with you. You weren’t all there, but you didn’t hurt me. And missing dinner was my own fault. I was too busy throwing a fit to make food for either of us. That’s on me.” His hand stayed at the side of the head, thumb dragging across the cheek and over the ear. So tender, so soft. “I shouldn’t have blown up like that. I’m sorry.”

It felt the face move, felt the pulse increase, felt perspiration prickling on the palm. What sort of trick was this? It had reported all of the infractions. The fault was evident. Its touch had not been welcome. It had overstepped, had caused him anger, and then had further failed him with the loss of control of the body.

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

Both of his hands came down to wrap around its own, a mimicry of the first time he had ordered its use of the blanket. He nudged it closer to the Soldier’s chest, thick wool compressing against the thin cotton shirt.

“I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but I did. You’re not going to be punished for something I did wrong.”

He was apologizing again. Always apologizing and being so soft and generous and he did not accept the recreational use so there was no way to make recompense. And yet again he said ‘no punishment.’ There was no viable course of action if he would not discipline it. [“Ty budu molit' ob etom.”] The head ached. The right hand would have been trembling if the handler was not holding it in place.

It would not allow the tears to come. It would not be so weak. The Soldier released its hold on the blanket and let the head drop further, bowing as low as it could without touching him or disturbing his position. It resulted in the face being buried in the soft, scratchy material, the smell of woodsmoke filling the nostrils, with the handler’s arms stretched to either side of the head.

“Pozhaluysta, ser. Gotov k nakazaniyu. Ono budet podchinyat'sya.”

The words were muffled, but it knew that he had heard them. He made another noise of annoyance as he let go of the blanket. Without his support, the Soldier fell forward, wedged awkwardly against his legs. Before it could rectify the error, his hands were on its shoulders, kneading into the flesh, working carefully around the anchor points of the prosthesis.

“It’s okay. Nakazaniya net. Eto khorosho, dorogoy.”

The heart stuttered at that word, at the softness it did not deserve. The treatment continued for several minutes, then he shifted, leaning over it to reach the lower back. Down the trapezius, the latissimus, then up, thumbs pressing along the sides of the spine, across the base of the skull. The muscles refused to relax despite his patient manipulation, and the disciplinary imperative still rang loud, clashing against the handler’s murmured assurances.

“C’mon, sit up.” The body was slow to respond, reluctant to move from the submissive posture. He tugged at the shoulders until it complied, guiding it back into position. “Look at me, please.”

It did so. The lines around his eyes were deepened by lack of sleep, the corners of his mouth turned down in dissatisfaction. His fingers flexed, the grip on its arms tightening for a moment, then gentling.

“It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t– They hurt you, used you. It’s the worst kind of thing you can do to a person. It’s– It’s a goddamn war crime, on top of all the other war crimes. f*ck. I don’t know how to explain this.” He exhaled sharply, glancing away from the Soldier before meeting its eyes again. There was heat in his gaze, anger and something it could not name. “I was never mad at you. I’m furious, but not because of anything you did. It was HYDRA. What they did to you was wrong. D’you understand that?”

He said much before, that his anger was for HYDRA. For taking it away from him. For using it without his approval. Was he disappointed that it had served so many others before he resumed his position as handler? Some superiors had expressed similar sentiments. [“I’m not touching that thing, it probably got the clap from Peterson.”] But the Soldier had been following protocol. It had been compliant. It had held still. How could it be wrong?

Maintaining eye contact became increasingly difficult. The body quaked with barely-contained tremors, and the back was sticky with perspiration, the shirt clinging to the flesh. There was no correct answer, but he asked a direct question. It had to respond.

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

“N-net ponimaniya, ser. Gotov k nakazaniyu.”

“No, honey. Nakazaniya net.” Another sigh gusted from his chest, and a series of expressions flitted across his face [anger, fatigue, concern, resolve]. “C’mere.”

He gestured, and it moved closer, as close as it could manage without inadvertently touching him. The handler closed the gap immediately, wrapping both arms around it and pulling it tightly against his torso. It felt the press of his thighs on either side of the hips, the shifting of his pectorals as he rubbed across its back, the movement of the hair when he breathed against its neck.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know that doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry you had to go through that, and I’m sorry I’m sh*t at talking about this kind of thing. I’m not ever going to ask that of you. Never, Buck.”

It did not understand. He had not asked. It had offered. It said nothing, unwilling to stoke his ire with another incorrect reply. The heat of his embrace calmed the surface of the emotional response, but beneath that the uncertainty still roiled. The Soldier remained still as he pressed broad strokes across the shoulders, but the handler must have sensed the tension. He soon untangled himself from it and returned to his previous position, assessing it closely.

“You still with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fingertips trailed down the jaw, coming to rest at the chin. “I know you’re upset, but I’m not gonna punish you. How about we try something else, take your mind off it for a while. D’you still dance?”

It blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in topic.

That part of its programming was still active, but had not been accessed in decades. The last time it could remember participating in covert operations that required it to infiltrate public events, the Colonel had been handler.

“Th-this asset is proficient in b-ballet and ballroom styles, sir.”

The smile he produced was not entirely forced. “Why don’t you show me some ballet, huh? I never learned anything but the waltz, and I’m still horrible at it.”

It could not rectify the order with the disciplinary imperative, nor with the odd attitude that the handler was displaying. It might be a deception of some sort. But the Captain did not lie. He never… It was a straightforward request. If he would not complete the necessary discipline, it could at least obey his current orders.

“Yes, sir.”

He took the blanket from where it had fallen on the floor and placed it on the couch, then rose, guiding the Soldier to follow. The handler directed it to the open space between the countertop and the couch. He was looking at it expectantly, hands held in an awkward half-shrug until he settled them on his hips. The Soldier awaited further orders, but he only tilted his head at it.

‘Show me,’ he had said. It did not know if he desired a full demonstration of proficiency or an instruction for himself. He had mentioned his own lack of knowledge. It should begin with basic steps, then increase the complexity. There was no music, but it could keep time.

The tension of the previous day still lingered in the back, the neck, the limbs. Stretching the muscles to warm up would be ideal, but he was waiting, watching. A conscious adjustment in cognition was required to shift the body into proper form. The Soldier slowly inhaled and exhaled once before bringing the arms bras bas, then into first position. It slid the left foot outward into second, extending the arms, then a plie. The right leg closed into third as it raised the right arm an haut. It continued into fourth, then arabesque croisée, before ending in fifth with both arms lifted.

The handler did not move, save for his eyebrows climbing further up his forehead.

“How the heck d’you get your feet to do that?”

The question sounded rhetorical, but it was difficult to tell. It lowered the arms, assessed the angle of the hips, then glanced down to ensure that the limbs were arranged appropriately. The Soldier was stiff, perhaps out of practice, but the posture was correct.

“Turnout begins in the lateral rotators of the hip, sir.”

It demonstrated, shifting into sixth, then slowly opening to first again, gesturing to the muscle groups as they activated. The full execution of the movement was not visible due to the loose clothing.

The handler chuckled halfheartedly. “I think if I try that I’d fall right on my ass. Go back to that other pose, with your arms up.” It returned to fifth. He spent a moment studying it before turning to retrieve his sketchbook. “Can you hold that one for a while?”

At full functionality, it could remain in this position for two point two hours before failure. In its current state, perhaps one point seven.

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Keep your eyes on me, and don’t forget to breathe. Nice and slow, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

It complied, taking a full, deep breath as it solidified the stance. Weight settled on the heels, knees softened slightly to allow for circulation, shoulders upright, chest open, core engaged to compensate for the weight of the prosthesis. The Soldier fixed its gaze on the handler’s chin, watching as he adjusted his own posture. He started up the music on the laptop then leaned up against the kitchen counter and opened the sketchbook to a fresh page.

This procedure was familiar by now. It focused on the breath, on keeping the arms soft, the hands in the same position. Eight in. Eight out. Long and languid so as not to disturb the lines of the body. The wail of the imperative became a dull clattering. It was being good. It was serving a function. It knew what was expected, and was rewarded with a small smile as the handler began to outline its form.

He glanced up at it, intent on the face for a moment. [Always lookin’ at me like that. You gonna tie me up and keep me on a shelf? “I just might, darlin’.”] Frustration lingered in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, but he focused on the task at hand, and so did the Soldier.

Thirteen point two minutes had passed, measured out by the rise and fall of the chest, the swell and denouement of the orchestra, when the handler’s phone rang. He had left the device in the sleeping quarters. It vibrated against the wooden table that sat between the beds, the noise clattering through the safehouse. The handler frowned and set the sketchbook aside. “Sorry. Hold tight just a sec. It’s probably Nat.”

His speech was even, but his face betrayed him [suspicion, worry, fear.] He hurried to the bedroom and returned with the still-ringing phone held in his hand, staring down at it with wide eyes and contorted brows [confusion, concern.] He swiped at the screen, silencing the call, and began typing. Before he could complete the message, it rang again. He visibly steeled himself, lips pursed, jaw tightening, then put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

A strange voice came, tinny and small through the speaker designed for private conversation, but the Soldier could hear the words clearly.

“Capsicle! How’s it hanging at the old folks’ home? Murder anyone fun lately?”

It sounded like nonsense, some sort of passphrase perhaps. The handler’s eyes widened further and his nostrils flared, his expression rapidly morphing into anger.

“Tony?” he spat. “What are you– Hang on.” He glanced over to the Soldier, then turned away from it, his entire body strung tight as he strode toward the front door and wrenched it open.

Chapter 42

Chapter Text

He woke to dim, muddy light, head pounding, mouth dry, the air around him humid and oppressive. For a hot nanosecond he nearly panicked, finding himself back in the cave, before the blurry shape of the Hulk’s big green face made itself apparent. He flailed. There was a crash, then two more, half-empty bottles shattering on the lab floor. The sweet relief of fresh, thrice-filtered, climate controlled air hit his lungs. DUM-E hovered nearby, chirping mournfully as Tony threw the Avengers-branded fleece blanket off of his head.

God f*cking dammit. That bot was going to be the death of him, trying to suffocate him in his sleep. At least he’d learned that fire extinguishers were not the solution to alcohol poisoning.

Tony scrubbed at his eyes, then was retrospectively grateful that he hadn’t passed out with the prototype gauntlets on his hands again. What f*cking time was it? He looked to the nearest holoscreen, blearily trying to read the clock, and was promptly reminded what had inspired this particular bender.

A mosaic of horrors was still displayed across the walls, taking up nearly the entire length of the lab. Mechanical diagrams, surgical reports, biochemical experiments, and… ‘maintenance sessions,’ all laid out in a collage of black and white and red. So much red.

It was just like Rogers to rob him of his well-earned anger.

After weeks of tracking dirty money and manually scouring surveillance, he’d had to admit that Nit-Nat might have him bested on this one. JARVIS threatened to call Rhodey and Pepper – Pepper, who had abnegated all responsibility for Tony’s bullsh*t and would blow her top if she was woken up at 3AM to deal with him again – if he didn’t leave the lab for “food and sunlight and human interaction, Sir,” the traitor.

So he relented, half mad and mostly drunk, and set the search on autopilot. Not even Tony Stark could maintain that level of manic focus for two months straight. It was JARVIS who finally discovered the actual safehouse where Romanov stashed the Twin Pops, thanks to a lucky traffic cam shot and some intense thermal imaging.

Tony was five minutes away from sending out every single newly-fabricated Iron Man suit, drone, jet, and delivery bot to put Barnes down when JARVIS cracked the extra super secret quintuple encrypted folder and interrupted with, “Sir, I believe you might want to review this information before you proceed.”

Then the files. The f*cking files. Six hundred gigabytes of hard evidence. Photographs, videos, military documents signed in goddamn triplicate that all proved Murderbot had been coerced, tortured, brainwashed, then tortured a little bit more, just in case. For seventy years.

The memories of Afghanistan had come flooding back. The water, the electricity, the waking up with large pieces of metal shoved into his body. After JARVIS coached him through that fun little four hour panic attack, Tony’s rage sputtered out like a candle in a monsoon. Even the loss of his mom couldn’t blind him to this kind of heinous cruelty. Empathy was a vapid bitch.

And, of course, a delightful little turd-coated cherry on top of the manure-frosted trash cake: the schematics for no fewer than twelve of the devices used in the Winter Soldier’s prosthesis and the ‘memory suppressing machine’ were signed ‘HAWS.’ Howard. Anthony. Walter. Stark.

He’d known his old man was a bastard, but… f*ck.

He might have laughed if he could spare the breath between gulps of Lagavulin. It was almost poetic. Dear old dad, finally getting what was coming to him after decades of drooling over the ubermensch instead of…whatever it was dads were supposed to do. Baseball games? Occasional pats on the back? Encouragement independent of academic prowess? f*ck ‘em. But why’d he have to take mama down with him?

Tony caught himself rubbing at his titanium-reinforced sternum, still staring up at the screens. He shoved away from the lab table, only stumbling a little bit.

“Jarv!” Ouch. Maybe he shouldn’t yell.

“How may I be of assistance, sir?” JARVIS said drolly.

He’d just woken up, and already the AI was getting snippy with him. Tony had probably overridden some self-care protocol or other last night. Again.

“Be a pal and ring the Captain for me.”

“Are you certain that is a wise course of action, Sir? Perhaps it would be prudent to delay communication until you are in a more suitable state of mind.”

Damn his circuits and his servers. This is what Tony got for creating a being more conscientious than himself.

“Just do it.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

The line rang for a concerningly long time, then went to the automated voicemail. It wasn’t like Captain Boyscout to ignore phone calls, especially when there was so much f*ckery afoot.

“Try him again.”

More ringing. Tony was beginning to think he might have to just fly out there and risk getting the suit all dinged up with bullets when, finally, the big lug actually answered.

“Hello?”

Right, Rogers had a burner phone, and he probably didn’t know the new secure line. He was just being cautious about answering from an unknown number.

“Capsicle! How’s it hanging at the old folks’ home? Murder anyone fun lately?”

“Tony? What are you– Hang on.” There was some scuffling and a slamming door. Rogers came back on in full bulldog mode. “How did you get this number?” he demanded. “You’re not taking us in, I don’t care how many–”

“Woah! Cool your jets, Cap. This is purely a social call. I’m doing the friend thing, you know, checking on how my friend and his friend are doing. We’re friends, right? I’ll send a care package. What with the remote cabin in the woods, you’re probably going a bit stir crazy. Thought you might want some board games, maybe a Netflix subscription so you can watch Wizard of Oz and cry on your beau’s cold shoulder.”

“That was one time, and I’d never seen the colors bef– Dammit, Tony! How am I supposed to believe that? Last I heard, you wanted Buck dead.”

Ugh. Rogers was going to make him do the whole honesty thing. It was disgusting, really, how genuine the man was all the time. Didn’t he get tired? Tony threw him a bone, hoping he’d disengage his teeth.

“Fine. I decrypted the rest of the files.” A strange little noise came through the lab speakers. It sounded suspiciously like someone clearing their throat. “JARVIS decrypted the rest of the files. I get it, okay? I’m gonna get one million doctors and therapists and lawyers lined up and we can un-brainwash…brain-dirty? Whatever. We can fix up your toy soldier. As long as he’ll play nice with the other kids. I won’t have my shiny new building all ripped up in another rage fest. I saw what you two did in DC, and unlike those government shills I actually value my bodily integrity. And my aircraft.”

There was a long silence. Tony busied himself sorting out the equipment he’d kinda sorta smashed in his drunken haze. DUM-E and Butterfingers tried to help, which just amounted to shards of metal and plastic being rearranged into more aesthetically pleasing piles.

“You want us to come back to New York? Natasha said–”

“You really shouldn’t listen to spies, you know. Full of secrets, full of lies.”

“Tony.” Rogers said his name like a plea. f*cking hell, this guy. How had he not died of exsanguination from that bleeding heart?

“Yes. I’m asking you to come back. I’m not– Look I know I freaked out, but I didn’t even actually bomb you, thanks to Shelob’s scheming. You’re fine. I’m fine. And I’m over it. Water under the bridge, hatchet buried, slate clean, byes gone, horse dead, etcetera. We don’t have to talk about it. That’s what the army of therapists is for. We can all cry privately then sing kumbaya over the incinerated corpses of HYDRA.”

Rogers hesitated. He was probably doing that thing with his chin, all strong and heartfelt with bald eagles screeching in the background.

“I can’t right now. Buck’s not ready for all of that.”

The good Captain still didn’t trust Tony not to blow his buddy up, is what he meant to say. Understandable, if annoying.

“At least let me be the guy in the chair. I have a really nice chair. Custom built, teak, ergonomic, really nice upholstering. It’s like having your ass cradled by cherubs. And you know JARVIS can decrypt and translate way faster than you, even with your fancy super steroid brain. I already finished cleaning up your mess on this side of the continent. I’ve got enough firepower to wipe HYDRA off the West Coast as well.”

Another pause. Tony flicked a stray bolt across the table, watching it spin and sputter to a stop. As if there was anything to debate. The simpering sirloin probably hadn’t even taken out a single HYDRA facility without his help. Too busy managing his… extremely traumatized boyfriend. Dammit. Can’t even snark about that one.

“You swear, Tony? You swear you’re on our side now? I’m not doing anything that’ll put Buck at risk. If that means living in the goddamn Sahara for the rest of our lives, I’ll do it.”

He must really have it bad for the Buckster if he was threatening to live without bagels for the rest of his freakishly long life.

“I could still find you in the desert, Steven. I own, like, all of the satellites. Most of them. Elon’s holding out on that last array, the little Edison. Just because his daddy bought the factory before my daddy did, he thinks he’s hot sh*t.”

Rogers cleared his throat.

“Yes! Yes, okay, I swear. Cross my arc reactor and hope to fry.” It still counted as a promise even if the thing wasn’t embedded in his chest anymore, right? “The point is, if I wanted to take you out I could’ve done it already. I’m looking at your location right now. Nice truck, by the way. Very hillbilly chic. And have you been stress-chopping firewood? You know you shouldn’t exert yourself like that at your age.”

Silence, punctuated by a few grumpy sighs, and then, “Alright… I need to talk to Natasha first, but… alright. We’re not quite ready to start hitting targets yet, but when we are, it’ll be nice to have your support.”

Support. Pfft. Tony was gonna support their asses so hard they’d… Well he didn’t have an appropriate line for that one. Rogers’ suit did a pretty good job of it already. Maybe he could use a better one, though, with even more butt padding. And they’d need a hell of a lot more than intel, what with Comrade Collateral Damage along for the ride.

“You did see the part where I blasted a couple thousand Nazis off the face of the planet all on my lonesome, right? I mean, you left NYC wide open! We could clean up the West Coast in a week, easy. I got these great new missiles–”

“No missiles. Not yet. If you can keep us off the radar, we’ll have the element of surprise, and we can get them scrambling.”

Reluctantly, Tony recognized a necessary compromise. Cap wasn’t about to forgive multiple attempts at murdering his bestie without a little teambuilding. At least the suit could handle a trust fall from two hundred pounds of grade A Brooklyn beef.

“Alright, do it the hard way,” he huffed. “Just call me when you’re ready to start the airshow. Actually… I could whip up some new wings for Tweety. I know you like him better than me now after your whole boxoffice blast buddy roadtrip, and you’re gonna need backup that isn’t two concussions away from defecting back to Mother Russia. Now about that car…”

“We’re fine. Really. We’ve got food and water and firewood. Natasha set up an internet connection, so I’ll be in touch. I’m sure you found the email address already. Buck just needs a little more time to adjust. Maybe meet the team one by one.”

No one appreciated his generosity. He wasn’t going to send a whole fleet. Just a nice, heavily armored four-wheel-drive with a teensy bit of AI. Driving in the woods was stupid, and there was all that snow.

“If you say so. You sure you’re not going native out there? If you two try to start a maple syrup farm or something I’ll have to call an intervention. Captain Lumberjack just isn’t as inspiring.”

He got an actual laugh out of that one. Okay, more like an exasperated chuff, but still.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.” Rogers hesitated, then forged ahead right into the territory Tony least wanted to explore. “Listen, Tony… I swear I didn’t know about your parents. If I had, I would’ve talked to you first. Bucky didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t in his right mind. I understand what it’s like to lose your family. Howard was a good man, and–”

“DUM-E, no! Put that down! Gotta rush, Cap, ciao!”

Tony swiped the end call button so fast he nearly sent the screen spinning across the room. He scrubbed at his face, smearing gross sleep drool further into his beard. DUM-E looked up curiously from where he was building a perfectly harmless stack of microprocessors.

“Sorry kid, daddy needed a quick exit.” He waved dismissively. “Go back to your Legos.”

The bot beeped a dissatisfied little arpeggio before resuming his oh-so-helpful activity. Tony really wanted to flop onto the couch and take a four day-nap, but his hungover haze had been replaced by an insistent, buzzing energy. He had to move, to work on something, maybe get out of the lab for a while. The Winter Soldier files still hung accusingly on the holoscreens, and extending the olive branch to the Golden Oldies had done depressingly little to assuage the big pile of goddamn feelings that was trying to suffocate him.

Maybe the satellite dishes needed some maintenance. The roof counted as outside, right? It was basically a walk in the park, it’d be good for his constitution. And after that, well, there were a lot of NDAs to work up. God, he missed Pepper. She was so good at this kind of thing. The paperwork and the feelings. Tony eyed the remaining bourbon before he summoned the Mark LIV and jetted outside.

______________________________________________

She was in the middle of a coffee run, just about to break into the server room, when her phone buzzed. The real one. Dammit. This was her best window, but only four people in the world had this number, and that meant it couldn’t wait. She bypassed the secure door and clicked her way further down the hall, angling for the only corner of the building that wasn’t covered by audio surveillance.

Natasha put on her serious businesslady face as she passed a gaggle of roving coding nerds on their way back from the cafe. When she pulled the phone from her bag, she flicked her hair out of her eyes, feigning annoyance. The nerds scattered.

She glanced down at the screen. Rogers. It was to be expected after last night. She probably should’ve called him herself, but she was hoping he could handle it on his own.

She hadn’t been monitoring the bugs live, not since the first nightmare. Hearing James begging for mercy in horrified Russian had dragged her right back to the Red Room. After that, she had a couple sleepless nights and a few new memories of her own. It was inexcusably weak, but she had to be able to function. So she’d kept an eye on the perimeter alarms and Stark’s movements and only listened in when she had time to process her own sh*t, which meant she hadn’t known what the boys were dealing with until about four hours after the fact.

She’d been about to commandeer a quinjet and head out there herself when she heard Steve storm out, but he came back and things had calmed down enough for her to restrain herself. She was still rattled, but this job was important. It was day five of the first official infiltration assignment after Insight, and the photostatic veil was starting to get really itchy. They were so close to finding the mysterious funder who kept beefing up the new installations. She couldn’t afford to blow her cover now. But Steve knew that, and he wouldn’t interrupt for no reason. Natasha clicked ‘answer.’

“Rushman Modeling Agency. Hot beefcakes, served hard and ready.”

Can’t talk now. Still a few meters from the blind spot.

“Hi, Nat. Got a minute?”

“For you? I have at least five.”

“I just heard from Tony.”

Pizdets. Could nothing go right for her this year?

“Please hold.” Natasha gracefully evaded the nearest security camera, smiled at a passing secretary, and shoved herself into a supply closet. “Details, Rogers.”

“Are you safe right now?”

Always the Captain. There was barely a hint of stress in his voice, just concern and a little tiredness. He was a sh*t spy. He couldn’t hide his emotions for the life of him, but when it came to repressing them, Rogers was one of the best. He probably hadn’t slept at all last night. Not after that bombshell. And now Stark was up to something. But Steve wasn’t freaking out, so she ignored the gnawing worry that threatened to undermine her composure.

“It’s fine,” she said, “just a little office gig. Don’t worry about it. I’m shooting the boss tomorrow anyway.”

She wasn’t really, but bullsh*tting was her first line of defense.

“You–” Steve sputtered. “Actually, I don’t wanna know.”

“Probably not. Are you two alright?”

“That’s what I called to ask you. Tony found the rest of the files. He said he’s changed his mind, come around. I want to believe him, but I need you to confirm as soon as you can.”

Great. One more thing to add to the mountain of intelligence work. Maintaining that safehouse was no walk in the park, and then there was Hill, and Fury, and dealing with the sh*tshow left after SHIELD’s records went public. Not to mention Clint’s latest injury. How could the same man who climbed a hundred-meter skyscraper without a second thought break his ankle walking the damn dog? He didn’t actually need a babysitter, but he went a little nuts when he was couch-bound. At least the jackasses in the Senate had stopped trying to call her.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. This isn’t the worst timing. My f*cking delivery guy is threatening to roll on me, and without Stark’s money I’m reduced to credit card fraud. Turns out mercenary gig workers don’t take Square.”

“You hired a HYDRA agent to drop off your boxes?” Steve said incredulously.

Natasha rolled her eyes. He must be really out of it to think she was that twisted.

“Of course not. He’s a security contractor for the local pot growers. But HYDRA’s recruiting from the militia assholes out there. He got a very generous offer for any information on suspicious activity in the area, which definitely includes an off-grid safehouse. If Stark’s back in the game, I can keep the idiot happy. Don’t panic. He doesn’t know who’s out there, just that there’s a house where one shouldn’t be. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to kill him – so much paperwork – but if the money doesn’t do the trick, that option is still open. I won’t let anything happen to you or James. You have my word, if that means anything to you.”

“You know it does,” he effused. “I trust you. You may work in mysterious ways, but I trust you.”

“Oh? Getting a little sacrilegious there, Rogers. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Steve was a bit too sincere when he said, “God has a lot to answer for if he wants me to start returning his calls again.” She waited for the rest of it, the cursing or the emotional confession, but he just chivalrously offered, “Let me know if I can help with Tony. I’ve got nothing but time and a laptop on my hands right now.”

Of course he’d try and hide his wounds. It wasn’t exactly the best time to play counselor, but she needed to hear for herself that he was okay, that James was okay. She hadn’t been able to listen to this morning’s recordings in her rush to get to the temp gig at this skeezy facade of a finance company. They’d gotten through the worst of the flashbacks alright, but this… this was different. Steve had never lost his sh*t so dramatically before, not in front of James.

“I thought you had quite a bit on your hands, actually,” she prodded.

“Well… yeah.” Rogers sighed. He sighed a lot these days. “But Buck’s… Buck’s doing better. As much as he can be. We had a rough night, but I’m handling it.”

Natasha huffed. Had he forgotten about the bugs entirely? James had seen them right off, of course, and he’d told Steve about them.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Rogers. I heard the recording.”

“Oh. sh*t. Right. So you heard…”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

She really was. She’d debated telling him at the beginning, but he didn’t need another reason to shy away from his not-so-new role. He was so tangled up in his morality that he’d compared himself to HYDRA, even before this little gem. f*ck knows what they would’ve done if she hadn’t convinced him to step up. There was no one else James could go to who wouldn’t hurt him.

She was honestly surprised Steve hadn’t figured it out before now. Maybe his Russian wasn’t good enough to catch all the implications of James’ muttering. Maybe he’d turned that part of his brain off in an attempt to make himself ‘safer’ for James. But it was time to show her cards. Secrets weren’t as fun when they hurt like this, and if she was going to go see them, she didn’t want this looming between them. It would be even worse if he found out she’d kept it from him longer than necessary.

“I didn’t think James would try and initiate anything,” she said. “I really am sorry, Steve.”

Natasha could practically hear the gears turning. She steeled herself for the inevitable explosion, privately grateful to be having this conversation over the phone so she could avoid the shrapnel.

“You knew? What the f*ck, Nat? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

She let his anger wash over her. She understood. That kind of abuse was shocking, for normal people. Which was why she’d kept it from him in the first place. Natasha kept her cool, even though her feet ached and her face itched and it was hot and stuffy in this closet and she just wanted to be home with Liho or cuddled up on Clint’s couch. She just wanted to see James, even if he didn’t know her. But she couldn’t, not until she had things under some semblance of control.

“I was trying to protect you. Both of you. I’ve purged all the evidence and removed everything from the public documents. I kept copies in case it goes to court, but they’re isolated. Secure. The only thing that’s left are some vague references–”

“To the ‘secondary function.’ I know. Are you saying there’s more that I haven’t seen?”

What was she supposed to say? ‘Yeah, Rogers, only a few dozen gigabytes of homemade HYDRA p*rn featuring your best friend slash lover in increasingly dehumanizing situations.’ The violence that would result from Steve seeing that would put all of them at risk, if there was even a government left standing afterwards. He was already considered a loose cannon, taking down HYDRA without oversight. If he went fully off the rails now, they’d never be able to keep James safe.

She couldn’t blame him. Natasha had nearly lost it herself when she first found those files. Her James, her sweet, thoughtful boy, treated like… She took a steadying breath. It would’ve been nice to be the one to shoot Pierce. And Rumlow. She hadn’t seen his body before it was sent off to be ‘interred with family.’ That slimeball had better actually be dead. Who the hell uploads video of the most classified operative in the history of spycraft to the goddamn intranet?

“Natasha,” Steve demanded. “Is there more?”

“Yes. There’s more. I was hoping it wouldn’t come up, even if it went to trial. This kind of thing isn’t new to me. I didn’t want to–”

“f*ck! How could you leave me in the dark about that? He’s my– My responsibility. If I’d’ve known–”

“What?” she interrupted right back. “You’d treat him with kid gloves? Pity him?”

Enough was enough. She was angry too. James was hers too. But they couldn’t change what had happened to him. Hand wringing and simpering over something he didn’t even understand right now wouldn’t help. Steve yelling at her wouldn’t help. She was doing her best, pulling the strings so he could manage the day to day. It hurt that she couldn’t be there with them, but someone had to keep the feds and, up until now, Stark, off their trail.

“I would’ve been more careful,” he finished, somewhat less bombastically.

Natasha bit back the cynical laugh that crawled up the back of her throat. He was so goddamn good. “There is no such thing as careful for people like us. It’s all the same, f*cking or fighting. There’s no use tiptoeing around. What hurts, hurts. What doesn’t, doesn’t.”

A hint of pain had crept into her voice. She didn’t mean for it to, but maybe that would get through his thick skull. He had no idea what he was talking about. She loved him, she did, but he could be a real ass when he got up on his high horse. Steve didn’t say anything for a long while. When he spoke again, it was suspiciously soft.

“Natasha, I…”

“Don’t coddle me right now,” she snapped.

She knew he knew. He knew how the Widows had been trained. He’d seen her work. Maybe he hadn’t put it all together like that before, but talking about James like he was delicate… It pissed her off.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You just said you trusted me. Ready to take that back?”

She shouldn’t have let him hear her like this. Shouldn’t have been so touchy. But if he didn’t believe she had the best intentions, after everything they’d been through, she might as well give up on the whole good guy thing right now.

“No,” he said. “I was gonna say I’m sorry. I understand, I do. I just… I wish you would’ve told me.”

“I know. But I also know what it’s like to have the world see that side of you, the sh*t people say. James doesn’t need to go through that on top of everything else.”

“I get it," he sighed. "I don't like it, but I get it. But if you’ve known the whole time, how could you still think this was a good idea? With me, and…and everything.”

Aw, Steve. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to punch him or hug him. Probably both. Had he not read the homework she’d sent?

“Yep,” she flipped. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated. f*ck, Nat. I’ve been– I was sitting there thinking about, about how we used to be, and I kept looking at him like…I don’t know. I’ve been touching him for weeks now. I pulled his hair!” Well that was certainly an interesting mental image. “It’s no wonder he thought I wanted that. I thought I could keep it separate, but I keep f*cking up, and I just–”

“Steve. Stop.”

She tried to put herself in his place, to look at the situation through a lens that hadn’t been distorted by decades of brainwashing and betrayal and depersonalization. It was a bit of a stretch. But he couldn’t go back to James wallowing in guilt. He’d be useless. If she was there in person she would’ve just given him significant eyebrows until he gave in, but she wasn’t, so she had to hope words would get through his massive martyr complex.

“James wouldn’t understand it that way. It’s just another duty to him, a tool for appeasing his handlers. He has no idea what your heart eyes mean. And he needs human contact. It took me months to understand the difference between a hug and a honeypot, but I needed those damn hugs.”

Steve was a good man. This situation had her bleeding out all over him, but she knew he wouldn’t misuse her, even if she was naked like this. Just like she knew he wouldn’t hurt James, not intentionally.

“So what if you get a little tingly?” she went on. “You look at my ass in the locker room. You look at Sam’s ass when you’re in the middle of a firefight. And don’t think I missed you staring at Stark’s shiny metal chassis before. But you’ve never let it get in the way. You’ve never done anything to hurt us. If I didn’t trust you with James, I wouldn’t have asked you to do this. Just because he’s been hurt doesn’t mean you have to shy away from him. He deserves comfort, whatever form that takes.”

Steve sighed – again – before he said, “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

Natasha was pretty sure, if a little surprised, that he actually believed her. She was also pretty sure he was still trying to apologize for losing his temper. Steve had that intolerable heartfelt timbre to his voice, like he was making some kind of statement about her deserving comfort as well. What a considerate idiot. It was very sweet of him, but she was already past it.

“He does,” she retorted. “And so do you. So get over yourself and go pull his f*cking hair if that’s what it takes to bring him back.”

There a choking sound that might have been embarrassment, or might have been a laugh if Steve hadn’t been biting his tongue. She really wished she could see how red his face was right now.

“Alright… Alright. Thank you, Natasha. I didn’t mean to turn this around on you. I’m just… I’ve been a mess. I think I took out half the trees in the park last night. By the way,” he pivoted back into the usual playfulness. “I forgot to ask Tony to send a donation to the forestry department. If you could make a note of that when you see him…”

“Yeah, Rogers,” she said. “I’ll tell him.”

Chapter 43

Chapter Text

The handler was gone for thirty-seven point eight minutes.

It should have been concerned about the phone call, the risk of enemy engagement. ‘Tony,’ he had said. Stark had located them somehow, or at least found the number for the protected phone. The handler raised his voice several times during the conversation. But the perimeter alarm was silent. It heard nothing but his muted words over the music, no gunfire or incoming aircraft, and he had not moved from the front porch. There was no evidence of an immediate threat. He had ordered it to remain here. It was accustomed to standing by while superiors attended to matters above its clearance.

It should have been concerned about his anger, the weight of all of its failures pressing in upon the mind, the innumerable punishments it had earned, the insistence of the imperative. He had never ordered it to hold position for this long. He rarely left the room when it completed these exercises, and never closed a door if he did. But he had said ‘no punishment,’ many times. He had been so patient. It still could not fully comprehend it. And it could hardly think beyond the ache in the back, the barely-contained trembling of the right hand.

The estimate of endurance had been inaccurate. It was not yet fully functional. Failure was imminent within twelve minutes. The right arm burned with the strain of remaining vertical. The musculature of the torso was taut from abdominals to trapezii. The weight of the prosthesis tugged at the spine, compressing the vertebrae and ribs, pulling at the clavicle. The lungs struggled to achieve full inflation. The heart was pounding, and perspiration ran from the back and face, the clothing already soaked with it.

It felt as if every part of the body was on fire. Pain dripped from the arms, down the neck, into the back, the thighs, trickling into the muscle, radiating outward from the joints. The pelvis throbbed, glutei and quadriceps trying in vain to compensate for the unnatural position. The vasti medialis were numb and tingling from the overlong extension. The feet fought every second to stay in position, heels aching as they dug into the bare floor. The Soldier held fast, refusing to allow the back to arch or the feet move from position. It flexed the toes every ten seconds in an attempt to maintain balance and circulation.

The song changed. Brahams. Cello Suite Number One in G Major. A single instrument against the quiet, the deep notes reverberating even on the small speaker.

It kept up the breathing, forcing the diaphragm to contract in time with the music. […pyat', shest', sem', vosem'.] Fighting against more resistance with every breath. It drew its attention across the body in careful increments, from phalanges to phalanges, ensuring that each digit, each limb, was perfectly in place. Arms soft. Inhale. Shoulders open. Exhale. Chest raised. Inhale. Hips open. Exhale. Knees aligned. Inhale. Feet firm. Exhale.

There was nothing but the body, the breath, the music. Nothing but the handler’s last order. Hold tight. Hang on.

That was all it could do now, try to hang on, clinging to what few scraps of discipline it had left.

It had been so negligent, so presumptuous. It had caused him so much distress. Weeks and weeks of malfunction, lost sleep, missed meals. And he had given it nothing but gentleness and patience despite his anger. It still could not comprehend his motivations, as much as he tried to explain. But this was not punishment. It was an exercise in control, in compliance. He was finally giving it an opportunity to compensate for all of the uncounted malfunctions, all of its unacceptable behavior. For the damage to the body, to the facility, to the handler himself, when the body acted of its own accord. Now it had the chance to show him true obedience, and it would not fail.

Inhale, the chest burning. Exhale, the throat fluttering.

Despite the ache, the smoldering pain in the muscles, the sensation was not wholly negative. It brought with it the same satisfactory exertion of physical training, the thrum of power through the limbs and the knowledge of mastery over the body. The Soldier was successfully overcoming its weakness. It was not lost in the empty place, nor losing time. It was present and focused, counting the breaths, eyes locked on the place where the handler had stood.

As the song reached its climax, it felt the chest swell with the rising notes. The music seemed louder now, echoing in the mind as if in a grand performance hall. Moisture pricked at the eyes. It was… It was obeying. It was being good. He would be pleased, and then he would look at it with the summer blue and the sunshine smile and he would speak to it so softly. He would touch it and comb the hair and gentle the hurt, and it would be just like… [“That’s right, baby. So good for me.”]

A wash of hormonal responses supplanted the pain, tingling down the scalp, over the ribs, metal and bone, and into the cradle of the pelvis. The body was suffused in warmth, cells working to repair the microscopic tears in muscle fiber as quickly as they appeared. The mind was blissfully quiet, elation lifting it high above the mire of malfunction and fear.

The Soldier extended the estimated time until failure by nine point four minutes.

___________________________________________________

Steve was beginning to get a headache. There was too much to process, even for him. He really needed a good night’s sleep. He scrubbed at his hair as he went back inside, trying to ignore the chill that had crept into his bones after standing on the porch for half an hour. The warmth of the cabin almost hurt, his fingers were so cold.

“Sorry, Buck. That was Stark. It sounds like–”

Steve looked up, and he nearly started breaking things again.

Bucky was still in the same position, standing rigid by the kitchen counter, his right arm trembling with the effort of being held overhead for so long. Sweat dripped from his face, soaking through his t-shirt and plastering his hair down. His breathing was labored, but he was trying to control it, exhaling in long shaky breaths. The laptop was still playing cheerful violin music, like Buck wasn’t standing there in immense pain. Steve ran over, already preparing to manage another panic attack.

“At ease, soldier!”

Bucky gasped as he fell from the pose, tumbling into Steve’s arms. He was hot and sticky all over, his forehead clinging to Steve’s shirt. God dammit. He’d promised. He’d promised Bucky that he wouldn’t leave him like that again. He’d been in such a panic about the strange phone call he’d forgotten that his last order was for Bucky to hold still. With his arms above his head. He’d never had Buck hold a pose like that for longer than ten minutes. That was a stress position. It was torture. Actual, literal torture. He really was no better than HYDRA.

It was a horrible reenactment of last night, his negligence causing pain all over again. He pushed aside the threatening bout of self-recrimination, trying to focus on fixing yet another mess he’d made. As Steve eased them both to the floor, Buck’s legs gave out, and his face was buried against Steve’s chest. The plates of his left arm twitched, probably trying to compensate for being locked up too long. He was shivering, muscles jumping under Steve’s hands.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” Steve was nearly pleading. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to stay like that. Jesus. Are you hurt?”

Bucky panted, “N-negative, sir. M-minimal damage,” into his shirt.

Steve tried to remember to breathe as he kneaded at the knots in Buck’s shoulders, careful not to press too hard on the left side. He felt the tension ebb as he worked down the back of the ribs, and Bucky slumped further against him, spine arced awkwardly and skull digging into Steve’s sternum. He couldn’t imagine how Bucky was feeling right now. Probably confused and terrified, thinking Steve had lied about the punishment or run off on him again. Maybe he should just give up, ask Nat to take over or let Tony find someone to help them out. He just kept hurting him.

“It…It was good, sir.”

Buck’s voice was thin and thready with hope, so quiet Steve almost didn’t hear. It tore him up, knowing Buck had been standing there the whole time, waiting on him, suffering under his orders, trying to obey. He had to fix this, had to let Buck know it was an accident.

“Look at me, please.”

He leaned back, nudging Bucky to sit up so he could see his face. When Buck sluggishly raised his head, Steve’s pulse went wild.

That was not the face of someone expecting punishment. There wasn’t a trace of fear or panic. The flush of exertion was bright across Bucky’s cheeks. His eyes were hazy, lids blinking heavy and slow. His lips parted, soft and relaxed as strained breath gusted over them. Bucky’s eyebrows lifted, somewhat uncoordinated. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards as he said again, more clearly this time, “It was good, sir.”

With the red cheeks and sweaty hair, he looked like he’d just come home from a wild night of dancing. He looked drunk.

Steve felt his own face heat up as he put it all together. Buck was flying high right now, totally loopy with endorphins. He was so proud of himself for obeying, for doing something difficult and painful and being able to persevere. For being good.

A bloom of affection opened up in Steve’s chest so bright and sudden he felt like he might burst. The old possessiveness reared its head, even though he couldn’t really take responsibility for this. Buck was trying so damn hard. He was so strong, so determined, so f*cking perfect.

“Yeah, baby,” Steve said. “You were. You were so good for me.”

The smile he got was strange, weak and lopsided, like the muscles in Buck’s face didn’t know what to do with the emotion. But it was a smile, bigger and realer than any he’d seen so far, more than just the contentment of getting his hair combed. Steve met it with a smile of his own, restrained at first, then cracking wider when Buck continued to wobble back and forth like a kitten unsteady on its legs.

He’d meant to distract Bucky from the overwhelming spiral of panic, just to have him focus on his body and breathing for a while. The stress of an extended pose was never his goal. But it seemed to satisfy the part of Bucky's brain that begged for disciplinary action. The challenge of holding still, the ache that must be pulsing through his whole body right now, had given him the same release that the sessions with the belt used to. Steve meant to tell him it wasn’t on purpose, but he couldn’t bring himself to take this away from Bucky, not after all the stress and cowering and tears.

Steve barely held himself back from pressing his lips to those ruddy cheeks. Uncaring of the clammy skin and soaked shirt, he pulled Bucky in closer and tucked his head against his shoulder.

“You did so good. I know that was hard, but you were perfect. Molodets, moy khoroshiy mal'chik.”

It should’ve felt strange to say it in Russian, but it was the most natural thing in the world. It was what Buck needed to hear.

Bucky shuddered against him and mumbled, “Spasibo, ser.”

The horror of last night’s revelation still loomed large, but this, right now, was confirmation that Steve hadn’t entirely f*cked up. Natasha was right. As strange as it was, successfully holding the stress position had made Bucky happy. Whether that was because some part of him remembered how they used to be, or because who he was now still craved the same kind of release. Had HYDRA known somehow… No, they were just bastards. Even if they had, it didn’t matter. That crooked smile was all Steve needed.

He held Bucky there until the trembling eased, then a few minutes longer, his hands growing damp, Bucky’s hair sticking to his neck. He couldn’t see the clock from here, but it had to be past ten, time for Buck’s second meal. He’d need it even more now, after the strain on his body. Steve finally shifted, his ass gone numb again from sitting on the bare floorboards.

“Can you sit up?”

Buck gave it a valiant try. Steve guided him to settle on his backside instead of his knees. His legs had to be killing him, but there was no indication of pain besides another slow exhale as Bucky sat back. The blush had faded, and his skin had gone from clammy to chilled. Steve made sure he wasn’t gonna fall over before he fetched the blanket and wrapped it around his shaking shoulders. It was a strange foil of the previous situations, the cause of Bucky's disorientation pleasure instead of fear.

“You know that wasn’t meant to be a punishment, right?”

Bucky blinked up at him, still a bit unsteady. “Da, ser. N-nakazaniya net.”

The surge of relief almost choked Steve, and he let out a heavy exhale. Thank f*ck. He spared a second to scrub at his face again, quickly lowering his hand so Buck wouldn’t take it as a sign of frustration.

“Khorosho. Eto verno. Are you feeling okay? Emotionally?”

There really wasn’t a good way to ask the question that Buck would understand, but he had to try. Buck squinted, lips screwing up as he tried to assess his internal state. The words came slow and liquid, contributing to the impression of inebriation.

“There is no… negative sensation, sir.” Steve couldn’t tell if the accent was stronger now or Buck was just slurring a bit. “Minimal malfunction. Irregular hormonal response.”

Well, that was one way to describe it.

“Okay. That’s good. I gotta go make your shake real quick. I’ll be right in the kitchen. Can you stay like that for me?”

“Yessir.”

Steve turned down the music as he went. He knew Buck liked it, but he needed some room to think. When he returned with the shake, he kept his hand around Bucky’s until he was sure Buck wouldn’t drop it, and sat a glass of water within reach. Bucky had stopped shivering, the blanket relieving some of the chill.

He drank the meal replacement steadily, almost chugging it, then sighed, licked his lips, and went for the water. The show of appetite was heartening. Aside from the cocoa, Buck usually ate mechanically, like food was just another chore, but it was clear now he was relishing the influx of calories. With his eyes still slightly hazy, all bundled up in thick wool, Steve couldn’t help drawing the comparison to a milk-drunk kitten once again.

“Are you still hungry?”

Another pause. Then, “Unknown, sir. Four hundred additional calories expended during exercise.”

Buck’s goal was eight thousand a day, and the shakes were a thousand each. But if it didn’t make him sick, it couldn’t hurt to go over a bit. They were well past the riskiest point of refeeding now, nearly ready to start trying solids.

“Alright then. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

This was a ritual Steve knew by heart, and he suspected that the next step would go over well, even if Buck didn’t remember it. It used to be fresh fruit or bits of saltwater taffy, more often than not.

He kept an eye on Bucky as he stepped away to dig through the cabinets, praying that this wouldn't backfire on him. He’d stashed this away when they first got here, nearly two months ago. Bruce told him to be cautious with new food, but it was basically pure sugar, maybe a little milkfat. Not that much different from the cocoa. And Nat’s ‘supplemental reading’ said chocolate was good for this kind of thing.

Steve got back down onto the floor. He scooched in close and took Bucky’s face in hand to get a better look at him. He was coming back around, more attentive now.

“Still feeling okay?”

“Funktsional'no, ser.” It wasn’t slurred this time, just a bit muted.

“I got something for ya. You gotta take it slow, though. I don’t wanna upset your stomach.”

He broke off a square of the chocolate bar and held it out for Bucky to take. Instead of untangling his hands from the blanket, Bucky just leaned forward and opened his mouth. His eyes were still half-closed, his entire body at ease.

Steve refused to acknowledge his own reaction to the gesture, to Bucky’s lips parted soft and pink and waiting for a gift from his hand. He also refused to think about why this might be Buck’s instinctual response to being given a piece of chocolate. Steve wasn’t gonna ruin this moment by getting fussy about how the food got into Bucky’s stomach. He could treat Bucky with care right now and take it out on HYDRA later. He placed the square on Bucky’s lower lip, withdrawing as soon as he saw teeth and tongue take hold. His fingers didn’t linger, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away.

Bucky chewed a few times, then hummed so low and emphatic it almost sounded like a moan. Before Steve could further chastise himself about the feelings that noise inspired, his entire world was shattered by two whispered words.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Shame and self-censure were utterly forgotten. He felt like a bomb had gone off in his chest. His brain was melting out of his ears and his heart bursting through his ribcage and maybe he was finally starting to crack up after all. Steve almost didn’t believe he’d heard it. But he had. Bucky had said his name. He’d said Stevie. The Chitauri could invade and Tony blow up the safehouse and the goddamn Red Skull come back from the dead, and Steve wouldn’t have noticed. He would’ve just kept staring at Bucky. At the graceful arc of his brow, gentled with pleasure. At the subtle bow of his lips, the barest hint of a smile still lingering there.

“Buck,” he choked out.

Bucky lurched upright and his eyes flew open, darting around the room like he was looking for enemy agents. His breathing hitched, gasping a few times before he settled back into a regular rhythm. Steve placed a firm hand on his arm, trying to shift into flashback management mode, but his head was still spinning.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright. ‘S just me. Nobody else is here.” Bucky refocused, staring steadily at Steve’s chin. He nodded, then looked surprised, working his jaw as if he’d already forgotten the chocolate in his mouth. “What happened?”

It took a minute for him to find the words. He licked his lips and swallowed a few times before responding, “Cognitive m-malfunction, sir.”

Steve was nearly sick with hope. He wanted to beg and prod and plead until Bucky confirmed his assumptions. He caught himself, his throat tight as he forced his reaction down. “What kind of malfunction?”

“Fictitious images, sir. Cognitive distortion. Reset required.”

Steve glanced down at the packaging in his hands. Hershey’s. They’d probably changed the recipe since then, but maybe, god, maybe it was close enough. “What– What images, honey?”

Bucky looked away, gaze going distant and lashes fluttering as his eyes tracked back and forth, reviewing the information. Sometimes his recall wasn’t perfect, or it took a minute for him to put together what he’d seen.

“Columbia. Two-thousand-three. Sanction and destabilize. C-Commander Rumlow, he was pleased with its performance. He gave a reward. T-this is factual.” Steve’s jaw clicked, and he had to take care not to close his hands. Rumlow was lucky he was already dead. He kept his mouth shut, giving Bucky space to get the rest out. “And then there was… the Captain. Small and thin. Like in the p-pictures. He said it was good. T-touched the hair and gave a reward. This image, it is f-fabricated. Unknown origin.”

Steve went from grinding his teeth to gaping in less than a second. Bucky remembered. Not just an impulse or a subconscious notion. It was one scene, totally divorced from context, but Bucky actually remembered him. And that memory, could that be part of why he thought Steve would want…

“That was real, Buck,” he breathed. “That was real. That was…” Steve wasn’t sure how much to say. He didn’t want to trigger more pain or encourage the association with sex. “I was there. That really happened. It’s not a fabrication. It’s a memory.”

Bucky looked up at him like he’d just told him the sun revolved around the earth instead of the other way around. “Chto?”

“Eto pravda. Eto byli ya i ty. It was me.”

“Sir, this is…” Impossible. Irrational. Steve waited for whatever argument Buck might come up with, but all he said was, “Th-there was no mission. It was not on base. Not in transport. It was a civilian residence.”

“No, that was– ” He chose his words very carefully. “I met you before your first mission, when I was very young. It was before I was your CO. Before the war. You lived with me for a few years. There would’ve been a big ugly brown armchair, and a bathtub in the kitchen. Did you see those?”

Bucky paused, biting his lip before he said, very quietly, “...green, sir.”

“What?” Steve shook his head, but it only made him more dizzy.

“The chair. It was green.” It was hesitant, like Buck was expecting to get in trouble for making the correction. Steve tried to smile, but he couldn’t really tell what his face was doing at the moment.

“Oh… Oh, well. I used to be colorblind. I’ll trust you on that.” He moved his hand into Buck’s hair, keeping his voice as neutral as he could, though inside he was splintering into pieces from joy and disbelief and exhaustion and a hundred other feelings he couldn’t name. “This is so good, baby. It’s… it’s really amazing that you remember that. Have you… I mean, have there been other images like that, where I’m with you?”

Even in this vulnerable state, Bucky leaned into the touch, his gaze hovering somewhere over Steve’s right shoulder. “Unknown, sir. There was… vague input, in response to various stimuli. P-pine sap. Rain. Coffee. And gunpowder.” He still seemed a little lost, probably starting to come down from the hormone high. As much as Steve wanted to keep prying for more evidence that Bucky was remembering their old life, he really should wrap this up before Buck got stressed out.

“Yeah,” he gave a dry laugh. “A whole lotta pine sap, and some real sh*tty coffee. That was forty-four and forty-five, during the war.”

That got Bucky’s attention.

“A mission, sir?”

“Yeah, Buck. A lot of missions. You did real good.” Deliberately not thinking about a certain mission, he ran his fingers through the tangled strands a few more times and broadened the smile. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me, sweetheart. Just sit back and relax now. Your stomach feeling alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky let his head fall back against the wall, hair catching on the rough wood. Steve broke off another square of chocolate, and Buck opened his mouth to take it in the same manner, chewing with clear relish.

He couldn’t help following the movement of Bucky’s throat. It wasn’t… It wasn’t like that, not at all. It was just so overwhelming, watching him eat his first real food in months. Seeing him accept something he considered an indulgence with no argument, happy and warm and glowing with satisfaction. Knowing that he really did remember, even if he didn’t fully understand. For now, as much as it broke Steve’s heart, it was probably a good thing.

This was… f*ck, it was so like the calm that would come over both of them before, after Steve would rough him up and leave him panting and sobbing. That Bucky could trust him like this, after all he’d been through, after how much Steve had messed up, was unbelievable.

Everything was all so mixed up, his head and his heart entangled worse than barbed wire caught under the wheels of a tank. He wasn’t sure if it was wrong or right, but if it made Bucky happy, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Steve felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it. It was just the single tones indicating text messages. If there was a real problem, Natasha would call. He sat there in silence, just soaking up the moment. It was a needed balm after hours of rage and stress. They slowly worked through the entire bar. Maybe it was a bit fast for so much dairy, but Bucky deserved it.

Chapter 44

Chapter Text

The handler stepped away with another murmured reassurance. It was still trying to process the unfathomable sensations of so many concurrent rewards, but its cognition was utterly useless at the moment. It could not remember ever being made so stupid from pleasure. [“That’s right, Buck…”]

It was barely clinging to reality, would’ve been swept away by the riptide of ecstasy if it were not for the ghost of the handler’s hands heavy on the body and his voice still echoing from the cleansing facility. It could not make out the words, drowned out by the rush of running water, but the cadence was pleasant. After approximately six minutes, he returned.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

He knelt before it, his smile so breathtakingly bright that the Soldier feared it might be blinded. It could not comprehend what it had done to deserve such treatment. It was almost certain that his exuberant expression had begun after the malfunction. The lips had moved, the shapes feeling familiar and alien all at once, words tumbling out with no context or anchors.

It did not know what it had even said, but whatever it was the handler had been pleased beyond measure, his entire body lifting with elation. It was not quite a malfunction. Something different. It was a memory, he’d said. The Captain had been there, young and small, yet still so strong, so radiant, and it had been soft and pleasurable and good. It felt the face move without instruction again.

“Hello, sir.”

The mouth was not cooperating, its speech clumsy and inarticulate. He did not seem to mind, brows lifting with fond amusem*nt.

“Can you stand up? Just for a minute.”

“Yessir.”

The handler assisted, levering it up from the floor, his powerful arms around it. He was so warm.

“So you’ve told me,” he chuckled. Had it said that out loud? “C’mon, one foot in front of the other. We’re not going far.”

He led it into the cleansing facility. The room was thick with condensation and the fragrance of the cleansing agent. The arms were lifted, the sweat-stiff shirt removed from its torso. The hair stuck to the face as he tugged the garment over its head. The handler tucked it back into place. His hands moved with surety, but the touch did not last long. It was forced to adjust its footing as he stepped away.

“I’m gonna be right outside in the living room. Go ahead and finish getting undressed, then you can get in the tub. If the water gets cold, add more from the hot tap. Just talk to me if you need anything, I’ll hear you. Okay?”

It wrestled the foggy cognition into compliance. The tub. The Soldier looked from the basin, filled with steaming water, to the showerhead. Irregular. It did not know why he might alter the cleansing routine. But it was covered in tacky half-dried perspiration, the entire body stiff from the exercise. The water would be warm as well. He always made it so warm. Yet another reward, though that seemed unthinkable after this many indulgences.

“Understood, sir.”

When it reached for the waistband of the soft cotton pants, the handler swiftly exited the room. The eyes lingered on the door, a flash of confusion interrupting the cascade of serenity. He did not intend to stay. There would be no hands on the body. No gentle fingers in the hair. Had it done something wrong? It attempted to sort through the recent memories, but it could identify no reason for his absence. Perhaps he had some other business to attend to. It had its orders. It removed the rest of the clothing and lowered itself into the water.

[Oh, f*ck yes.]

This was most definitely a reward. It could not contain the audible exhalation that left the throat as the body was enveloped in dizzying heat. Memories of punishment pressed at the edges of its cognition, but it shoved them away. There were no technicians here. No gloved hands or chains or poles shoving it under. Just delicious, perfect warmth and the not-quite-floral cleansing agent and the muffled sound of the handler’s voice from the sitting area. He was talking to someone, laughing quietly. Another phone call, but this one did not seem to bring as much distress. It was not the Soldier’s concern.

A tiny, gnawing part of it was still wary that all of this might be a trick. It stomped down on that ungrateful voice with all of the mental force it could muster. The handler said. He said no punishment. He said he was angry with HYDRA, not with the Soldier. It had been presumptuous, yes, and it had malfunctioned. But then it had corrected the error. It had obeyed and maintained control of the body.

He had not lifted a hand toward it with any intentions besides reward or gentle correction. It had been good. He had said so. He was so pleased with it, showering it in praise and gifts. It could still hear the words. ‘Molodets, moy khoroshiy mal'chik.’ The heart swelled with the thought, the skull tingling with another hormonal response. He had said that before, in the malfunction-memory. It might have been in English, but the inflection was the same.

It tried to chase the images of the malfunction, the long fingers and crooked nose and sly smile, but they kept slipping away. The head began to ache, twinging with the threat of deeper pain. It could not hold onto the details, and it was hesitant to attempt further. But it was true. The Captain had been there and he had been just as kind and generous as he was now. The taste of chocolate was still thick on the tongue, the body humming with pleasure and increased glucose. It sank further into the water, allowing the heat to steal away every bit of tension from body and mind.

___________________________________________________________

Maybe being out of the room so soon after ditching Bucky twice wasn’t ideal, but Steve couldn’t risk crossing the line in the other direction again. Especially not when he was so keyed up with his own ‘irregular hormonal response.’

Once he heard a splash and a sigh that indicated Buck had actually gotten into the bath, he sat heavily on the couch and put his head in his hands. He tried to get himself together, but the last eighteen hours were such a hellish whirl of ups and downs he struggled to put it all in order. He was choking on joy and weighed down with guilt and still keyed up about Tony and absolutely delirious with the conflicting feelings.

Buck remembering was good. It was good that he wasn’t scared. Good that he hadn’t been hurt again by Steve’s negligence. That he was so happy. Steve’s insistent hope that something was left of their relationship had been proven correct, beyond a shadow of a dobut. But he was still stumbling in the dark, coming across landmines and lucky breaks seemingly at random.

Things had been going so well. He hadn’t lied to Natasha. Buck really was doing better. He’d come back relatively quick from the episode last night, but Steve still felt like the worst bastard in the world for leaving him alone like that, terrified and freezing for hours. He should’ve stayed. Should’ve been able to control himself. If he hadn’t gotten so mad, Bucky wouldn’t have reacted like that. He still wasn’t used to Buck being scared of him. Even after the serum, Bucky hadn’t blinked when Steve raised his voice. He’d always fought back, usually with sarcasm, sometimes by shoving Steve into a trashcan himself. Now, he cringed whenever he thought Steve was the least bit upset. Steve didn’t know how to handle it.

They’d hurt Buck so badly, in every way imaginable. They’d taken everything that used to be good and bright between them and twisted it until it was nearly unrecognizable. And the way he talked about himself, that awful word… god. What else had they done to him, that he would think that was something Steve wanted to hear? It was amazing that he remembered, but, f*ck, even the taste of chocolate evoked Steve and Rumlow in the same breath. Maybe Steve had messed up, trying to comfort him with sweets, but he didn’t know what else to do. How f*cked was it, that he was playing the same game that HYDRA had? Sure, his intentions were different, but…

But Bucky was happy. Was it so wrong that this was what he needed? He’d been Steve’s first. This game, this… this thing had been theirs first. Bucky was his everything. He was the only thing that mattered, and if Steve had to fight HYDRA on the battleground of Buck’s mind, he’d damn well do it. He reminded himself of the disastrous attempts at normalcy the first few days: the food, the bed, the panic at basic choices, thinking everything was a test, begging for cryo, begging for the chair.

A flash of pain pulled him back to reality. Steve had balled up his fists and was just about pulling his own hair out. He counted to goddamn ten and slowly unwound his grip. He had to find a better way to manage the anger. But, Christ, was there a lot of anger.

He wondered how much blood it would take to slake his thirst. It hadn’t been like this before, not even back in the war. Sure, he’d been full of piss and vinegar, but he never wanted to hurt anybody. When he saw Bucky strapped down to that slab in Kreischberg, his first thought had been to get him the hell out of there, not to seek revenge. But then Bucky died, and the only thing tethering Steve to solid ground was gone. He didn’t care about right or righteous anymore, not when it came to HYDRA. What Bucky had gone through while Steve took the coward’s way out was beyond the f*cking pale. He’d already been deranged with it after Insight, after reading the files. And now, learning that Bucky had been hurt like that… He could hardly even think about it without his hands itching for the shield.

It wasn’t meant to be an offensive weapon. But then, Steve was never meant to be a hero. He was just a little guy with a complex. A couple complexes, probably. He hadn’t even planned on seeing his twenty-fifth birthday, yet here he was in the goddamn future, the size of a house and neck-deep in politics and bloodshed. He couldn’t stop now. He’d crashed those helicarriers and brought the whole world down with them. And Bucky’s torturers were still out there. This was just triage, just trading one responsibility for another until Bucky could stand on his own two feet.

But he was breaking under the pressure. He hated to admit it, even just to himself, but it was true. He couldn’t carry Buck if his own strength gave out. He needed a f*cking break. He needed…

Steve sat up, fumbling at his pockets. Stark knew where they were. Even if he was lying about wanting to help them – which Steve really doubted; Tony rarely admitted he was wrong – it wouldn’t matter if they broke radio silence. He texted Nat, waiting with bated breath for her response. It only took two minutes. 'Please,' she said, 'the sooner you two stop bothering me, the sooner I can get back to work.'

He listened closely for any sound from the bathroom. He could just make out Buck’s breathing, deep and regular, above the lapping of the water. It’d been about fifteen minutes, still a normal amount of time for someone to be in the tub. He swiped away his other notifications and dialed the number that’d been burning a hole in his conscience for two months. It rang three times before being picked up.

“Wilson.”

“Sam,” he breathed. “It’s me. It’s Steve.”

There was silence for a few beats, then the sound of a door being closed very gently. It was… Steve glanced at the phone. It was Thursday, the week before Christmas. Was Sam still in the office?

“Prove it.”

This was more paranoid than he expected Sam to be, but hell, given the tech they knew was out there, it wasn’t unreasonable. They had passphrases, but Steve went with something a bit more personal. “The last thing you said to me was ‘grits are a gift from God and you’re a heathen yankee for believing otherwise.’

Sam sighed, loud and long, and Steve almost smiled. He was gonna get chewed out to hell and back. He was really looking forward to it.

“What in the good goddamn do you think you’re doing, soldier? Running off in the middle of an operation with a potential hostile and no backup? Are you kidding me? Your dumb ass is lucky I’m not in session right now because my clients do not need to hear me cussing out Captain f*ckoff America. I swear to God if you ever pull a stunt like this again I’m tellin’ my momma you don’t like her cooking, and I’ll just step back and let her whoop you for me. Steven Grant I Cannot Even With You Rogers, you are the most reckless, foolhardy, irresponsible, stupid-ass son of a bitch I have ever met.” That one must’ve been building up since November. Sam was panting now, and Steve wasn’t sure if he was actually pissed off or just trying not to laugh. “God dammit, Steve. Are you okay?”

Steve didn’t hold back his own laughter. It came rolling out of him like a rockslide, nearly bringing tears with it. f*ck. It was so good to hear Sam’s voice.

“Yeah. I’m…” The words died on his tongue. No more bullsh*t, Rogers. That’s why you made this call in the first place. “Well. I ain’t injured. But I’m hurt.”

“Hell, man. You never shoulda left like that. There’s f*ckin’– Barnes needs a doctor. Probably a lotta doctors.”

Steve shook his head, running a nervous hand over his pant leg. “You’re not wrong. But Buck wouldn’t… That wouldn’t have ended well. I couldn’t let SHIELD find him. And up until this morning, Tony was gunning for us too. We’d be screwed if Nat hadn’t kept him off our trail.”

Another sharp exhale, half laugh, half sigh. “I knew it had to be bad if Tony Stark’s last resort for intel was an underpaid social worker.”

Steve’s heart kicked up, gut clenching. What the hell had Tony done this time? “Sam, are you okay? Nat didn’t say anything about Tony–”

“Easy, Cap,” Sam placated. “I’m fine. It was just a drunk phone call. No bullets, no lasers, and no new sunroofs, which still makes Stark’s Traumatizing Sam Wilson score better than your boy’s.”

“Jesus.” Another manic gasp of laughter left Steve’s chest as he deflated. He shook his head, dizzy with relief. He really wished Sam was here so he could hug the sh*t out of him. “That was. Yeah. I can’t even say Buck’s sorry about that one. Ya gotta admit, it was pretty impressive.” Maybe it was too soon to joke about, but Steve’s social skills weren’t great to start with, and they’d only degraded from two months of sleep dep and isolation.

Sam huffed. “No I do not have to admit that, Steven. Not everyone has seventy years of back pay and action figure royalties to fund their little spy escapades. I’m still down a car, and I can’t even tell the story without getting arrested or having a microphone shoved in my face.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe. And I told you I’d buy you a new car. Hell, Tony’ll buy you a dozen.”

“So that’s how it is? You and Stark are just gonna pay me off?”

“Yep, that’s how it is.” The familiar line warmed his heart, though the contrast with Buck’s stilted language tempered the feeling with grief. They used to have their own scripts, too, little inside jokes spoken in lieu of ‘are you okay?’ or ‘I love you.’ But maybe… It was stupid to hope so much, but maybe they could get back to that.

“Well you better include extra for emotional damages,” Sam shot back. “I’ve been worried about your dumb ass for months. Seriously, Steve. What’s been going on?”

“A lot,” he said. “And not much. We’ve been holed up in a safehouse the whole time. I gotta wait til Nat actually clears me to tell you where. Buck’s been… That file you saw wasn’t even half of it. They…” He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t share even more of Buck’s scars without his permission. Steve’s voice almost broke, and the words came out thick with emotion. “They really hurt him, Sam.”

“sh*t, man.” Sam sighed again, and Steve heard a muffled thump. He hoped it wasn’t Sam’s head meeting his desk. “Lemme guess. Nightmares? Flashbacks? Wanton destruction of property? How are you not dead? He was bad enough when he was mostly in control of his body!”

Sam was likely throwing his hands up in the air right now and cursing the day Steve Rogers was born. It wasn’t an uncommon reaction. Steve paused to listen again for signs of life from the bathroom. The tap turned on, and he sagged with gratitude. Buck was actually using the hot water on his own.

“The flashbacks are getting better,” he offered. “And it’s not like that. Bucky… He doesn’t remember everything, but he knew I was his CO. He hasn’t tried to hurt me.”

“Seriously?” That tone meant Sam’s eyebrows were currently shooting into the stratosphere. “After all that, he just walks up to your motel room and reports for duty?”

“Pretty much,” Steve shrugged. It was a bit more complicated than that, but Buck had said ‘reporting for reassignment.’ “I mean. It was a hell of a walk, but, yeah.”

“At least tell me he’s not still all psycho murder mode.”

“He’s not–” Steve stumbled over the words. The flying fists during flashbacks hardly counted. They were both still in one piece. But if Bucky thought there was a threat, especially to his handler, Steve was sure he wouldn’t hesitate to commit violence. “He’s doing his best. He hasn’t hurt anybody, not since DC. It’s been better lately. He’s coming back to himself. I just… I’m so tired.” His head ended up back in his hands, phone squashed between his shoulder and his ear.

“I can’t even imagine. You know you gotta take care of yourself, too. Did they tell you about oxygen masks, or is that metaphor too modern for you?”

Steve’s laugh was more a noise of desperation. “I’ve been on a plane, Wilson. And I know. I’m eating. Mostly sleeping. We’re managing.”

“I’m sure. All on your own in bumf*ck nowhere with no one but a feral assassin and a spy for company.” Steve snorted. It was pretty accurate. “And your version of ‘managing’ involves punching things until they stop breathing. I’m assuming Barnes is the same way, just with more guns. How much of the safehouse is even still standing?”

There was no heat in Sam’s words, and only the tiniest bit of actual judgment. It was refreshing as hell to be able to joke and not worry it would be taken the wrong way. If anyone ever decided to enshrine sarcasm as a love language, Steve Rogers would be first in line to sign the petition.

“We found some trees to punch, thank you very much. The house is fine. I think… If you wanted to, I think it’d be okay for you to come out here. Maybe once Nat is done with this op. We’re gonna have some work to do in a few weeks. It’d be real nice to have you on the team.”

“You don’t gotta sweet talk me. I’ll be there. But I’m not responsible for my reaction if Barnes starts shooting at me.”

Steve scoffed to hide his wincing. He’d have to brief Bucky again before they were introduced, but he was fairly confident there wouldn’t be any problems.

He glanced up at the clock. It was probably time for Buck to get out, before he got all pruned up. He’d stay in there all day if Steve didn’t tell him otherwise, and they did not need a third instance of harm by neglect.

“Understood. I gotta go, Sam, but I’ll be in touch, I swear.”

“You’d better. And take care of yourself,” he repeated.

“I’ll do my best.”

Steve hung up feeling lighter than he had in a long time. Sam was… uncomplicated. In a nice way. He was good people, plain and simple. As much as Steve hated to think it, it was a relief to talk to someone who hadn’t had to rebuild their entire personality from scratch. He loved Buck with everything he had, and Natasha had done so much for them, but Sam was right. (He’d been saying that a lot lately, hadn’t he?) They both needed more support right now. After taking another moment to gather his thoughts, Steve went to grab some new clothes for Bucky.

He knocked lightly at the bathroom door. “Buck? You still good?”

There was a splash, then a quiet, “Yes, sir. Functional.”

He swung the door open a few inches. Bucky was fully present, eyes clear and focused. His hair was streaming like he’d just sat up from having his head underwater. At least he’d been enjoying himself. Steve’s joy shoved the guilt and exhaustion aside for a brief moment as he took in the relaxed cast of Buck’s shoulders, the drowsy tilt of his head.

“Go on and drain the tub.” He stepped into the room to get to the linen closet, added a towel to the pile of clothing, and set it all on the sink. Water started gurgling down the drain. Steve kept his eyes on the floor. “Dry off and get dressed, then I’ll do your hair.”

“Thank you, sir,” followed him out the door as he took the comb and made another quick exit. Steve heard the clack of metal that came with the arm recalibrating. It was waterproof, but Bucky tended to re-check it when it’d been wet for a while. Steve had the ridiculous mental image of Bucky shaking himself off like a grumpy cat. He really needed to get better sleep.

Buck emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, mostly dry and dressed in the oversized sweats. He knelt in front of the couch with his back to Steve and his hands in his lap, same as always. As if the past day hadn’t rocked him to his core. Maybe it hadn’t.

It wasn’t news to Bucky that his handlers had used him like that. It’d been true this whole time, even if Steve had been ignorant of it. It was a mixed blessing sometimes, that Bucky’s context was so divorced from normalcy. As long as Steve was safe and calm, Buck didn’t seem all that bothered by anything. His whole world revolved around the mission, his handler’s satisfaction with his performance. But it was up to Steve to maintain that calm, which was a challenge for him if there'd ever been one.

Steve settled in behind him, running his fingers through Bucky’s damp hair. He set to work with the comb, gently picking out the knots the same way he used to do for Becca and Alice and Mary. For all the girls in the dance troupe who had the patience for his newly-clumsy hands. For Ma, too, when she was tired and half asleep from a long shift. She’d teased him about it, after he got too old to be doing his Ma’s hair, but he never minded. She worked so hard and got in so late. He would’ve done it for her when she was sick, but they hadn’t let him see her. His lungs were too weak, they said. He couldn’t be on the TB ward, or he’d end up in a cot of his own.

He shook himself. He hadn’t thought about that in years. Why would his brain throw that at him now, after all the other sh*t he’d been through lately? Steve refocused, drawing his attention back to the present moment. Buck was still relaxed, leaning back nearly enough for his shoulders to touch Steve’s legs. Nearly, but not quite. Steve edged forward a bit, letting his knees press into Bucky’s arms. He thought he heard Bucky sigh, but it was so quiet he couldn’t be sure. There was no tension in his back, no flinching at the new touch even though Steve was firmly in his blind spot. He still couldn’t believe how easily Buck trusted him, even after he went off like that. He was so damn brave. So much braver than Steve. He always had been.

When he realized he’d just been brushing repeatedly through already straightened hair, Steve set the comb aside. He pulled the strands back from Bucky’s face, fingertips grazing his ears and neck, and there was a more audible hum. An unmistakably positive sound. It was okay, he reminded himself. They could still have this. Buck wanted this. He deserved this. Steve kept petting, trying to reach the same level of contentment that Buck seemed to be on.

It worked for a while, the repetitive movements and the low rhythm of Buck’s breathing lulling him into a moment of internal silence. At least until the weight of all the day’s events came crashing back down on him. The headache returned in full force. God, he was tired. He kept one hand on Bucky’s back, trying to be comforting, but couldn’t resist the urge to lay his head on the arm of the couch. Just for a minute. He had to get up and make Buck’s lunch. He would. Just a few minutes.

Chapter 45

Chapter Text

“Ser. Ser. Kapitan.”

“Mmhwha?”

Steve blinked up to find Bucky standing at the end of the couch in a firing stance, gun drawn, glaring at the front door. He was instantly awake, nearly tripping himself on the pile of blankets as he leapt up to grab the shield.

“What’s going on?”

He pulled up short when Bucky stepped in front of him, blocking the exit.

“Narusheniye perimetra. Vrag priblizhayetsya.”

“What?”

Bucky repeated himself in English, as if Steve’s question was from misunderstanding rather than shock. “Perimeter breach. Enemy incursion imminent.”

He sounded more robotic than usual, back to the calculating mask of the Soldier. It was disorienting after hours of soft, almost natural speech and crooked smiles. After hearing the sweet whisper of his name from those lips.

Steve leaned sideways to peek over Bucky’s shoulder. The house looked the same as it ever did. The door and windows were unbroken. He couldn’t hear cars or aircraft outside. He didn’t hear anything at all except the stove creaking. He really hoped this wasn’t a resurgence of Bucky’s hallucinations, but he wouldn’t be so rude (or stupid) as to dismiss the threat outright.

“The alarm isn’t going off.”

“Ground forces not yet present. One unmanned aerial vehicle detected. This asset requires additional ammunition for effective defense. Sir.”

There wasn’t any more ammunition, as far as he knew. Maybe some in the boxes in the cellar, but he hadn’t dug into those yet. Steve pictured the two of them fighting off shock troops with just four pistols between them. They could do it, but it would be hell. There had to be another option. He needed more intel.

“You saw a drone?”

“Auditory detection only. Approach from the southeast, descent at the entrance, then retreat. Possible video surveillance or remote explosives.”

Steve took a breath, cycling through all the available options. It could be anyone. Drones were everywhere these days. It might be the remnants of SHIELD, or HYDRA, or just some local kid playing around with a new toy. The forest service probably used them as well. Tony had a whole line of the things designed for crop monitoring and… and he’d just gotten off the phone with Tony this morning.

“Hang on. I think I know what it is. Lemme through.”

Bucky stepped aside with obvious reluctance. He followed half a step behind, looming like the world’s pushiest bodyguard, as Steve went to check the porch. Steve wasn’t completely hopeless. He approached at an angle, ears pricked for any suspicious noise, then carefully drew aside the curtains to get a look outside. His heavy sigh turned into a laugh partway through.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “It’s okay. There’s no threat. Tony just sent us a Christmas present.”

Buck did not look satisfied with that answer. He was all combat focus, eyes fixed on the door with an intensity that might actually light the wood on fire given enough time. Steve checked his phone, and, sure enough, there was a string of texts from Tony alerting him to an incoming drone. ‘Don’t shoot. SDB-63 comes in peace.’

“It’s probably supplies. I’m gonna go out and check.”

“Sir.”

Bucky didn’t back down, shouldering past Steve to get to the door first. He keyed in the alarm code, switched the gun to his right hand, and was outside before Steve could say anything else. Steve followed, much more sedately, and waited to approach until Buck swept the entire yard, inspected the box from several different angles, and gave Steve a short, serious nod. He knew how this went, and Bucky would chew him out for hours – even if it was in the most polite, technical language possible – if he interrupted the process.

It looked like a regular delivery box, a bit larger than average, stamped with the SI logo and sealed with thick brown packaging tape.

“Knife?”

A blade was produced and placed in Steve’s hand within half a second. He ignored the way his pulse picked up at seeing Buck’s fingers move so swift and sure, and sliced open the tape. Bucky stood close, deathly serious, ready to put himself between Steve and the potential threat.

Tony had thankfully declined to fit the package with any sort of moving parts or noise makers. Steve’s last Fourth of July birthday gift had nearly given him a heart attack when it burst open, confetti flying everywhere and “Star Spangled Man” blaring from tiny hidden speakers. This was much less eventful. Just packing paper and a little note that read ‘There’s more where this came from. xoxo Sugar Daddy Tony.’ Steve rolled his eyes, then pulled out the contents one by one. It was freezing out here, but Buck would not abide bringing the box inside before it was fully searched.

There was a small speed bag, presumably of the same reinforced materials as Steve’s regular bags, two packages of coffee that smelled way too nice for Steve’s palette, a Stark Black Card with his name on it, two Starkphones, a tablet, four sets of long-range comms, eight StarkTech pistols, sixteen boxes of ammunition, two cleaning kits, a bottle of lubricant labeled Gun Oil but obviously not intended for weapons (Tony’s unfortunately timed idea of a joke), several packages of the dried fruit that Tony always carried around, a huge bag of Bruce’s specially formulated protein mix for Bucky, and a small black toolkit that Steve couldn’t identify.

“You know what this is for?”

He held it out for Bucky to look at. Buck glanced back around the yard and squinted at the box again, then took the case and deftly opened the fastenings one-handed to inspect the contents.

“Kit for field maintenance of the prosthesis, sir.”

“Oh. Well that’s thoughtful.”

_______________________________________________

Steve watched, half curious, half expecting a panic attack, as Bucky stuck a funky-looking tool into the depths of his own arm. He tugged gently and flexed his left hand, then gave a subtle nod, apparently satisfied with whatever he’d just adjusted.

“You sure you’ve never done this before?”

Bucky didn’t look up when he answered, “Negative, sir. Maintenance of the prosthesis is the responsibility of the technicians.”

He seemed to know what he was doing, anyway. But then, he’d always been mechanically inclined. He fixed everything from radios to refrigerators to Rolls Royces before the war. During, he’d rigged a busted Jeep with nothing but chicken wire and hope to get them out of occupied France and back to base, among other miracles. Steve was not surprised that he could figure out the workings of a prosthetic that’d been attached to him for decades.

Bucky prodded a wire back into place, then reached for something that might have been a tiny soldering iron. The whole lower half of the arm was open, a mess of circuits and servos and what looked like miniature pneumatic pistons. ‘Actuators,’ they were called in the files. Like artificial muscles.

A closer study of the schematics was required to find the switch that fully retracted the plates of that section. Steve had to hold a screwdriver to a hidden catch in the elbow while Bucky stuck a pick into the second release point, which was a harrowing task. But Buck said it didn’t hurt. Well, he said “The sensation is within standard parameters for maintenance, sir,” which wasn’t a great answer, but if his arm was messed up, it’d be best to try and fix it before they got into the field. Bucky hadn’t flinched or grit his teeth at anything so far.

It’d only been a few days since Steve’s blowup and Tony’s surprise phone call. Steve was on the lookout for flashbacks or any sign of fear, but Buck was getting along just fine. The relaxation Bucky had shown after the stress position incident lingered. Steve didn’t know if the combination of exertion and a hot bath just melted some of his tension, or if maybe the memory of their life before the war had unlocked some previously unknown level of comfort. Whatever it was, Steve hoped he could figure it out and do it again.

It was nearly unbelievable. He’d expected Bucky to be more cautious around him, but the opposite was true. Bucky hadn’t reported any other memories from that time, but he was talking more, sleeping better, and Steve was pretty sure he’d caught him humming along to one of the orchestral songs they played all the time. Dvorak, maybe. He didn’t pay much attention, but he knew Bucky liked it, so he kept it going, the phone or laptop plugged in and cycling through some classical playlist or other all day. Sometimes Buck would go still when a new song came on, like it was familiar, but none of them had thrown him into a full blown flashback like the Glenn Miller one.

Steve wondered when and how and why Bucky might have formed positive associations with that kind of music. And when had he learned ballet? Natasha had been the one to suggest the Eastern European composers, after Steve reported good results with Beethoven. There wasn’t much information about what had gone on in the Red Room, but he figured that had something to do with it. He squashed the tiny, petty hint of jealousy that cropped up about Bucky responding better to Natasha’s music than his. It didn’t matter one bit if it helped Bucky feel safe and comfortable.

It was Rachmaninov right now. Totally unfamiliar to Steve, and surprisingly assertive. Buck started snapping the plates back into place, and the clack of titanium overlaid kettle drums and cymbals like another round of percussion.

“The screwdriver, sir.”

“Yeah. Right. Sorry, Buck.”

Steve leaned back in to help close the last panel. He winced when he had to exert extra force to work the latch, but Bucky remained impassive. Maybe the sensors weren’t very sensitive on this part. They got it over with quick enough, and Steve moved back so Buck could run through the recalibration. The plates shuffled up and down three times before locking into their usual position. It was never not fascinating. And horrifying. Steve had to stop himself from dwelling on the fact that it was his fault Buck had lost his arm, his fault Buck had been captured, his fault–

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky said, still studying his fingers.

“‘Course.” Steve refocused. “That do any good?”

“Yes, sir. Prosthesis functionality increased to eighty-nine percent.”

“Good. I’ll let Tony know the kit came in handy. Anything I can do to help with the last eleven percent?”

“Negative, sir. All further maintenance requires additional diagnostic equipment.”

“You’re still good to fight like that?”

Bucky gave a firm nod. “Yes, sir. The prosthesis is effective in combat at a minimum of twenty percent functionality. This asset is also capable of functioning without the use of the limb.”

Steve should not have blanched at that statement. He knew Buck had trained with and without the arm, but hearing him say it in such dispassionate language was jarring. He swallowed, willing himself to keep a straight face.

“We won’t let it come to that. If we need any help, we’ll see if we can’t get to Tony sooner. He’s… a lot to handle, but I’ll stay with you through the whole thing. Better that than having you drag around all that dead weight or be in pain.”

Bucky studied him for a few seconds, a strange look on his face. Suspicious, maybe, or just uncertain. Steve had no clue what it meant. As far as he knew, Buck had never met Stark in person before. Did he distrust him because he’d been a threat to them, or was it just confusion at the strange new pattern of care? Despite Bucky’s previous insistence on ‘maintenance,’ the concept had to be stressful for him. They’d have to take it slow. Hopefully Tony’s lab would be different enough from a HYDRA one. Bucky seemed to accept Steve’s word, though, and nodded again.

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

They were fed, fixed, and done with the regular exercise for the day. It’d be another hour or so before Buck’s next shake. They should start looking over the base layout for the first hit, but the recent shock still had Steve flitting between restless rage and glimmers of grief. He really wanted to hit something, and now, thanks to Tony, he had a very resilient thing to hit. He started gathering up the tools and the weapons Bucky’d been working on.

“Whattaya say to testing out some of these new toys?”

Bucky ran the arm through another calibration, flexing the fingers and rotating the wrist. Steve thought he saw a hint of a smirk when Buck said, “Familiarity with the weapons is essential before fieldwork, sir.” He couldn’t be certain, it was gone so fast, but if there was anything that would get Bucky excited it would be playing with weird new guns from a Stark.

“Well, let’s find some bottle caps and get to it.”

There wasn’t an observable difference in the way Buck used the prosthetic, but then, Steve had no idea what most of the inner workings did, and Bucky was the one who got feedback from it right to his nervous system. Buck hauled the stack of guns and ammunition outside in his battered duffel, including the rusty old shotgun that’d been hanging on the porch since they got here. After Bucky got his hands on it, it was good as new. There had been ammo in the cellar, it turned out, but it was all twelve gauge, so they were still pretty limited. While Bucky set up the targets, Steve found an appropriately thick limb from which to hang the new speed bag.

He waved Buck towards the impromptu range and said, “You go ahead and get started on the guns,” as he squared up for a bit of boxing. A little leatherette bag wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the face of a HYDRA agent, but it’d be much better than punching trees.

At the first hit, Steve exhaled a huge tangle of tension he’d been holding in for weeks. The muted whump of impact, the feel of reinforced stitching under his knuckles. It was such a relief, he couldn’t help the grin that broke out on his face. Tony was an ass sometimes – Steve was still pissed about the lube – but he did know quality. It was a pretty nice gift. He laid into the bag with a round of half-strength jabs, getting into the rhythm and letting the backswing flow right into the next hit. Less than a minute in, the crack of a gunshot joined the thumping chorus of his punches. Another tendril of stress unwound, and he let himself settle into the pattern of training.

He had Bucky back, looking healthier every day. He was getting his team back. And they were nearly ready to start going after HYDRA. This time, Steve wouldn’t make the mistake of just cutting off the branches. They were gonna rip ‘em out by the roots, burn every single source of their power, and salt the f*cking earth.

Another two gunshots, a round of harder hits. The branch from which he'd hung the bag creaked, but it held. Steve finished up the sequence and steadied the bag, then stepped back to work on his kicks. It was a smaller target than usual, but it wasn’t even a challenge. After a few warmups, he got into the more acrobatic stuff, crescent kicks and roundhouses and things he didn’t even have a name for.

There was a pause from Buck’s end of the yard, then more discharge, quieter this time. He’d switched weapons. All of the guns Stark sent were different types, and a few of them Steve had never seen before. He’d have to get familiar with them himself. Maybe after a couple more rounds on the bag. He was having fun, dammit.

He lost track of time, alternating between feet and fists. The bag was getting worn down in places, and the tree supporting it groaned, but it was the rope that gave first. He grabbed a couple spare pieces and knotted it back together as securely as he could. It was hard to tell how many guns Buck had gone through. Some of them were the same caliber. He was only using three or four rounds each, just enough to get the hang of them without wasting ammunition.

Steve was in the middle of another combination of circles and backhands when the world fell away.

The high whine of an electrical charge filled the air, followed by a flash of unearthly white light. His heart stopped and his lungs froze and suddenly he was back in Kreischberg, in Lübben, in Alsace. At the Brenner Pass. Men were screaming all around him, mud and blood and snow flying, and he had to get to the door, but there was incoming and–

Silence. Nothing but the wind and his own gasping breaths. f*ck. What the f*ck was– Bucky. Where was Bucky?

He spun, half expecting to find a gash of charred metal and the clatter of steel on steel and Buck was gonna fall, he was so close, he was… Kneeling in the middle of the clearing, the pistol still in his right hand. Steve ran over, uncaring of the risk of violence. He had to get to him, had to touch him, had to be sure.

“Bucky. Bucky. Are you okay?”

Steve was on the ground, the slush melting under his knees, scrabbling at Bucky’s jacket. It was too thin, just a stupid hoodie and Buck was freezing, he was gonna– No. It was just his left arm that was cold. He was fine. His cheeks were pink from the wind, and he was breathing, and Bucky was fine. Get a grip, Rogers. Steve scuffed at his upper arms, and Buck finally looked up at him, lips trembling, eyes wide, but present.

“M-malfunction, sir.”

“Yeah,” Steve gasped. “Yeah, me too.”

Confusion twisted Bucky’s brow, but Steve wasn’t together enough to explain. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Bucky’s, breathing in the strange new smell of metal and coconut conditioner and the familiar ones of gunpowder and woodsmoke and Bucky. His fingers dug into Buck’s arms, one inflexible, one giving, thumbs rubbing back and forth, and after a minute he got himself under control.

“Sorry.” Steve sat back, a bit embarrassed at using Buck like a teddy bear. “Sorry. You okay?”

Bucky still looked baffled. He never knew what to do when Steve apologized. “Minimal impediment to functionality, sir.”

Steve chose to interpret that as ‘good as I can be right now.’

“What was that?” he said, still breathless.

“The weapon, sir.” Bucky glanced down to the pistol in his lap, carefully pointed toward the ground. “There was… irregular ammunition.”

“Christ, I’ll say. Did you– Were there any memories that time?”

“Yes, sir. A mission. A f-forest. Blue light. Date and location unknown.”

“Yeah. That was…” he swallowed. “Could’ve been a lot of places, but it was back in the war, on the Western Front. HYDRA had these rifles…”

Steve took a closer look at the gun. There wasn’t any glow to it now, and it didn’t have the type of cartridges that the Tesseract weapons had. Tony wouldn’t… he wouldn’t use the same tech as HYDRA, not without telling them about it. The Tesseract was on Asgard now, safe in some giant magic vault. Ithad to be a coincidence. Steve turned around to check the target log Bucky had been using. It was still there. Not obliterated, not phased out of existence, just singed. He sighed and shook his head.

“Leave it to Stark to send us a damn laser pistol with no instructions.”

He turned back to Bucky. He was relatively calm, but his eyes kept tracking over Steve as if he was looking for injuries. Was he… Oh. Bucky was worried about him. Of course Buck could tell he was shaken as well. Steve's heart did a disorienting little flip. It was so like him to be concerned about Steve even though he’d had a flashback too. Steve didn’t know what to do with that feeling, so he just rubbed at Bucky’s arms again. He was starting to get cold for real now. They should probably get outta the snow.

“I think that’s a good place to take a break. We’ll finish up weapons checks after lunch.” He nodded toward the pistol. “Maybe leave that thing for a last resort.”

The adrenaline faded and left him a bit wrong-footed. After they ate, they went back out to the yard, and he took a look at the new guns. Six of them used standard ammunition, but there was the laser thing, and one with rounds that exploded on impact. Steve pulled on his gloves and gave it a try. It was pretty handy, and admittedly satisfying to shoot. How Stark had squeezed that much power into a handgun, he couldn’t imagine. It did have a kick to it, so maybe it was designed for their enhanced strength.

Now that he was expecting it, the energy weapon didn’t freak him out as bad. He made sure Buck was okay with it before setting off another round. It wasn’t like the Chitauri weapons he’d picked up in Manhattan, and there were no wires like with a taser. It had ammo that loaded normally, but the discharge was something out of a sci-fi film, a streak of white lightening that leapt from the barrel and arced before hitting the target. When the rounds ejected, they looked like fried AA batteries. The whole gun got hot after firing, and it wasn’t very accurate. Definitely a prototype. He and Bucky shared a skeptical look after the second trial. Yeah. Last resort.

He had to get back on more familiar ground. Steve grabbed the shield and co*cked his head to call Buck over from where he was packing up. Hopefully this would be good for both of them, and wouldn’t bring up any difficult memories for Bucky.

“I’m gonna ricochet off that tree,” he indicated one that was still standing, but definitely dead. He didn’t need to add to his environmental body count. “You catch and throw it back however you want.”

Bucky nodded and took a position about a dozen yards from the tree. The first throw was relatively gentle; Steve didn’t know how much Buck remembered from their practice before. But he caught it easily in his left hand and mimicked the rebound. Steve stepped it up a notch the next few throws, changing the angle so it’d come at Bucky from above and below. Buck alternated the returns between hitting the tree or just direct tosses. He got the hang of it almost immediately, always careful not to put too much force behind it.

Steve thought of that night outside of his apartment, the shock of the unnamed assailant sending the shield right into his solar plexus with more power than any human should be able to muster. He thought of long days at camp, waiting for the okay from base to begin a raid, the shield bouncing between Buck and Jim and Gabe. The whole unit had been pretty decent with it, aside from the time Dugan took out his own tent and nearly caught the canvas on fire.

He couldn’t help smiling as he pulled another trick shot, vibranium clanging between three wide boughs before sailing above Bucky’s head. Buck didn’t even jump, just reached up and grabbed it out of the air.

He held it there for a moment, weighing the shield in his hands and studying the battered edge. “It has… It has done this before?” Bucky looked up at him, curious and almost hopeful. Steve’s smile widened.

“Yeah, Buck. Lots of times. We used to practice together, between missions, and then…” Well, he wouldn’t lie, even if it hadn’t been the most ideal of circ*mstances. “Then in DC, you got ahold of the shield and got in some nice hits. You remember that?”

Bucky shook his head. “Negative, sir. It is… only flashes. The sound. The color. The hands know.” He threw it again, as if to demonstrate the muscle memory. The shield thunked against the dead tree, harder than before, then ricocheted harmlessly off a live one before coming in at the perfect angle on Steve’s left side. He caught it, spinning to dissipate the extra force, then sent it right back to Bucky.

Buck’s response didn’t dampen his mood. It was more than Steve had ever asked for, more than he’d thought possible during the horrible weeks of nightmares and flashbacks. Bucky was still there, even if he was different now. “You got real good at it, y’know. We were a hell of a team.” He bit back on the urge to say more, to go on about certain battles or the other guys in their unit. Bucky was pushing himself so much already, and Steve wouldn’t let his nostalgia send Buck over the edge again.

They kept it up for a while, like a militant version of their old games of catch, until the reluctant winter sun started to dip past the treeline. Steve wasn’t even winded, had barely broken a sweat, but having his hands on the shield, just being here in relative quiet with Bucky, had settled some of the nervous energy. He caught it one last time, locking it onto the arm brace, and beckoned Bucky over.

He meant to run a hand across his back, but then Bucky leaned into the touch, just a fraction of an inch, and Steve couldn’t help mirroring the movement. They ended up in what might have been a half-hug if Bucky would’ve raised his arm, Steve’s right side pressed against Buck’s left, titanium digging into his armpit. He lowered his head, resting his cheek against Bucky’s hair.

“Thanks, Buck. It was real nice to do that with you again.”

“Of course, sir,” Bucky said quietly. “This asset finds weapons training… gratifying.”

“Yeah, honey,” Steve chuckled, “I know you do.”

Chapter 46

Chapter Text

Shells fell on all sides, exploding into light and noise, chunks of earth thrown into the air as if some great creature had ripped them up just to hurl them away. Mud and shrapnel rained down, clattering against helmets and packs, too slow to cause any damage. But they were dug in, trapped in the foxhole and separated from the rest of the unit. The man on his left was praying, so fast and quiet that he couldn’t understand the words. But he knew the cadence. Ave Maria, gratia plena. He let his head fall back against the dirt, helmet cracking on a rock or a stray hunk of steel or whatever the hell was littering the battlefield. Gripping his rifle tightly to his chest, he regrouped. They had to get the hell out of here. He promised he’d make it home. He promised…

He crept along the line, taking stock of who was left standing, giving orders to each of the men in turn. After what felt like hours, the bombardment finally stopped. Silence rang out over the field, more chilling than any artillery. He motioned the boys to be ready. He’d go first. They were his responsibility, and he wouldn’t lead them into a goddamn ambush. He slowly raised his head over the edge, eyes sharp for any movement, any flash of gunfire through the smoke and dust. Nothing. He signaled again and clambered up and out, making a line towards the nearest cover, what looked like the remains of a truck.

The others followed, one by one, until they were all clumped up together behind the charred metal. The treeline was fifty yards away. They could make it. They had to make it. He took a slow breath in, readying himself to sprint, and the horizon split in a crack of blue lightning. Someone screamed, but the noise was cut off suddenly. His heart leapt up into his throat, and he froze in place. What in the hell was that? Another bolt of blue came, closer this time. Another aborted cry. The rumble of a tank carried against the wind from the east. Footsteps and the tramping of armed men on all sides. They were surrounded, no chance of fighting their way out. He couldn’t let his men down. He’d gotten them into this, and he had to–

Had to get the hell out of here, but he couldn’t move, could barely breathe. Someone spoke from above him– behind him? Something about a sample. The lights flared up again, blue and white and impossibly bright, and he wrenched his eyes shut. Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. There was something holding him down, heavy bands across his chest, then what felt like a dozen knives driving into his body, down his arms and legs right to the bone and he opened his mouth to scream but–

It was roused by the heaving of its own lungs, the smell of blood and ammonium trapped in the sinuses, the taste of mud and fear on the tongue. It was lying flat on the back, shifted from the usual position in which it initiated sleep protocol. The pulse pounded and the throat was tight, but it did not vocalize. Malfunction. It was just another malfunction. Forcing the lungs back into rhythm, it attempted to bring the room into focus. The Soldier turned and stared at the red glow of the clock until the light resolved into legible digits. 0247. The hands found the thick wool, clinging tightly, and it dragged the mind back to the present. It was in the safehouse, with the handler. The Captain. He was– He was not here.

It sat up, scanning the room again. The only illumination came from the digital clock, but it was enough to see the flat sheets, the lack of movement. The Soldier stood and went to inspect the bed. Empty, the fabric cold to the touch. It could hear muted noise from the main room. The heart rate did not slow. It was possible he had risen to relieve himself or attend to some duty, but it had to ensure his safety.

It was careful not to cause the floorboards to creak as it crept to the doorway. There were no lights on in the rest of the facility. The moon was new, leaving the windows utterly dark. The smoldering embers of the fire were visible through the small slats in the stove, leaking a dull reddish hue over the room. There was movement, and the huff of labored breaths. It shifted slightly to the side so that it could see the entirety of the space.

A head of fair hair bobbed up and down. The firelight cast strange shadows over planes of muscle as they shifted, rippling patterns of orange and yellow and black. The handler gave a heavy exhale as he completed another pushup, loud in the otherwise still house. His face was not visible, but it could only assume that he was focused intently on the floor. The scent of perspiration was evident over the ever-present woodsmoke, and his skin shone with it. How long had he been exerting himself, to be in such a state? It stepped forward, hesitant to interrupt, but too concerned not to. This was out of the ordinary, not at all consistent with his schedule.

“Sir?”

He stilled, hovering halfway between the floor and a full upward press.

“Bucky?”

The word was heaved as if he had been running for hours. The handler lifted his head to look at it, confusion clear in his expression. His hair was slick, stuck to his forehead with sweat, and even in the low light it could tell his face was flushed. When he confirmed that the Soldier was present, he completed the rep and pushed himself onto his knees.

“Hey. Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“Negative, sir.”

He reached to the side to grab his discarded shirt, using it to wipe his brow and neck. “You okay?”

It could ask the same of him. “Functional, sir.” It stepped lightly across the room, passing beside him to access the kitchen counter. The Soldier took one of the colorful sugar drinks from the packaging. Calories and electrolytes were required after exertion. It returned and knelt before him, offering the bottle.

“Oh.” He looked genuinely surprised. It feared for a moment that the offer might have been presumptuous, but the handler took the beverage with a “Thanks” and cracked it open. The liquid was gone within seven seconds. He gasped as he lowered the empty bottle, chest still heaving.

“Sir, are you…” it considered multiple potential phrasings before settling on one to which he would be most receptive. “Is something wrong?”

He made a sound somewhere between laughter and exasperation. “That obvious, huh? Nah, I’m alright. Just couldn’t sleep.”

[“I’m fine, Buck. Leave off it.”]

It narrowed the eyes. It could see the tension in his jaw, the avoidant gaze, the nervous working of his throat. The Captain was terrible at subterfuge [cognitive error, insub–] He was obviously distressed. His behavior had been altered lately, his movements stilted at times, his voice too intentional in its casual pitch. There was anger, he said, at the enemy. Anger at the treatment of the Soldier by past handlers. But this did not look like anger. It had heard part of his conversation with Wilson, filtered through the muddled cognition. He spoke of hurt with no injury. The Captain did not lie. It did not know why he would evade the truth in this matter.

“Sir,” it insisted. It might be insubordinate, but if there was an issue with his health, or some complication with the mission, it should know. It could not properly defend him if it did not have complete information.

“I’m fine, really. I just…” he sighed, compressing the shirt in his fists. He was lost in thought for a moment, staring down at the fabric. “Okay. I’m pissed off. I thought I’d settled down after that laser thing, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about… Everything.” He gestured vaguely. It could be meant to indicate the Soldier, the safehouse, or the entire political situation.

His hand fell limp into his lap, and he slumped forward, fatigue weighing on his back. It waited, but he gave no further details. For once, his negative emotions inspired no trepidation in the Soldier. It suspected that the source of his upset lay outside of this facility. It tilted the head in inquiry. He shook his in return.

“I don’t wanna put it on you, Buck. You’ve already been through so much, most of it my fault. You don’t gotta worry about me, okay? I’ll deal with it.”

[Behold: Saint Stephen, the first martyr.]

It did not understand what fault he meant, but it knew the burdens of command could be heavy. It had been a source of stress relief for many superiors. So far, he had not taken out his frustrations on the body through violence, and he rejected the offer of the secondary function. Still, he had a mostly-functional asset that was capable of great endurance, in combat or not. It risked another question.

“How may this asset be of service, sir?”

He looked back up with a small, sincere smile and reached out to grasp its right hand. “You already are, sweetheart. Just being here.”

It reciprocated the touch. The action seemed far too forward. There were so many nerve endings in the hands, so many delicate joints and fine bones. But he had initiated touch, and it could reciprocate. It was permitted. It pressed the thumb against his knuckles as he had done for it dozens of times. Its gaze followed the joining of their fingers, then dragged up to the curve of his mouth, the angle of his head, the mess of his hair. His eyes shone yellow from the glow of the fire, but it knew the blue was there, could picture it easily. The lines around them were heavy in the dim light. It did not know how to alleviate the negative emotions, but it was clear that he required rest.

“It will keep watch, sir.”

The handler shook his head. “You don’t hafta do that. I’m not worried about security here. I’ll be fine. Tired myself out, anyway. I gotta go wash up, then I’ll lay back down, I promise.” He tightened his grip for a moment, then relaxed. “You sure you’re alright? What woke you up?”

“Malfunction, sir. Unconscious visualization. Effects abated quickly.” It lowered the head, studying the shadowed texture of the floorboards. “There were images. The strange weapon. The blue light. An entire unit, unable to evade capture. A medical table.”

“Buck,” he said, voice thick with some indefinable emotion.

He released its hand only to take it by the bicep and draw it bodily towards him. It went as directed, leaning against his bare torso as he wound his arm around it. His skin was tacky, the scent of perspiration strong. The unease from the malfunction had been minimal, barely noticeable. Now, all traces of it were erased by the heat of his touch, the almost electric contact of skin on skin. It was extremely common with this handler, but no less overwhelming each time. It turned the face into his shoulder, breathing him in as subtly as it could.

[His vision was blurry, and f*ck, everything hurt. Heavy hands on his arms, gold and halogen orange above. “Bucky?” It felt like he’d already died ten times over. This musta been an angel, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t gettin’ into heaven.]

“I got you, honey.”

It was not distressed by the images. The emotional response had faded upon waking, replaced by concern for the handler. But he reacted as if it was, rubbing at the scapulae through the shirt in the same manner he did to mitigate all the malfunctions.

“It is functional, sir,” it repeated. “There is no negative sensation.”

He exhaled against the side of its head, not quite a laugh. “Well I guess this one’s for me, then.”

It expected him to withdraw, but he maintained the contact, the heel of his hand dragging slow strokes down the spine. As the muscles relaxed, the handler pressed his nose into the hair and inhaled deeply. He had done that before, just as the Soldier found itself seeking out his scent. Was this his way of taking pleasure from it? No, not pleasure. This was not recreational use. Comfort, then? It could not recall ever being described as comforting. Often the opposite. [“That thing is creepy as f*ck.”] Perhaps it assuaged his fears to have his weapon close, to see evidence of its functionality. He had been very distressed when he spoke of losing it before. And he responded positively to the reciprocated touch, aside from the one notable incident.

It shifted, the hair clinging to his clavicle, to lean more firmly into his shoulder. He sighed again, deeper this time, and brought his other arm around it. Another point of data in the positive column. He was opposed to the Soldier’s initiation of the secondary function for some reason, but this did not elicit the same anger. It considered raising the arms to mimic his embrace, but that might be a step too far. It stayed, still and pliant under his hands, for five point nine minutes.

When the handler slowly sat back, it took the cue to do the same. He gave a tired smile. “Sorry if I got you all sweaty.” It simply inclined the head. His apologies, as usual, were unnecessary. “Go on back to bed. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Yes, sir.”

It waited until he stood to rise, then placed the empty bottle into the waste receptacle before returning to the sleeping quarters. The light from the cleansing facility spilled into the rest of the safehouse. The shower came on, but both the water and light were shut off by the time it had settled onto the pallet.

The handler entered smelling of the cleansing agent. The heat radiating off of him was palpable in the small room. His phone lit up for a moment, followed by the rustling of blankets and the squeak of the mattress springs. He lay still for ten point three minutes, then the squeaking came again. The bedding shifted, and the handler sighed. Another three minutes, and the process started over, rustling and tossing and frustrated noises, until he kicked aside the blankets and muttered, “f*ck this.”

He looked over to the corner where the Soldier lay, head tilted in assessment. “Hey, Buck?”

“Sir.”

“You mind if I…” He sighed again, scrubbing at his face. In lieu of completing his statement, he stood and dragged the bedding from the mattress. Cotton and flannel shushed across the wooden floorboards as he approached the Soldier’s position. The handler threw all of the blankets to the ground, and a pillow landed with a muted whump right in front of its face. The pulse jumped, but it forced the heart into compliance. Had he decided to make use of it after all? It did not know the meaning of this, but it would not presume. It simply waited. The eyes followed the handler as he knelt down on the blankets, his consternation still legible in the darkness.

“Will it bother you if I sleep here? I don’t wanna block your exit.”

It was his prerogative where he lay, though it was odd that the handler would abandon the comfort of his bed. It was permitted on the furniture for the secondary function, if that was what he desired. But he asked about routes of egress… The doorway was fully visible, and the Soldier could easily maneuver around him. It would have little reason to leave the room without him, in any case.

“Acceptable egress is possible, sir.” it said.

His shoulders sagged as if a weight had been removed from them. “Okay. Thanks,” he said, and then shrugged himself into the disorderly pile of fabric he had created, pulling half of a quilt over his legs. He reached out to find the right hand and tangled his fingers with its own. [Soft, wheezing breaths. Thin sheets and thinner walls. Moonlight on pale hair, turning it silver.] The strange ache in the chest returned with renewed vigor, the lungs and heart twinging with a response that was not anticipation or fear.

The handler was facing the Soldier, his body curled towards it like a bulwark, but his eyes were closed. He did not pull it against him, did not touch it beyond the hand. He was not monitoring its activity, nor looking at it expectantly. He was just lying there. drifting towards unconsciousness. He seemed more at peace than he had been up on the mattress, his chest ebbing and swelling in regular tides. It supposed that was reasonable. The Soldier kept a gun under the blankets during the night. Rest came easier with the assurance of a reliable weapon nearby.

It observed for twelve point four minutes until he appeared to be fully asleep, then allowed the attention to disperse, widening its perception to include the exterior of the facility. There was only the familiar rustling of wind, the creaking of trees, and the shifting of the wooden structure. No threat. Safe.

Chapter 47

Chapter Text

“Status?”

“Functional, sir. Cognitive functionality: seventy-two percent. Physical functionality: seventy-eight percent. Prosthesis functionality: eighty-nine percent. Cognitive malfunction intermittent, reduced in frequency and duration. Acceptable functionality for moderate field work.”

“Good. I wanna try something new today.”

He gestured, and the Soldier knelt up closer, putting itself within reach. The handler took its hands in his and placed them on top of his knees, pressing down gently. It kept perfectly still. The unease he displayed last night had dissipated somewhat. He appeared calm now, eyes soft and attentive as he spoke, but it would not repeat the mistake that had inspired his anger.

“D’you remember what I told you, about negative sensation when I’m touching you?”

It reviewed all standing orders, attempting to sort through the choppy memories of the time spent in malfunction. It might have missed something. Verbal protocol implantation was imperfect. It repeated what it could remember. “It is to report, sir.”

“That’s right. But I know sometimes it’s hard to do that. We’re gonna practice the signal I showed you. I’m gonna use joint locks, pressure points, things like that. I want you to tap three times as soon as you feel discomfort or pain.” He demonstrated, tapping on the back of the right hand. [Three short. S for--] It could not recall being instructed on this before, but it was simple enough. “Don’t wait until there’s risk of injury. Got it?”

“Understood, sir.”

The first sensation was neither of the named techniques. Instead, the handler combed the hair back in the usual fashion, massaging the scalp for twenty-three luxurious seconds. Only then did he initiate the exercise.

His hands trailed down the throat, coming to rest on the shoulders. One thumb pet across the right clavicle five times, slow semi-circles, before digging into the subclavian nerve. There was pressure, but it was not intolerable. The handler's mouth turned down. He pressed harder, and a faint jolt of pain shot up the neck. [Gagged and bound and the knife pinning it to the floor and–] It inhaled sharply, ready to clench the teeth against increased sensation, then overrode the impulse, remembering his instruction. The right index finger moved, lifting and landing against the handler’s leg. Once. It hesitated. Twice. Three times. The pain stopped.

The pain stopped.

His hands moved immediately, fingers threading back into the hair, nails scratching lightly at the roots. It exhaled, suppressing the urge to shudder.

“Molodets, dorogoy.”

The breathing hitched, the eyes fell closed, and it leaned into his touch. It was ridiculous, to be so overwhelmed by such a simple exercise. The Soldier was familiar with tapouts from sparring protocol. This was not sparring, but, regardless of the situation, the handler had every right to elicit whatever sensation he chose. But he had stopped. The reward continued for forty-nine blissful seconds. It had done that. It had signaled and the pain had stopped and it had been good and he had rewarded it and the pain had stopped.

It could barely comprehend the sequence of events, though the causality was obvious and clearly stated from the beginning. He had not lied. It was not a test of endurance, not some trick to place the Soldier into a more vulnerable position. It had affected the handler’s behavior. It had expressed a negative response and been met with mercy. The pain he inflicted was miniscule, not worth reporting without his order, but the action held such immense weight that the chest felt like it might collapse from the pressure.

When he withdrew, it opened the eyes to find a soft smile. Its cognition threatened to shut down completely.

“Ready to go again?”

It nodded, too dumbstruck to give a proper response.

He lifted its right hand, holding the wrist in place as his fingertips traced over each digit. The muscles flexed involuntarily when his careful touch lit up a nerve. He let out a quiet laugh, but he continued his exploration. After he had caressed the entire hand, the handler took the fifth finger and slowly pressed it backwards toward the wrist. The joint was forced past a ninety degree angle. The Soldier observed, pulse quickening, aware of exactly how far the digit would bend before it broke. [Blood on the teeth, down the chin, dripping onto concrete. Iron on the neck and the wrist, and the Doctor–] “Buck. Stay with me, honey. Just you and me right now.”

“Y-yes, sir,” it breathed.

“You feel that?”

“Affirmative. There is no pain, sir.”

“Your heart rate went up, and you went somewhere else for a second there. Is there any other sensation?”

“Yes, sir. Minor cognitive malfunction. Irregular physiological response.”

“I want you to tap for that, too. Physical or emotional, doesn’t matter.”

It nodded, “Understood, sir,” then tapped, this time with the left index finger. One, two, three. He released the hold, massaged the joint for a moment, and then ran one hand through the hair.

“Let’s try that one again. The second you feel discomfort, fear or anxiety or whatever it is, you tap.”

The handler repeated the exercise with the fourth finger. The unease came again, flashes of memory or false creations of the mind, it did not know, but it tapped. He let go and rewarded it with more velvet words and soothing touch.

Knuckles to the sternum. Pain. Three taps. Pain stopped. Reward.

Thumb to the hinge of the mandible. Pain and malfunction. Three taps. Sensation stopped. Reward.

The right arm held across his knee, elbow forced upward. Pain. Three taps. Pain stopped. Reward.

A hand cautiously held across the mouth, obstructing the breath. Malfunction. Three taps. Sensation stopped. Reward.

Again and again and again, he manipulated the body, evoking varying sensation from small parts of it, never causing real damage, just enough to be felt, to give it cause to signal. Every time, the handler responded immediately and provided positive input that obliterated the pain or emotional response. After twelve rounds of stimulus and reward, the Soldier’s scalp was nearly numb from tingling.

“Okay. Just one more.”

This time, his hands did not leave the hair. He cradled the head in his left hand, his fingers splayed over the occipital, temporal, and parietal bones. With his right, he gripped a large section of hair at the root and pulled. There was no pain. Only a wave of positive sensation that washed across the skull, oozed down the scapulae, and coiled in the back of the ribs, warm and heavy. He pulled harder, angling the head backwards. The Soldier gasped, discipline weakened by nearly an hour of indulgent touch. It went lax and allowed the body to be moved. The spine bowed into a soft arc, led by the handler’s whim. The hands stayed in place, resting flat on his knees. It heard his respiration stutter. He exerted even more force, shaking the head back and forth, but it still did not tap.

“Bucky,” he said, somewhat severely.

It knew he was expecting it to signal at some point, but he had given no cause. It took conscious effort to engage the tongue and throat. The words came out in a weak whisper. “There is n-no negative sensation, s-sir.”

“Should’a figured,” he huffed. “I’m gonna pull your hair out if I keep going.”

That would not be objectionable. [The Asset has no–]

He slowly released the pressure, guiding it back into position, then twisted a smaller lock around one finger. He yanked at it, lightly at first, then harder. There was a vague twinge of discomfort. The Soldier obligingly tapped three times. The handler unwound his finger and returned to the rewarding touch. It blinked up at him and saw that his cheeks had gone pink. He was still smiling, but he looked away from it when he spoke.

“That was great, Buck. I want you to use that signal any time, okay?”

It hummed, so full of endorphins that it could barely feel the lips. “Yessir.”

He pet it for six full minutes before attempting to smooth the hair down. He soon gave it up as futile, letting out a heavy sigh. “I’m just gonna have to comb it again.”

Most definitely not objectionable.

__________________________________

Rations consumed, hair combed and secured with an elastic, they returned to the sitting area. It was no longer useful for sitting. The handler had moved the couch aside, lining it up along the wall perpendicular to the stove. The rug remained, covering approximately thirty percent of the floor, including the cellar door.

“You know sparring guidelines?”

It knew there were no other operatives present, but it glanced around the room instinctively. Was it to spar with the handler? It had not… had it done so before? Perhaps with the Commander. There were vague images of an arm around the throat, legs tangled in its own, but it was unclear which function that corresponded to.

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Grappling only, no impact. Tap when you start to feel pain. Any pain. Not just when it impedes functioning. Got it?”

It could not risk damage to the handler. But he was enhanced. It had faced him in combat, and he had… [–bruised and bleeding and that voice, still insisting that it knew him–] This was different. It was his weapon now. It could control itself. It would complete the training as he desired.

“Understood, sir.”

He took his stance, widening his feet and setting his shoulders back. The Soldier shifted its weight, making note of the needed adjustments for the still-recovering musculature of the back and shoulders, and gave a short nod. The handler returned the nod, then motioned with his right hand. It engaged.

The Soldier came in low to hook his ankles, but the handler dodged it, circling around to the left. It pivoted, returning to standing just in time to break free from his attempt to pin its arms from behind. It took hold of his extended right hand and used his momentum to reverse their positions, locking his arm behind his back. The handler hesitated for a fraction of a second, visibly stopping himself from headbutting the Soldier and breaking his own guidelines. It used the delay to take out his left knee, bringing them both to the ground with a thud that rattled the dishes in the cabinets.

He struggled, left hand scrabbling at the floor, [“Drop it!”] but the Soldier had trapped that arm under their bodies. It tightened the hold on his right arm and applied pressure to both shoulders, wrapping the legs around his in the same instant. The handler tried to use his weight to roll them, but the Soldier had his hips and shoulders at odd angles. He hissed in pain when he wrenched his own arm in the attempt. It quickly reassessed the hold – it was well within safe parameters. He writhed for a few seconds, and then went limp.

“Yield.”

The handler tapped at its wrist with the right hand, and it released the grip immediately, standing to give him space to recover. He shook his arms out as he rose, and an odd expression came over his face.

“Christ. That was seventy-eight percent?”

“Negative, sir. This asset employed only forty percent of available strength in order to avoid injury.”

He barked out a sharp laugh. “How the hell did I get you down before?”

The Soldier was unsure if the question was rhetorical, but feedback on his combat technique would be useful.

“The Captain’s weapon is highly effective against the prosthesis. The field of engagement included advantageous cover and high ground. Agents Wilson and Romanov provided distraction. The Captain displayed far less hesitation before this asset’s face was exposed. This asset experienced multiple cognitive malfunctions during the previous assignment.”

Another series of facial contortions [amusem*nt, confusion, disbelief, shock.] “Okay, I’ll give you that. I was definitely holding back. You were having flashbacks during Insight, though?”

“The exact nature of the malfunctions is unknown, sir.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, mostly to himself. “Okay. Let’s go again, same rules. I’ll step it up this time.”

He did. In the second round, the handler moved first. He feinted to the Soldier’s right, then hooked its knee while using both hands to restrain the prosthesis. It shifted its weight, flipping him over its back, but his hold on the left wrist did not break. He landed upright on its other side, the left arm held out away from the body. The joints were twisted awkwardly, but still within the safe range of motion. It pulled against his grip, attempting to escape at the weak point where his fifth fingers overlapped, and the handler increased the angle. The Soldier was forced to kneel in order to avoid damage to the anchor points. There was no pain, only the threat thereof. He was still holding back. It rolled into the lock, tangling the legs around his ankles. He went to the floor again, and his hold broke.

It straddled his torso and pinned his right arm above his head [Hey, Stevie], but before it could restrain the other, he levered himself upward with his hips. Even with the weight of the prosthesis bearing down on him, the handler easily moved the Soldier. His free hand shoved at the side of the head, and he flipped them, pushing its face into the rug and catching its right wrist [–breath hot against the neck, “Yeah, baby?”] It still had a grip on his other arm with the left hand. They struggled for a moment, each trying to force the other’s limb, before the handler used his full strength to twist the arm far enough to cause pain in the elbow.

It should not yield. It should not beg shamefully for mercy when it was capable of sustaining much greater damage. It could still defeat the opponent and display its prowess. But that was the handler’s instruction. And it had been rewarded so well before. It hesitated for two seconds, then released his wrist and rapped the titanium knuckles against the floor. Tap, tap, tap.

He let up, standing and extending a hand to the Soldier. It rolled and rose to its feet before it realized what the gesture meant. The handler did not appear perturbed.

“Ready for another round?” he grinned.

“Yes, sir.”

They repeated the exercise for eight more rounds. The Soldier tapped out four of them. They were matched, five to five, when the handler called a break. The rug was displaced, scrunched up against the stonework at the base of the stove, and the floor had several new gouges in it from the left elbow. Both the handler and the Soldier had begun to perspire, though neither were at the limit of their endurance.

“Good work,” he said, clapping it on the shoulder. “Lunch, then I’ve got one more exercise today.”

The handler prepared the nutrition solution, then assembled multiple stacks of bread, meat, and cheese for himself, as well as two glasses of water. It was provided with one glass of water and one of the red sugar drinks, then he placed a single slice of bread on a plate and set it before the Soldier.

“Here. Give this a try. Take it slow, and chew as much as you can. If your stomach gets upset, you can stop any time.”

Another reward. The handler’s generosity was truly immeasurable.

“Thank you, sir.”

For a brief second, some other expression interrupted his contentment, but it was gone before the Soldier could assess it. It put the empty ration glass on the floor and studied the plate.

A simple piece of white bread, slightly tan from its time in the oven. The handler had prepared his own in the same way, the scent of warm starch permeating the air. The Soldier had previously disregarded the olfactory input when the handler prepared his meals. They were not for it, and there was no purpose in dwelling on the information. But now, despite being full of nutrition solution, the stomach responded to the sensation with a low growl. It was familiar enough with food rewards to know that the body’s response could be variable. It gingerly broke off a small piece, exploring the texture with the flesh fingertips; hard in places and soft in others, crumbs falling from the edges. The mouth filled with saliva as it brought the morsel to the lips.

It was surprisingly sweet. Yeast and grain and sugar and a hint of salt, all made more appealing by the browning process. [Bitter coffee and fluffy eggs and sweet, tart jam, all laid out on the checkered cloth…] Toasting. It was toast. He had called it that before. The Soldier took a steadying breath through the nose, allowing the foodstuff to sit on the tongue for four seconds. It did not have such an overwhelming response as to the chocolate, but this was still a gift, an indulgence.

The teeth broke through the glutinous structure, and a quiet hum lifted from the chest. When it was forced to swallow to eliminate excess moisture from the mouth, it held the food in the cheek. It chewed until the bread was nearly liquified, swallowing again only when it could break it down no further. The sensation of thick starch moving down the throat was strange, but not unwelcome. It felt no immediate negative response from the stomach. Following the bite with water, it broke off another piece and repeated the procedure. The handler watched from the corner of his eye as he read from his phone, curious but detached.

It had consumed ten bites of the foodstuff when the sensation of fullness became pressing. Half of the slice remained, and the Soldier… [The Asset does not want.] Continuing would only risk malfunction. It would not insult him by wasting this gift. It closed the eyes for a moment, the tongue passing carefully over teeth and lips, treasuring the taste, before it lifted the plate back to him.

“Done?” he asked with careful neutrality.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” it repeated with as much sincerity as it could muster.

He took the plate and set it beside him on the couch, then graced it with another smile as he pet across the shoulders.

“Not feeling sick?”

“Negative, sir. Minimal discomfort.”

“Good,” he nodded firmly. “So, how much longer d'you think til you’re up to eighty percent?”

“Three point four days at current intake, sir.”

The handler’s smile grew wider. “Excellent. How do you feel about a mission?”

[The Asset has no–] Positive. It felt extremely positive.

______________________________________________

“We’re going after HYDRA. There’s a couple big bases in this area, and some new hideouts. Tony’s gonna provide intel and remote surveillance. Nat said she and Sam can come in for backup if we need them, but I’d like to hit a few of the smaller facilities before we involve the rest of the team. Any objections?”

“None, sir.”

He grew serious, stepping closer to the Soldier and taking its jaw in hand.

“Eyes up.”

It complied.

“I know I asked before, but I need you to be sure. They hurt you, Buck. I won’t let it happen again. But if you think it’ll be an issue, going back in there, I won’t ask that of you.”

The fire was back in his eyes, that unnameable passion, tinged with real anger this time. The anger he had said was for HYDRA. It understood now. They had taken the Soldier from him. They had abandoned it and left it to die, and they had, they had made the Captain a target and it had nearly killed him, and that… that was unacceptable. It felt a tongue of flame lapping at its own heart. He was the original handler. He was good and generous and his goals were its only concern. It would fight through any malfunction if it meant that it could eliminate his enemies. If it meant that this man would be pleased with it.

“Negative, sir. It is functional. It will complete the mission.”

He nodded, then released his hold on the Soldier’s face. “Then there’s something we need to prepare for. You remember what I said about the trigger words?”

“Yes, sir. Immediate elimination of any operative attempting to employ the activation sequence.”

“That’s right, baby.” He smiled, but not with pleasure. His gaze was hard, his teeth bared in a feral grin. He looked hungry, like a starved predator who’d just spotted injured prey. Another irregular sensation shuddered down the Soldier’s spine. It had seen that look before, in the Commander’s eyes. But the Captain was different. He was not cruel. His hunger was not for it. It should not… [The Asset does not want.] “We’re gonna kill every last one of those bastards, but especially the ones trying to take you back. I want your first reaction to the words to be self-defense. So we’re gonna practice.”

He turned and gestured for it to follow, picking up his shield from where it rested by the door. They left the safehouse and went to the place in the yard where he most often performed physical training. The snow had been worn away by his repetitive movements, the grass flattened. The ground was nothing but mud and slush. The skin prickled as perspiration met icy wind, but the Soldier paid it no mind. There was training to complete. There was a real mission.

“I figured it might not work in my voice, so I’m gonna play a recording. Just the first word. As soon as you hear it, you move. Come at me with everything you’ve got. No holding back.”

That was not correct sparring protocol. It could not injure the handler, though it understood the purpose of the exercise. No other operative should be allowed to take command of the Soldier. It was his weapon. Even considering raising a hand to him with real force made the gut churn with unease. Still, it had to try. It had to defend the Captain, and it could not do so if it was incapacitated or transferred to another. It would not be taken from him again.

“Understood, sir.”

He took the phone from his pocket and manipulated the screen for a moment before looking back up to the Soldier. Hefting the shield in front himself, he squared up in preparation for its attack. [Blue and red and white, gunfire on all sides and–]

“Ready?”

It shifted, angling the right side toward him and putting its weight on the left leg.

“Yes, sir.”

He inhaled slowly, eyes never leaving the Soldier, and tapped the phone. Another voice came, deep and sure, each syllable perfectly accented.

“Zhelaniye.”

[Iron on the chest and rubber in the mouth, white fire and ozone and pain, spine arcing violently against the restraints.]

It froze.

The compulsion to comply was overwhelming, limbs locked in place, mind completely blank. The Soldier waited, wound tight, every part of it anticipating the next word in the sequence. It did not know how many long, tense seconds passed before it was able to force the orders to the forefront of the mind. That voice was not the handler. It was not the Captain.

It summoned some previously unknown instinct, drawing on the memory of the Captain’s hands in its hair, his eyes boring into it, his voice battering against the protocol. Satin against steel. Pressure built behind the eyes. The chest heaved. The fists clenched. The jaw cracked. Winter wind bit at the exposed skin of the right hand and the face, but there was a smoldering fire within it, stoked by the handler’s watchful gaze.

It moved.

The first attempt was sloppy, the left arm arcing too wide, too slow. The feet were uncoordinated, slipping in the slush. The Soldier grit out a low, hollow sound as the prosthesis impacted the shield with a weak thunk. The handler pushed back against it, forcing it to adjust its footing.

“You can do better than that,” he said. “Again.”

His voice was hard, but it did not inspire the urge to cower. He knew the body, knew the mind, knew it was capable of more. He was simply pushing it to perform at its real capacity. It returned to the starting position, lungs straining against the ribs, pulse pounding in the throat.

“Zhelaniye.”

The Soldier hesitated for two seconds, then struck. The handler caught the blow with the shield, shoving it backwards until it stumbled.

“Again, Buck. Faster.”

“Zhelaniye.”

One second. Better footing, more force. A solid punch, but he was still unmoved.

“C’mon,” he barked. “Like you mean it this time.”

[Golden hair and blue eyes, chin raised in a challenge, mouth twisted in a cruel smirk. “Yeah, Buck? Then prove it.”]

It thought of the Captain’s blinding smile, his lips ghosting against the skin, his voice low and gentle in its ear. It thought of his fingers on the face, the back, the hands, the scalp, moving it with ease, wiping away pain and leaving behind pleasure. It thought of sunshine and pencil skritching and woodsmoke.

“Zhelaniye,” said the stranger.

Wrong. It was wrong. It was not the Captain. It was not– [The Asset–] The temples cracked with pain as the Soldier lunged. The prosthesis shifted into active position, plates locking into alignment to provide maximum impact force. It pushed off with the left foot, pivoted with the right, and brought the titanium fist down on the shield with all of its strength. The clang of metal on metal shuddered through it like the ringing of a great cathedral bell, sound waves demolishing all other thoughts. It would not fail. It would not be taken from the Captain. It spun, taking the opponent’s legs from under him. He landed with a grunt in the snow. It dove after him, taking hold of his shirt as it raised the left arm for another blow.

“Otstavit’! Stand down!”

That voice. It was not the one that had spoken before. The Soldier halted all movement, fist hanging in midair. The Captain lay below it, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, the collar of his leather jacket bunched up in the right hand. [“Then finish it…”] He was smiling, breath heaving out from between his teeth. It released him, moving away with haste. It had almost… No. He was uninjured. There was no blood, no bruises marring his pale complexion. He sat up and dusted himself off, his expression growing even more exuberant.

“Perfect, baby. That was perfect.”

The handler shoved himself up to his feet and approached it, shield still affixed to his arm. The Soldier stilled, hands at its sides. It had been following his command. There was new protocol. It was a training exercise. But it nearly struck him at full strength. It had presented a meaningful threat. [Submit for–] Warm, rough fingers across the face, the heat of his skin chasing away the cold.

“Molodets. Good work, Buck. Let’s try it a few more times, then we’ll call it quits for the day.”

It raised the head to find the same wind-chapped cheeks, tousled hair, and brilliant smile, glowing brighter than the afternoon sun.

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 48

Chapter Text

By the end of the exercise, the Soldier was panting, soaked in sweat and disoriented from nearly an hour of deliberately rebelling against the imperatives. The muscles burned, from the trapezii all the way down to the solei. The head throbbed, the edges of the vision wavering in time with its heartbeat. But it did not care. The handler was pleased. And there was a mission. A real mission.

It assisted the handler in replacing the furniture in the proper positions, then he directed it to the cleansing facility. He reiterated the instruction to make use of the hot water. “Take your time, baby. Get warmed up,” he said as he closed the door. It stared after him for a moment, then complied, standing idly under the showerhead as the steaming water sluiced over the hair. The heat gentled the pain in the skull somewhat, but not as effectively as his touch would have.

Despite the exertion, the persistent headache, it could not temper the restless energy of the emotional response. It was not fear, nor anxiety. It was anticipation. Highly irregular. It could not remember ever preparing for a mission with such eagerness. They were simply orders, and the Soldier fulfilled them.

It had never been a choice before. It was nearly unthinkable now, that it could… It could report that it was nonfunctional, and he would accept the answer, just as he had stopped during the tapping exercise. But it would choose to serve him, over and over again because he was– [that little punk from Brooklyn…]

It felt the mouth turn down. That could not be correct. Perhaps it misunderstood. The mission was not optional. It was the highest purpose the Soldier could serve. It was the entire reason for its existence. The absence of pain, the positive sensation of pleasing the handler, those were secondary. But the Captain was different. Serving him… [The Asset does not want.] The mission itself was as appealing as the promise of a reward. And there was little he could do to reward it more than he already had.

It had nearly accomplished the mission of ‘heal and rest,’ only a few days from his given benchmark for functionality. The body had begun to accept the ‘sleep’ protocol with tentative regularity. The procedure seemed familiar at times, the dark room and the beating of another heart nearby. Perhaps it had performed ‘sleep’ on some prior assignment, when it had been too far from base to be placed in cryo-storage. Some nights it would stay alert for hours, though, waiting for the sound of boots on the floors, or simply monitoring the handler’s breathing. It was always steady and deep, not like…

A knock on the door pulled it from the rumination. “Y’okay in there, Buck?”

“Yes, sir. Functional.”

It was wasting far too much time. And hot water. It took up the cleansing agent and scrubbed over the skin, removing the remnants of perspiration and mud. The prosthesis shifted through a recalibration, sending more debris to the floor of the tub. [Blood and bone and viscera tangled in–] As the grime washed down the drain, it turned into the spray, allowing precisely five seconds of indulgence as the water poured over the face. The swish of the door opening and a gust of cool air announced the handler’s entrance. His footsteps were intentional and audible as he approached the shower stall.

“Ready for hair stuff?”

“Yes, sir.”

His gaze stayed pointedly fixed to the Soldier’s face when it pulled aside the curtain. It turned to allow him to apply the cleansing product. He had altered the cleansing routine since the disastrous offer of the secondary function, keeping himself distant from it during the process. It was unsure of the cause. He did not seem disgusted by the body, as some technicians had been. He praised the improvement in its condition, the return to baseline muscle mass. Had it…

The half-formed thought fizzled out as his fingers worked across the scalp, once again overwhelming the cognition with a haze of pleasure. It stepped under the water when instructed, then he combed the hair and applied the second product, the one that smelled strongly of coconut and some unnameable artificial fragrance. He shut off the tap. It took the offered towel and said, “Thank you, sir,” as always.

“‘Course, sweetheart. Go on and get dressed. I’ll be right out.”

He remained in the cleansing facility for thirteen point six minutes, far longer than usual. Several soft exhalations were audible over the flow of the water. He was taking his own pleasure from the hot shower after his exertion. That was good. He had been so troubled before.

The handler grinned his way through his evening meal – three sandwiches and a ration bar – looking at the Soldier with such pride that it felt it might burn up under his gaze. After it consumed two portions of the standard rations, he presented it with another steaming cup of the chocolate and nutrition mixture.

He directed it to sit at ease on the cushion with the legs crossed, the blanket wrapped around it and his hand in the hair as he read through intelligence on the upcoming mission. The hand not petting it left the keyboard at random, jotting down some note or other on the pad at his side. The couch was littered with paper documents, and the hander’s gaze fixed determinedly on the screen.

It should have been more invested in the information, but it could barely focus on consuming the rations. Perhaps it was the sugar from the chocolate drink, but the mind would not calm as it usually did under his touch. The throbbing in the skull was negligible, but insistent. A sense of unease crept through the silence, worming its way beneath the memory of the hander’s praise.

It had done well in the exercises. It had violated standard protocol, but it was at the handler’s order. Protocol was to take precedence over conflicting orders. [Pain across the occipital. The room spun, electricity crackling through the air. “Stay down, you useless sh*t. Can’t even listen to simple–”] But there was new protocol. There was… He had changed it. There was no chair. Verbal implantation only, he said. He said… He said it was different now.

The Soldier did not fidget, though the impulse to do so twinged through the flesh fingers. This was unacceptable. It was capable of waiting in perfect stillness for hours, days at time. But now it struggled to contain the frenetic energy, thoughts spiraling around and around with no conclusion. [“Aw, it’s confused. Stupid thing. See, this is why–”] It closed the right hand firmly against the leg and focused on regulating the respiration, careful not to damage the cup still held in the left.

Behind it, the handler shifted, putting his pen down. “Something wrong?”

It assessed the body. It was supposed to report, but it did not know how to describe the strange sensation itching under the skin. It was not a positive feeling, but there was no damage. The malfunctions… It knew they were memories, not something current. It was still present, still able to control itself.

“Unknown, sir.”

“I can feel you thinking too hard, Buck. Everything’s okay. You did good today.”

He had said as much, many times, and yet…

“Yes, sir.”

He hummed, a sound that meant skepticism, consideration. He was observant as always, detecting its agitation despite its attempts to contain the irregular response. His fingers dug further under the hair, and he took hold of it by the roots. For a millisecond it anticipated punishment for its incomplete report or its distracted state, but then some internal switch flipped and the body slumped, the unease dissolving.

He pulled harder, sending a white wash of pleasure over the skull. The air was stolen from its lungs. The sudden hormonal response eliminated all other thoughts. The pain in the temples faded. The sensations of the body became more solid, more real. Firm pressure on the scalp. Thick wool around the shoulders. Sweetness on the tongue. Softness under the backside. The heat of the stove radiating across the face. It was once again overcome by the bliss of so many combined rewards, warmed from both inside and out, floating on an ocean of positive input. The mind clouded, the limbs going heavy. Its head lolled against the handler’s leg, but he did not remove it. He followed the motion, pressing the skull into the unyielding muscle of his thigh.

“Good?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

It had just enough control of the mouth to breathe, “Da, ser.”

He ran the fingertips of his other hand across the jaw, down the throat, and under the blanket to massage the clavicle. It hummed deep in the chest as the input tingled across the nerves. This was not so different from his usual treatment, but after hours of training and the uncertainty of challenging protocol, the reward was unspeakably pleasurable.

“Eto khorosho. Prosto rasslab'sya, dorogoy.”

It attempted to nod, but the head was held firmly in place. As the handler’s fingers trailed back up the side of the neck, painting the skin with sure strokes, it briefly considered offering itself to him again. It would be no hardship. He was so good to it, and it would be appropriate to show appreciation for his generous treatment. But he had been so angry before.

It still did not understand, but if the handler wanted it, it was soft and clean and ready at his feet. It would not risk ruining the day with another fumbled attempt at recreational use. The Soldier drifted into the quiet, warm place in the mind, unconcerned with anything but his touch.

_________________________________________________________

Steve tried his hardest not to move, not to make a sound outside of his usual fidgeting and typing. He wouldn’t dare interrupt this moment, not for the world, but he was so overwhelmed he might’ve jumped for joy. At least, if there hadn’t been nearly two hundred pounds of cybernetic assassin pinning him in place.

Bucky was snoring. He was snoring, snugged up against Steve’s leg like a kitten with a hot water bottle, the empty mug dangling from his fingers. It was soft and quiet, barely a real snore, but by god it was the best sound Steve had heard in years.

He hadn’t seen Buck this relaxed since… well, probably since forty-one. During the war, Buck would cat nap with the best of them – up in trees, in the back of fruit trucks, once even sitting straight up during a briefing with his eyes open – but he was always one snapped twig away from jolting awake and aiming a gun at the nearest threat.

Apparently all it took for him to get some real sleep was two hours of wrestling, an hour of punching the shield, twenty minutes in a hot shower, a cup of cocoa, and three hours of hair petting. Easy. They could probably do that every day.

If Tony was serious about taking them in, it’d be nice to have access to a gym again. Bucky was gonna love impact testing everything, and he could wear himself out to his heart’s content. Steve would have to keep an eye out. Buck still thought ‘physical training’ meant pushing himself to the breaking point instead of just giving his body a nice challenge. They’d work on it.

Bucky sighed and shifted, pressing his cheek against Steve’s leg, and Steve had to work to contain the emotion that filled his chest, displacing his lungs and threatening to smother him. There was the face he’d drawn hundreds, thousands of times, arthritic fingers cramping around the pencils. Buck looked so beautiful, hair shining in the firelight, skin glowing with health, lips parted softly, utterly serene.

Steve had done that, guided him back down to earth when he was riled up with nervous energy. Softened the defensive shell and soothed the anxiety with his hands and voice. The pride was just as intoxicating as it used to be. Dangerously so.

He carefully took the mug out of Bucky’s hand and set it on the floor, then eased himself into a somewhat reclined position, keeping a gentle grip on Bucky’s hair. He’d been so caught up in the files Tony sent that he’d lost track of time. It was 2213. He usually tried to get Bucky to lay down around 2200. This time, he’d actually succeeded. It didn’t matter that it was in the living room. As long as neither of them woke up with a crick in their neck, there was no harm done.

________________________________

When his phone chimed at 0500, the remnants of a strange dream lagged in his head. He’d been in his apartment, a pile of meeping kittens sitting on his kitchen table. Then there was an explosion outside, but he hadn’t been worried about it. Natasha was there, smiling a cheshire smile as a cloud of debris obscured the sky, and she handed one of the kittens to him and said ‘this one likes you.’

It took him a minute to remember where he was, but the woodsmoke was a good clue. There was a crick in his neck, and he half expected to hear Buck hyperventilating, still on edge from the weeks of nightmares and the most recent blowup. But there was just the fire crackling, papers shuffling, and the gurgling of… the coffee maker? Steve rallied himself and cautiously opened his eyes.

Bucky was sitting in the same spot as usual, but he’d turned around to face the couch. He was sorting through the documents Steve had left out, laying aside one out of every four or five into a separate stack. Steve sat up, trying to get his brain back online. As soon as Bucky saw he was awake, he dropped the papers and came to attention, arms behind his back. His expression went from interest to guilt in an instant, and he hung his head, hair obscuring his eyes.

“Sir, this asset… It did not intend…”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Steve leaned over to run a hand across his shoulder. “You’re fine, Buck. At ease. What’re you working on?”

Bucky hesitated for a moment before unlatching his arms. He reached for the smaller pile and held the papers out to Steve.

“These documents are inaccurate, sir.”

Steve took them, squinting in confusion. The files were all taken from the data dump – printed so he could better take notes, shut up Nat – or HYDRA’s own records at the busted bases. Natasha hadn’t had time to check every single one of them over herself, but they were direct from the source, as up to date as possible. There was no reason the information would be inaccurate, unless…

“They’re plants?” Steve asked.

“Yes, sir. Falsified information fed into SHIELD’s database.”

“Huh.” He scooted closer, looking over the remaining folders. The files from before nineteen ninety were mostly in the ‘good’ pile, but after that, there was little rhyme or reason to which information had been faked. Personnel records, base layouts, supply shipments, everything was split eighty-twenty between Bucky’s approved pile and the bundle of fake intel in Steve’s hands. Including the dossier on the communication hub outside of Portland they’d been planning to hit. “Well, sh*t. There goes the infil plan.”

He dropped the files back on the couch with a frustrated sigh. Bucky ducked again, still on edge. Steve rubbed up the back of his neck, digging his thumb into the place that always made Buck go soft. “It’s okay. This is good. If we’d worked from the old intel, we might’ve walked right into a trap. You did real good.” He smiled when Bucky glanced up at him. “I should’ve had you look these over in the first place.”

The tension ebbed a bit, and Bucky gave a little nod. In all honesty, Steve had assumed that HYDRA erased Bucky’s memories of base layouts whenever they moved him. He had no idea if they let the information remain intact on purpose, or if it had just slipped through the cracks. He should’ve known better than to underestimate Bucky’s observational skills, especially now that his visual memory was just as enhanced as Steve's.

The initiative was astounding, though. It wasn’t like he thought Buck wasn’t all there, but he’d feared Bucky’s enthusiasm for the mission was just the conditioning, the ingrained need to act as a weapon for his handlers. Bucky fought well, of course. He showed interest in training and took on other tasks without prompting.

Doing the dishes was one thing. Waking up early and checking over intel went beyond the Asset’s usual duties by far. HYDRA had just handed him a gun and pointed him at a target. This was dedication. Bucky obviously thought it was a risky move, with how he’d reacted to Steve’s attention. But he’d done it anyway.

Steve was reminded of that dusty London pub, Buck’s insistence on staying in the fight, and he wrestled back the press of grief that threatened to come along with the memory. God, if he hadn’t… They had a job to do, and if Bucky really wanted to help, Steve wouldn’t stop him. He gave a squeeze to Buck’s shoulder before standing up.

“I’m gonna go wash up, then we’ll work on this. Together.”

He hit the head and changed into fresh clothes, rolling his neck as he stepped into the kitchen. He started up the music on his phone, then mixed up Bucky’s breakfast and poured himself a cup of coffee. It was just how he liked it, far too dark and thick for normal human consumption. It might have just been Buck’s attempt at being useful, but the small, considerate gesture fanned the flames of Steve’s affection. Bucky was… God, he was so brave, taking a risk like that, correcting someone who had that so much power over him. He never stopped surprising Steve.

Necessary beverages acquired, he sat back down and passed Bucky the shake. “Thanks for making coffee, Buck. That was real thoughtful of you. How long have you been up?”

Bucky sipped absently, still focused on sorting through the documents. “Since 0351, sir.”

“Did you get some rest? We kinda passed out on the couch, I know it was probably uncomfortable.”

“This asset experienced approximately four hours of contiguous… sleep, sir.”

Huh. Maybe all the exercise had paid off. And Bucky actually said ‘sleep’ instead of ‘unconsciousness.’ He could’ve just been mirroring Steve’s language, but hopefully the concept was finally sinking in.

“That’s great, baby,” Steve said. “Alright, show me what you got.”

Bucky walked him through all of the inaccuracies he’d found and began describing the real layout of the Portland, Reno, and Medford facilities. Steve grabbed his sketchbook and penciled in a few rough diagrams, surprised again when Buck hesitantly asked, “Might this asset…” with a nod to the sketchbook.

He handed it over, and Bucky drew the most technically accurate blueprint possible, even including ventilation and plumbing outlets. He flipped the page and started outlining something different, concentric layers of squiggles that Steve realized was a topographical map, showing the area around the Portland comms hub in a five klick square. The details came out of the end of the pencil more like a laser printer than a human drawing, laid down piece by piece in perfect order.

When Bucky passed the sketchbook back, Steve gaped for a minute. He had to remind himself, again, not to just kiss Buck on the mouth then and there. Bucky had drawn some in the past, and they’d taken art classes together, but never anything like this.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with the stunned silence, looking at Steve with wide, cautious eyes. “It is… acceptable, sir?”

His hand found Bucky’s hair automatically, the surge of pride causing him to grip harder than intended. “It’s more than acceptable. This is f*cking perfect, honey. Molodets, moy khoroshiy soldat.”

Bucky melted. His eyes went hazy and his spine softened, hands flexing where they rested on the couch cushions. They’d pretty much proved yesterday that there wasn’t a cutoff for this particular sensation. Bucky’s pain tolerance was concerningly high, actually, but right now Steve was thankful to have some way to show his admiration that didn’t involve shoving Buck over a table. God, he was bent.

It always got him a bit too riled up, watching Bucky work. Whether it was coming home from the docks glistening with oil and sweat, snarking at Philips in the war room, or taking the perfect shot, didn’t matter. Bucky was so damn smart, so keen and capable. Steve wasn’t usually so easily moved. Very few people had turned his head, even after the serum ramped up his libido. But seeing Buck in his element was… It was goddamn inappropriate is what it was.

Steve’s carefully constructed walls were crumbling, and this, this proof that Bucky was so eager to work against HYDRA, that he trusted Steve enough to fight his old masters, threatened to shatter the last of the foundations.

He’d almost crossed the line yesterday, too. It’d been tempting to find some release in the shower, though he knew Buck would hear him. After rolling around on the floor together, feeling the returning strength in Bucky’s limbs, watching him demolish HYDRA’s programming, and seeing the bliss on his face when he let Steve yank him around by the hair, it was almost a biological necessity. But then he’d reminded himself what Bucky had been through, how terrified he’d been just a few days ago, and the impulse had withered up and died. He was sick at himself for even thinking it.

Wrangling his ardor back under control, he gentled his touch and pet over the back of Bucky’s head. “Thank you,” he said again. “This is excellent work. I’ll let the rest of the team know to watch out for inconsistencies.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” Bucky muttered, still recovering from the sudden shift from apprehension to overstimulation. Steve felt a pang of guilt for losing control like that, but Buck didn’t seem bothered. His eyelids fluttered, and after a second he was back to himself, alert and focused. His hair slipped through Steve’s fingers as he turned back to the drawing of the Portland facility. “This is the first target?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Steve pulled himself together. “We’re gonna go in and collect as much data as we can and take out the comms array. Cut the bases off from each other, then monitor for messages on open channels to find out where the rest of them are hiding. Unless you have another suggestion?”

“Negative, sir. Sabotaging communication prior to further infiltration is advantageous.” Bucky pulled the map of the region out from under the rest of the files. “Based on previous construction patterns and extant supply lines, the most likely location of new installations would be at these coordinates.” He indicated several points on the map, scattered throughout the area HYDRA called ‘Region Eight,’ both urban and rural.

“Here.” Steve grabbed the laptop and opened up a map he’d created based on the faulty intel. He turned it around for Buck to use. “Go ahead and plot those out, and make corrections to my notes.”

Bucky paused, hands hesitating at the sides of the keyboard. He looked up with the same wide-eyed confusion as before. Steve gave an encouraging nod.

“Go on, Buck. You’ve got inside information. Let’s put it to good use.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky took the laptop. He studied the screen for a moment before diving in, adjusting map points and adding detailed annotations. Steve watched for a while, asking questions here and there, but eventually he just left Bucky to it. There wasn’t much he could contribute until the new data was all there. It was past time for his breakfast, anyway.

He stretched as he rose, detouring to the open space in front of the kitchen counter for a few quick pushups. Then he refilled his coffee, threw on some toast, and mixed up another protein shake. The last two hours had flown by. It was so good, getting caught up in battle plans with Bucky.

For a moment, he’d almost forgotten the underlying hatred fueling the whole campaign. Almost. But every step of the way there was something. His fear of hurting Buck, the hesitation Bucky showed at questioning him, the way Bucky spoke. All those reminders of what they’d done to him, sitting in Steve’s gut like stones in his pocket, weighing him down. Preventing him from just being here and enjoying having Bucky back.

Soon, he told himself. He’d have a proper target soon. Steve ate standing at the counter, making a point not to watch Buck too closely. He didn’t want to make him nervous, or have Buck think he didn’t trust him. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that what Bucky was telling him was accurate. He’d been to some of these bases, and seen the proper layouts for the rest of them. He probably knew more about HYDRA than anyone besides Zola.

Steve’s fingers flexed threateningly against his coffee cup at the thought of that traitorous bastard, at the mess that had been made of SHIELD. Reel it in, Rogers. He shoveled the rest of the toast into his mouth and went to deliver a piece to Bucky along with his shake. It soothed a bit of the rage, to see Buck enjoying real food again.

The package from Stark caught his eye, still sitting in the corner where he’d left it. Natasha had texted yesterday. She was done with her undercover assignment, and she’d been in contact with Tony. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t bluffing or messing with them. Besides the weird prototype gun, nothing in the package had been suspicious in the least. And he had offered mission support. That tablet was probably loaded up with something useful.

Just as Steve began to unpack the new tech, the low beep of the alarm system sounded. Bucky was on his feet in less than a second, already reaching for his sidearm. Steve set the food down and came around to the other side of the counter, adrenaline pumping. Three of the driveway motion sensors had gone off, but there was nothing on video yet. Bucky made toward the porch, freezing in place when Steve waved him down.

“Hold. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

After the drone scare, he wouldn’t put it past Tony to show up in person. For what purpose, he had no idea, but it was probably better to talk first and start shooting later. A huge black SUV rolled past the security camera, driving slower than necessary. It looked like one of the SHIELD-issue armored vehicles. Bucky tensed, resisting the impulse to get outside and go on the offensive. As the car came closer, Steve was able to make out the license plate. He sighed, sagging with relief.

“It’s alright,” he said. “Stand down. Looks like we have a guest.”

It was odd, though, that Stark would use a car instead of just flying out here.

Chapter 49

Chapter Text

The borrowed SUV didn’t clatter or trundle or bounce. It rolled so smoothly over the snow-packed logging trails it was almost disappointing. What was the fun in going offroad in a big f*ckoff armored car if you didn’t get tossed around a little? Leave it to Tony to design a vehicle that took the outdoors out of the equation.

She slowed as she approached the driveway, giving the boys enough time to catch the plates on the entryway camera. They couldn’t see her face through the tinted windows, but the personalized IRNMN8 plates would let them know she was probably a friendly.

The wind whipped her heavy wool coat around her as Natasha climbed out of the car, and she felt appropriately dramatic until her hair smacked her right in the face. She tossed it behind her, hefted her bag over her shoulder, and took a moment to appreciate her past self for finding this place.

It was lovely out here, with all the fresh snow. In the city it all turned to brown mush within an hour, with the traffic and the garbage everywhere. She took a deep breath, letting the scent of evergreens and crisp winter air settle her mind. The past few months had been a sh*tshow, and the long flight and six hour drive didn’t help much. She was really hoping this meeting would go well.

She’d wrapped up the undercover op a few days early and got out here as fast as she could. It was a surprise, of course. Maybe it was a bit mean, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to actually see how well the boys were coping. She’d shut down the audio surveillance as soon as she knew Stark was on the scene; they did not need the side comments that would come from him listening in.

Steve said everything was fine. But he always said everything was fine. He was full of sh*t. A drop-in visit from an unknown agent might set James off, but it was necessary if they had any hope of introducing him to the rest of the team.

She made her way across the yard, avoiding the patches of slush and piles of broken wood. It looked like the results of a couple of elk fighting over territory, but was just two oversized men rolling around in the snow like teenagers. At least they’d been getting some exercise. Rogers went a little nuts when he couldn’t run around and punch things regularly.

She couldn’t see the evidence of his freakout from here. It was visible on the satellite, though, a huge clearing about half a kilometer north of the cabin. Tony was covering it for now, but they really did need to plant some new trees there before the forest cops noticed.

Natasha wasn’t entirely cruel. She knocked on the front door and waited. It only took half a second for Steve’s face to appear in the window, peeking out from behind the curtains. She saw a flash of white teeth and fluffy hair, heard a few muffled words and the beep of the alarm keypad, then the door opened.

“Natasha,” he sighed, tugging his shirt further down over his sidearm. “It’s really good to see you.”

Steve was flushed and tense, but there was no trace of the anger she’d been subject to on the phone. He was probably just glad she wasn’t Tony. His hair was a mess; it looked like he’d been trimming it blind with nail scissors. His clothes were clean, though, and he was freshly shaved. There weren’t any bags under his eyes, and the only lines on his face were those framing the huge smile that had already replaced his Serious Business expression. He held his arms wide, the big oaf, and she leaned into him and let him wrap her up in an enthusiastic hug.

“Hello to you, too,” she said to the wall of muscle that was his chest. “You gonna let me in, or do I have to break into my own safehouse?”

Steve laughed. It shook her whole body. He squeezed tighter for a moment, then let go, moving aside to make way. “C’mon. You’ll have to pardon the mess, we weren’t expecting company.”

She thought he was being a smartass at first, until she stepped inside. It wasn’t quite a Barton-level disaster, but there was a bird’s nest of blankets in front of the stove, a rat’s nest of documents spread over the couch, and a distinct lack of furnishings. A glass of beige sludge sat on the countertop, untouched, next to a single piece of toast. She must have interrupted lunch.

Natasha scanned the corners and doorways, ready to deflect an attack at any moment. But the source of that potential violence was standing perfectly still, smack in the middle of the living room, stormy blue eyes fixed right on her. The Winter Soldier, in the flesh, wearing soft gray sweats and a navy sweater that was two sizes too large for him. Her heart did a weird, stupid thing that she did not deign to analyze. She took two steps into the house, unflinchingly meeting his gaze.

“Dobroye utro, Soldat.”

He didn’t react to the phrase. His eyes flicked across her face, her hands, her waist, assessing for weapons, then behind her, following Steve as he quickly closed the door, reset the alarm, and came to put a reassuring hand on James’ back.

James looked good. Surprisingly good. He stood tall at Steve’s side – well, as tall as one could stand next to Steve Rogers – if not calm then attentive. He hadn’t reached for the gun at his waistband or the knives sheathed under his socks. He either trusted Steve’s assessment that she wasn’t a hostile, or he was confident in his ability to defend his handler. A little too confident. She could still take him, if she had to.

She smiled gently. It wasn’t entirely an act. No matter his state of mind, it was wonderful to see him so healthy. He’d been sounding stronger on the audio, more present, but Natasha was shocked by the amount of personality in his face, the almost lazy roll of his shoulders. He was thinner than he should be, but his eyes were bright and his color was good. Much less pallid than he’d been in DC.

Even his hair looked well cared for. Steve had listened to her about the conditioner, then, even if he got something from the dollar store. She was secretly grateful he hadn’t done more than trim the split ends. This was longer than James had worn it before, but maybe he liked it like that. He wouldn’t say one way or another. The Soldier wasn’t supposed to be concerned with appearances, but Natasha knew how personal hair could be.

She’d been so proud of him when she heard him arguing with Steve over the groceries and asking for touch. James had always been physically affectionate, once he came back to himself. She wondered how much of him was already there without him even realizing it. She set her bag down, letting one layer of the mask fall as she shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the back of the couch.

The couch, which appeared to be all that was left of her furniture. A more thorough assessment of the room revealed evidence of the past months’ violence that hadn’t been apparent at first glance.

“Boys.” She co*cked an eyebrow. “Have you been wrestling in the living room?”

Some damage to the house was to be expected, with all the yelling and crashing she’d heard from the bugs. But every single one of the chairs was gone, and it looked like someone had taken rebar to the floorboards.

Steve scratched at his neck, refusing to meet her gaze. “Um. Just a little bit.”

Natasha flung an arm out dramatically, watching for James’ reaction. “This is real oak! There's thirty acres out there for you two to roll around in. Absolutely ridiculous. I’m going to have to rent a truck and make Clint get the sander out here.”

He didn’t flinch at her sudden movements. She strode closer to Steve, feigning at an inspection of the floor. There was a subtle shift in James’ posture, but he didn’t lash out. Well done, Rogers.

“Sorry, Nat,” Steve said, genuinely contrite. “I’d be happy to help you fix it up. It was just so muddy out there, and we only have so many pairs of pants. Plus Buck’s been having a hard time keeping warm.” He looked over to James, as if he would corroborate Steve’s excuse. James didn’t respond, tracking Natasha’s path across the living room.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “This place is burnt anyway now that Stark knows it’s here. I’m sure the hipsters would love to snatch it up and cover it in chalk paint once you two are done with it.”

She didn’t really give a damn about the floors. She was too busy trying to quiet her inner fourteen-year-old, who was whispering Mishka! like a besotted schoolgirl, as well as her inner god-knows-however-many-years-old, who was screaming James, James, James and trying not to cry. Those two needed to can it. They’d had their turn when she was sobbing in the corner of her apartment at three am with far too much caramel fudge ice cream.

It took a shameful amount of effort to drag her eyes away from him. Natasha dug into the kitchen cabinets, giving them her back. There was no movement behind her save for Steve’s awkward shuffling. She pulled out the tin of tea she’d stashed there years ago and blew off the dust. It wasn’t the real thing, but it was close enough.

She put on the kettle, then turned to ask if either of them wanted any. James was still staring her down, and Rogers had a hand on his wrist. Part comfort, part restraint.

“Tea?”

“I’m good,” Steve said lightly. “I’ve got coffee on.”

So he did. It smelled like Stark’s blend. Of course Tony beat her to the punch. He had robots.

“James?”

She waited for a response, but he didn’t even blink, watching her as if she was a snake in a pile of baby bunnies. He still didn’t know her, then, and despite Rogers’ assurances, he definitely didn’t trust her. After a long moment of silence, Steve cleared his throat.

“That’s you, Buck. James Barnes. Whaddya think? You did okay with cocoa. A little more caffeine shouldn’t hurt.”

James’ eyes shifted over to Steve for a millisecond before he resumed his staring. When he finally spoke, it was just like he’d sounded over the mics. Quiet, a bit rough, and tinged with a thread of… don’t say home, you silly girl. With a very mild Russian accent.

“Ration allocation is at the discretion of the handler.”

The soft voice stood in unsettling contrast to his aggressive posturing, but the content was just more of HYDRA’s bullsh*t. Natasha wasn’t about to get into the food debate with him right now.

“If you say so.”

She pulled down a mug – her second favorite at this house; the best one must have fallen victim to one of James’ episodes – and a half-used bag of sugar. Steve was probably right about the tea. It was unlikely it’d bother James. It never had before. But the cocoa had made him cry, for god’s sake. It was impossible to know what might set him off, mentally or physically, after what had been done to him. She was just grateful Bruce was able to synthesize some appropriate food on short notice.

Natasha leaned against the counter as the kettle boiled, crossing her arms. He’d passed all the little tests, and one of the big ones – her showing up in the first place. The last few times they’d met, he’d tried to kill her immediately. Or incapacitate her, at least. This was already an unbelievable improvement. Time to see how far she could push.

“How have you been, James? Captain Rogers treating you well?”

Again she waited. Again there was no response. Not until Steve rubbed at his back and said, “You can tell Nat anything. She’s a friend. Speak freely.”

James looked skeptical, which was notable in itself, but then he floored her even further by replying with something substantive.

“Affirmative. This asset has surpassed parameters for active status. The Captain…” He turned to Steve, and for a second she saw the ghost of the curious, considerate man she used to know. Steve gave an encouraging nod. James looked back to her and reported, almost defensively, “The Captain has deviated from standard protocol, but his methods are effective. He is an excellent handler.”

A satisfied grin broke through her facade. That wasn’t a coached response. Steve wasn’t egotistical enough to do that kind of thing. James might’ve thought she was here to report back on Rogers’ behavior to some nonexistent superior, but ‘excellent’ was not a word that he’d ever used to describe a handler before. It’d been ‘effective,’ if he was in range of the minders, but more often ‘kozyol’ or ‘mudak.’

Steve was just as surprised as she was, cheeks going pink. He was looking at James like he’d just proposed. “Jeez, Buck. I don’t know about all that.” The hand was back at his neck again, rubbing the skin redder than it already was.

Adorable. Utterly compromised, but adorable. It wasn’t like she could talk. It had taken most of her self-control to stay away this long.

“That’s very good to hear,” she said. “He’s a bit rusty, but I figured he would do.”

She turned her gaze back to Steve, giving him a pointed look. He blushed even harder. James glanced between them, downright quizzical. He was trying to figure out chain of command, to determine if she was Steve’s superior, if he would have to answer to her as well. She didn’t clarify. It would be telling, how he handled the uncertainty.

The whistling of the kettle gave them a reprieve from her interrogation. Natasha poured water over the teabags and stirred in three scoops of sugar. When she turned back around, Rogers had leaned in closer to James, whispering something into his ear, his hand moving in sure circles across James’ shoulders. She supposed she shouldn’t begrudge them some privacy. Damn enhanced hearing. She cleared her throat, and Steve straightened.

“Can I get you anything to eat, Nat? I just had breakfast, but there’s, uh…” He looked helplessly around the kitchen. “There’s peanut butter toast. Some soup. I ate all the sandwich stuff.”

Natasha shook her head. This poor boy, trying to live on convenience store food with his metabolism. She had a couple extra boxes of protein bars in the car, but now that they weren’t fugitives from Stark, she could arrange a few discreet grocery drop offs.

“I’m fine. Got something on the way.” She came around what used to be a breakfast bar and was now just an awkward peninsula between the kitchen and the living room. Taking in the state of the house once again, she sighed, “Well, since you’ve destroyed the furniture, we’ll just have to get cozy.”

She carefully set the laptop and papers on the rug, then settled onto the side of the couch that didn’t bear Rogers’ butt print, tucking her knees into her chest and holding the mug in both hands. It was better to display nonchalance than defensiveness.

Steve edged over to the counter to grab the substance that could charitably be called a protein shake. She knew from experience that it was hard to make that much concentrated soy isolate taste like anything but chalk. He guided James across the room, then took the seat next to her. Judging by the cushion on the floor and the stray brown hairs on the bottom of the couch, James usually sat in front of him. Now, though, he came to attention at Steve’s side, rigid and alert, eyes fixed to the middle distance. A guard dog, not a companion.

When Steve reached up to hand him the glass, James was visibly confused by the conflicting implications – was it time for food, or for defensive duties? He took it, holding it stiffly in front of him until Rogers said, “Go on and eat, Buck. At ease. Make yourself comfortable.”

That was vague enough that Natasha thought it might throw James for another loop, but he stepped back a few paces, not quite leaning against the wall, and started drinking. He was still watching closely, one wrong move away from flinging the shake aside and defending Steve, but he relaxed by an almost imperceptible degree.

She knew it’d been a difficult transition for both of them, but James was adapting relatively quickly to the change in operating protocol, learning to decipher Steve’s non-orders. The physical contact was obviously helping, no matter how strange it might be for him. Maybe she should’ve pulled his hair more often back in Moscow.

“So,” she said, toying with her teaspoon, “what have you boys been up to besides wrecking my house?”

_________________________

The Widow was… [Natasha Romanov, codename Black Widow. Level six target. High threat. Exceptional skill in martial arts, espionage, infiltration, hacking, and manipulation. Known defector: eliminate on sight. Agent of SHIELD: avoid engagement. Designated ally: defer and protect.]

It did not know how to describe her. Physically, she was not imposing [one-hundred-sixty-five centimeters, fifty-seven kilograms] but she held herself with the well-earned confidence of her training.

It knew her voice, from the handler’s phone calls. It knew her face, from his briefing, and from the previous mission. But there was something more. The glint of bronze in the emerald of her eyes, the deep copper of her hair, the crimson bow of her lips, tugged at the gut in a particular way. The same way the technicians’ and the doctors’ had. The same way the Captain’s had. It knew her, but it did not know her.

Her entire attitude set it on edge. So much of it was false, her face and body intentionally schooled into neutrality. She was lying. About what, the Soldier could not be sure. Her words were all technically true, but something was… off.

Part of it – a very loud part of it – felt the impulse to shoot her. [Rifle fire splitting the quiet, tires throwing dust, red and black against arid brown. Target eliminated.] Her sharp gaze followed both the Captain and the Soldier, cataloging every movement. She smiled like she knew all of their secrets. But the Soldier did not have secrets.

The handler had hastily briefed it again before she came to the door. It was not to harm her. She was not a threat. She was a teammate. It still could not determine her exact role. He had called her an ally and a friend, but he deferred to her, especially in regards to intelligence and security.

She was easily the most experienced operative it had ever been briefed on, comparable only to Fury, though she largely performed fieldwork. Was she mission support, or command? Was she a former superior? Was her greeting an attempted command code, or simply that, a greeting? Her arrival at 0952 made the phrase appropriate.

She had been a target, but then, so had the Captain. She had no rank. The Widows were usually solitary operatives. But this one had allied herself with SHIELD, regularly working with the Captain and other operatives. Unless that was a deception as well, a long con to lull them into a sense of safety. She was an enigma, so much about her unknown. Unknowns were dangerous.

The Soldier stayed alert as it consumed the rations, monitoring her movements as closely as she did its own. Keeping the eyes forward, it took one step to the side to place the empty glass on the countertop and free its hands, then resumed its position behind the handler.

The Widow sat close to him, shoulder to shoulder, laughing and touching him at random intervals as he debriefed her about the past two months’ activity at this facility. He met her gaze with soft eyes, bumping his arm into hers. Were they emotionally entangled, as human operatives so often became, or had the Widow employed her skillset to beguile the handler into complacence? He smiled right back at her, seemingly oblivious to her subterfuge.

“… both nearly started shooting, but it turned out Tony had just sent a drone with a package. No idea how a little robot carried that box all this way.”

“Oh,” the Widow said, petting at his knee. “That reminds me. I brought some presents myself.”

She stood, set her empty cup on the floor, and went to her bag. [Two blades at the waist, two at the ankles. Garrote threaded into the right sleeve. EMP weapons disguised in jewelry on both wrists. Taser in the left pocket. Unknown weaponry in luggage. Threat level: high. Defend the handler.] The Soldier stepped forward to put itself between them, reaching for the pistol at its back. The handler’s hand locked around the wrist, holding it in place.

“Bucky,” he said firmly. “Stand down. I trust Natasha with my life. She’s saved it more than once. We wouldn’t be here without her help.”

It lowered the right hand, but did not look towards him as he spoke. It was watching Widow’s movements intently. He was not incorrect. She had every opportunity to cause him harm, especially while the Soldier had been incapacitated by malfunction. They had relied on her security systems and her communications many times. She had not betrayed the handler when he ventured from the safehouse without the Soldier. But it could not dispel the sense of unease that she inspired.

“Don’t bother, Rogers.” She turned around. There were two small packages in her hands, wrapped in matte black paper and tied with red ribbon. Her posture appeared relaxed, but her weight was fixed solidly on the balls of her feet. She looked directly at the Soldier, her eyes meeting its own for a second before it averted its gaze to her chin. [“Dumayesh', smozhesh' sovladat' so mnoy?”] It did not shudder. “It’s the kill order isn’t it? Not Pierce’s. From before.”

The Soldier said nothing. It could not determine the exact source of this impulse. There were so many overlapping imperatives it was impossible to decipher them.

“Buck,” the handler said. “Is that true?”

It glanced down to assess his attitude. It should not be above the handler, but it had to remain mobile for defensive duties. He was not angry, only concerned and mildly confused. “Unknown, sir. Cognitive error. Insufficient data.”

The Widow stepped out of her combative stance and resumed her position on the couch. “Don’t worry, it’ll fade with time. Took me a year to stop wanting to kill Nick, and they didn’t even implant that one directly. Here.” She passed one of the packages to the handler. Every alarm in the Soldier’s head went off at once. It took a deep, intentional breath. He said no threat. He trusted her. She was an ally. “Merry Christmas.”

The handler smiled again. “You didn’t have to do that, Nat. God knows I haven’t gotten anyone anything this year.”

“Can it and open the box, you cornball.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuffed.

The stomach swooped wildly. So she was a superior. It had threatened a superior. That was entirely unacceptable. [Submit for disciplinary action.] But the handler's attitude was so casual. There was none of the necessary deference. No preparations made for an inspection. No formal introduction of the Soldier to a commanding officer. Perhaps that was why she seemed perturbed, why the body insisted that there was something wrong.

Before it could assume the proper position to display respect, the handler tore the paper off, bunching it up into a ball and tossing it to the floor. Beneath it was a plain white paper box. The Soldier nearly leapt forward to remove it from his grasp and throw it out the door, but it redirected the impulse, clenching the fists. This ‘Christmas’ procedure of poorly labeled packages was highly negative.

He lifted the lid to reveal the contents: a set of pencils and a large book bound in plain brown cardstock. A sketchbook. The Widow had delivered more supplies for the drawing exercises. The lungs released all of their air at once, the exhalation almost audible. She took notice, fixing it with an indecipherable look.

“Thank you, Natasha,” the handler said. “This is really great. I’m almost out of pages in the one I brought with me.” He reached out for her hand, and she accepted his touch, squeezing gently for five seconds before she let go.

“I am aware,” she said, her voice flatter than before. “I’ve had to listen to over a dozen hours of you narrating your poses. I’d feel bad for James, but I assume he’s enjoying the attention.”

The handler laughed. The Widow turned her head and rapidly closed one eyelid. A wink. She… winked at it. [“Well hello, soldier.”] It was still trying to force the body into compliance, to present itself for discipline, but that gesture caused the harried cognition to skitter to a halt. What was the meaning of this?

“Your turn, James.”

She held the second package out towards it with a crooked smile. It hesitated, looking to the handler for clarification. If she was a superior, it should obey without question, but this entire situation was so irregular that it could not even fathom an appropriate response. In a fit of desperation, it settled the eyes on the bridge of his nose, trying to let the hue of his irises calm the tumult currently shuddering through its mind. He displayed only amusem*nt and relaxation.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s for you. It’s a gift. You can sit down, if you like, and open it.”

It felt like the world was upside down. The handler and his… supervisor were settled on the couch at ease while it stood above them. There were multiple imminent threats. There was no threat. It should defend the handler. It should obey his orders. It should submit for disciplinary action. It did not know what to do. They were both watching it, waiting for a response. The black package was still hanging in midair, the Widow’s face a mask of patience.

[Sweet Jiminy Christ, just sit down.]

It folded to the floor in front of the handler, unable to vocalize. It controlled the breathing and did not allow the right hand to shake as it gingerly took hold of the package. It was approximately the same size as the handler’s sketchbook. [Thirty by twenty by ten centimeters, one-hundred-fifty grams.] The contents were unknown. Unknowns were dangerous.

The Soldier set it on the knees, glancing from the box to the handler to the Widow, but there were no further orders, only silent expectancy. This was a test of some sort, but it could not determine what the desired response was. The only gifts it could recall were [“Sit. Eat.” – “Well done, Soldat.” – “Got a present for you, kitten.”] not like this.

It untied the ribbon, taking care not to damage it, then cautiously lifted the edges of the paper where they had been taped down. It kept one eye on the handler as it undid the packaging, but his expression did not change. Again, the black paper came away to reveal a white box. It lifted the lid a fraction, half expecting the entire thing to explode. Nothing happened. Removing it entirely, the Soldier found no trip wires or power sources, no fuse or incendiary material, aside from the paper. And fabric.

Six small bundles of fabric, dark gray and blue and green. Thick and soft-looking, rolled into cylinders and tucked into the packaging paper. Closer inspection revealed nothing hidden between the layers and no strange odors. [Minimal threat.] The Soldier offered the open box up to the handler, keeping the head lowered. It felt his hands around its own for a moment, then he reached into the package. The paper crinkled as he unrolled one of the bundles, then came the sound of callused skin over the fibers.

“Oh wow. Those look really nice. Gonna be much warmer than the cheap ones I picked up.” His words were colored with a smile. He pressed the box back towards the Soldier and removed his hands. It stared down into the container. The opened bundle revealed itself to be two pieces of fabric rolled together, each in a tubular shape. There were six pairs of…

“Socks,” the Widow said. “Everyone underestimates the importance of good socks in the winter. They’re yours, to keep.”

[“It’s yours, Buck. Anything you need, anything you want, it’s yours.”]

[The Asset does not own.]

There was no mockery in her tone. It raised the eyes just enough to see her face. There was no duplicity in her expression. Neither of those were reliable sources of data.

She shrugged one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “If you hate them, I’ll wear ‘em, but I think our shoe size is pretty different.” Her own socked feet flexed rhythmically against the handler’s thigh, almost… playful?

She gave no other indication as to what she wanted. It did not– [The Asset has no preferences.] It would not disrespect a… a superior by rejecting a gift. It returned its gaze to the floor and lowered the box back to the lap. There was little else to do but say, “Thank you, ma’am,” and await instruction.

It heard the handler chuckle, and a broad hand came down on the right shoulder, squeezing gently.

The Widow's voice wavered with some constrained emotion when she said, “You’re welcome, James.”

Chapter 50

Chapter Text

The Soldier was dismissed to place the socks in the sleeping quarters with the rest of the clothing and, “Go try ‘em on, Buck.” It removed the standard cotton ones from the feet and cautiously pulled on the new pair. They fit snugly, but were not restrictive. Wool, lined with even more wool in a different texture. The fabric was thick, but not so thick that it could not properly grip the floor and maintain balance.

It had not noticed that the extremities were not at optimal temperature until the plush fabric encased them. The Widow’s gift held the heat of the skin close, and after only twenty seconds the circulation in the toes was improved. It flexed the feet, wondering at the sensation. Soft. Every part of the body was wrapped in softness now, save the hands and face.

It still could not determine what sort of test this might be, if it was actually meant to wear the garments or simply assess the fit. It did not remove them. The Widow might require an inspection.

It made the footsteps audible, shushing across bare wooden floorboards as it returned to the handler’s side. He and the Widow were bent over the computer now, reviewing the intelligence it had assembled earlier. The pulse stuttered, and the feet faltered for half a second before it proceeded to take its position again. With two superiors now monitoring its behavior – both the Captain’s soft, knowing eyes and the Widow’s sharp ones on it – it had to be vigilant to avoid any further violations.

It was still disoriented. They did not follow any known protocol, and the chain of command was not at all enforced. The handler likely had new protocol for this situation, but all he had said so far was “relax, Buck” and “she’s a friend.” It assumed a posture of attention, eyes fixed on the front door.

“...still working on identifying our mysterious funder,” the Widow said. “I couldn’t get a name, but I traced the shell companies back to an anonymous bank account. Something out of Sokovia, of all places.”

“Don’t tell me it’s Doom again,” the handler replied, exasperated.

“Not him. Doom doesn’t play well with HYDRA, and the Sokovians want nothing to do with Doom. They ousted his goons and canceled all of his trade deals. This is a new player. I don’t know what they’re up to, but they were moving a sh*t ton of refrigeration equipment out towards Seattle. They’ve got ties to the old bases on the East Coast, but Tony hasn’t cracked the comms channels yet. We need to hit Portland to find the encryption key for this area, but it’s probably different for the other regions.”

“Who’s working on the East Coast key?”

“Just JARVIS right now. Maria’s planning on sending a team to the new hub whenever they find it, but you wrecked most of the facilities so thoroughly they’re having a hard time triangulating.”

“I got the data you wanted," he argued. Justifying his actions to his superior. "I wasn’t just blowing things up willy nilly.”

“Right. You didn’t smash every single server, and I appreciate that,” the Widow retorted, “But they were under comms blackout, and you didn’t leave anyone alive at the active bases, so there were no fleeing agents to trace. You’re welcome, by the way, for keeping SHIELD off your ass. The higher ups are having a fit.”

The handler flung his hands up in the air. He was still holding one of the files. “I’m not going to apologize, Natasha. You know as well as I do–”

She held up a hand, halting his protests. “I know. I’m not asking you to apologize. I’m just telling you how it stands right now.”

He grunted an affirmation and reached for another document. “But look at these. The schematics were all wrong, if it wasn’t for Buck, we’d be going in totally blind.”

“Hmm.” She took the papers, then pulled the sketchbook containing the Soldier’s diagrams closer. “Are you sure these are accurate? This isn’t a standard layout. The bases in Region Six–”

“I trust Bucky,” the handler interrupted.

The Soldier did not react, but the urge to flinch was strong. He should not show such disrespect. Both of them turned to it now. It remained at attention, keeping the breathing even and the heart rate under control. It had not been able to comply with the disciplinary protocol without interrupting their conversation. The Widow would be angry. There was no way to know if the handler’s mercy was standard practice within this new team, or if he was truly as aberrant as he seemed.

“James,” she said, utterly neutral. “Where did this schematic come from?”

It turned to her, keeping the eyes on her hands. Her fingernails were painted a dark forest green, vivid against porcelain skin. The tongue pressed into the bottom lip as it attempted to return moisture to the mouth.

“Visual data accessed by Handler Davis via internal communications, ma’am. Approximately two-thousand-ten to two-thousand-eleven. Ma’am,” it swallowed compulsively. “This asset submits for disciplinary action.”

She was quiet for seven excruciating seconds before she let out a long, slow sigh [frustration]. Its memory was often unreliable. Perhaps it had been in error. It lowered the head, prepared for the coming correction. It heard papers shuffling, and saw her shift position from its periphery.

“Dzheyms, posmotri na menya.”

[“No, no, in English. I must practice.”]

Her inflection was… Pleasant. It had become unused to hearing Russian that was not marred by the Captain’s accent. It obeyed, meeting her eyes. She was on the edge of the couch now, elbows resting on her knees. Her expression was disarmingly open. The tension that shadowed her gaze before had eased, replaced with something gentler, though still guarded.

“I’m not your superior,” she said. “You don’t need to call me ‘ma’am.’ It’s Natasha, or Agent Romanov if you must. I’m not going to punish you. I just need to know the sources for this information so I can confirm it.”

If she was not a superior, then why did the handler defer to her so easily? And why did she present it with such indulgent materiel? Was it some sort of coercion, an attempt to win its trust? Even if she did not outrank the handler, the Soldier was to defer to all field agents unless instructed otherwise. There was no need for bribery. It felt the mouth twist as it attempted to parse the information, to ascertain the correct chain of command.

The handler’s hand came down again, heavy across the neck and shoulders.

“At ease.”

It complied, letting the arms fall to the sides.

“I’m sorry,” he said inexplicably. “I was joking around with Natasha. I respect her a helluva lot, but she and I work as equals. I want you to as well, remember? You’re not in trouble, we just need to make sure our intel is tight before we move in.”

He had said as much before, that it should speak freely, make suggestions. He had been highly pleased with the prior corrections. It could grasp that she and the handler might collaborate, that his command over it was not subject to her approval, though she had said… It did not matter. She was not the handler. It would trust his instruction. The Widow was watching this exchange with her brows raised, waiting for its response.

It nodded, “Yes, sir,” and turned to the Widow. “Ponyatno, agent Romanova.”

She smiled and it was not false. “Spasibo, Dzheyms. Alright.” She took up the computer, turning it so that the Soldier could see the map, and indicated one of the location tags it had altered. “What about this one? What happened to this depot?”

“Region Eight facility Echo Five-Nine relocated to Olympia in two-thousand-seven,” it reported.

Her eyes narrowed. “How the hell do you know that? You were in cryo in DC in oh-seven, and most of oh-eight.”

It could not pinpoint an exact source for this data. It simply knew. Technicians talked. They complained to each other, spoke of delayed shipments and frustrations with superiors. It did not remember their names or the exact dates, but the information itself had not been wiped. It fixed its gaze to her shoulder, straightening the spine. The posture was almost defiant. It did not know from where the impulse had arisen.

“It listens.”

The Widow gave a mirthless laugh and shook her head, strands of red falling over her cheeks. Her smile sharpened. “They really didn’t know what they were getting into with you, did they?”

More cryptic words. It said nothing. She turned back to the handler.

“How about this: we’ll send a drone to confirm the layout before you go in. If James is right about this one, I’ll look into the rest of it. Not that I don’t trust you,” she glanced down to it, “but a lot has changed since Insight, and we’re low on manpower right now. They’ve revamped all of their security and comms, and I wouldn’t put it past them to alter construction as much as they can on short notice.”

“Alright. That makes sense,” the handler replied. “We’ll work up a plan for both versions and be ready to improvise if we need to.”

She… scoffed? Snorted? She made a sound of disbelief. “Rogers, the day you do anything besides improvise, I’ll be impressed.”

“Hey! Y’know they used to call me The Man With a Plan for a reason.” The words were defensive, but his tone was jovial, his mouth drawn up in a half-smile.

The Widow rolled her eyes, amusem*nt evident in the twitch of her lips. “Yeah, they also used to think canned bologna was the height of culinary innovation.”

“Did you just compare me to SPAM? That’s low, Nat.” He drew his brows down, pretending at offense.

She waved, vaguely indicating his torso. “Well you are an artificially crafted hunk of meat in a colorful wrapper…”

The handler laughed, long and hard. The sound echoed off the bare walls of the facility and made something in the Soldier’s sternum ache. It could hardly follow this exchange, run through with sarcasm and double-meaning, but he seemed… happy.

“God, I missed you,” he said. His hand left its back so that he could wrap the Widow up in another crushing embrace, pulling her forward on the couch.

Her eyes went wide for a millisecond, but she quickly relaxed into the touch. Surprise. So this was not common behavior. They were not emotionally entangled, and perhaps the handler’s effusive affection was abnormal for the rest of the team as well. She accepted it, though, her hands coming to rest on his back, so delicate next to his broad physique. He held her tight for seven seconds before she began to stir.

“Alright, alright Captain Cuddles.” She thumped at his sides [tap, tap, tap] and he released her, still grinning. “Two months in isolation has turned you into a complete freak.”

“You only have yourself to blame.” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “We coulda been on a beach in Boca Raton.”

The Widow raised one eyebrow, very intentionally. “Do you even know where Boca Raton is?”

“On the ocean somewhere, I assume,” the handler shrugged.

She let out an impatient sigh and tapped the Portland file against his bicep. “Come on, focus up. We’ve got a lot of data to get through. James,” she gathered the stack of falsified documents, holding them toward it. “You’re on cleanup. I want notes on all the errors here, with sources where you have them.”

The handler passed over a pen. It took it and set the documents on its knees. Again, he was deferring to her. It was irregular, but the Soldier obeyed the implied order to complete the task as she had assigned it. It had intended to do so before, in any case. It began annotating the files, finishing the work that had been interrupted by the Widow’s arrival. She and the handler continued conferring over its head, pausing intermittently to ask for its input.

This was not entirely unfamiliar. It could recall a select few assignments where its tactical insight was requested. But it had not been so involved in planning missions since… [Cigarettes and vodka, voices raised across the table. “Net-net, eto nikogda ne srabotayet.” “Togda isprav'te eto, durak.” It stood with crossed arms, observing the chaos, until the agents moved away from the map, then silently relocated three of the pins. “Khm. Ved' ono dumayet.”] Perhaps the General. It could not be sure.

The discussion was halted at 1200 for the handler’s second meal. He provided it with a portion of rations and a slice of bread. A new one, fresh from the oven. A reward for its compliance with the Widow, perhaps. It switched the pen to the left hand so that it could consume the rations and annotate the files concurrently. The handler remained in the kitchen, eating at the countertop. It smelled like more of the canned soup.

The Widow sat back on the couch with a plate of toast and another mug of tea balanced on her knees. She was observing it again, her eyes picking it apart as it worked. It attempted to ignore the sensation, but her staring was unabashed. It did not understand what she might want from it, and now that it knew she had no more authority over it than any other field agent, the attention was irritating. The Soldier refocused on the current document, searching the memory for any piece of information it might have neglected.

“You’re writing in Russian.”

It paused, pen hovering over the page. So it was. It looked back through the last few files. The notes alternated between English and Russian every few paragraphs with no discernible pattern. It exhaled quietly. The handler was not fluent. It would have to correct the work.

“It’s fine,” the Widow said, as if anticipating this conclusion. “I’ll be the one handling most of the intel anyway. Just curious. Do you prefer Russian?”

“The Asset has no preferences,” it said, still flipping through the reports. It was odd that it had not noticed this discrepancy. The Soldier inserted a few amendments to the most technical parts of the translations, then returned to the more recent documents, making a conscious effort to finish the annotations in English this time.

The Widow did not reply, but her eyes tracked its hands as it continued writing and drinking. She stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against the ceramic cup. She ate the toast, the bread crunching between her teeth. She crossed her legs, one foot making little arcs side to side, following the flow of the music. Prokofiev. [Violin creaking from the speakers, cane tapping out time on the floor.] The Soldier shuddered involuntarily. It was grateful when the handler returned, distracting the Widow with more questions.

It paid them little mind unless it was addressed directly, only half-listening until the documentation was completed. It sorted the files by relevance, placing those relating to the Portland facility on top, and came to attention. The Widow was the first to notice. The handler was absorbed in something on the laptop, his eyes aglow from the reflection of the screen.

“Finished?” she asked, and yet again it felt as if it was being tested. It bit back on the impulse to reply ‘Da, mem’ and simply handed her the files. The handler looked up then, watching as she reviewed the documents. The more she read, the more emotion began to creep into her face. By the end of the stack, she was smiling, hard and cunning, white teeth showing behind painted lips. [Red, her lips, her hair, her--]She passed the papers to the handler without a word, then slid off the couch to kneel in front of the Soldier.

The Widow extended one hand, slowly, and co*cked her head to the side [interest, curiosity, ???] It said nothing. Unless the handler objected, physical contact was at her discretion. The gesture was so cautious, so intentional. If she meant to make use of the weapons hidden in her clothing, she was moving far too slowly to maintain any element of surprise. Her behavior was confounding, highly irregular, and it could not assign any meaning to it aside from ‘potentially non-threatening.’

She lowered her hand, and the tips of her fingers brushed across the back of the prosthetic knuckles. The touch was so light, her skin so much cooler than the hander’s, that the sensors barely responded.

“This is excellent work, James. Thank you.”

Her voice was low and emphatic, husky yet soothing, like… [spice and sweet jam.] The pressure increased, her fingers wrapping around the knuckles. The Soldier was careful to keep still so that it would not injure her. It glanced up to assess her expression.

She was studying it as if searching for hidden code in a dense text. Her mask had fallen entirely now. There was anger and sadness in her eyes, and there was hope, along with something it could not define. [“Don’t let them take it, James, don’t–”] Too much. It looked away. The physical contact ended after only three seconds.

When she released it, she did not return to her place beside the handler. It heard her hand brush over fabric as she stood, then the padding of light feet across the wooden floor and the gentle closing of a door. The handler’s familiar touch came, directing the hair away from the face.

“Y’okay, Buck?”

It shifted to address him. “Functional, sir.”

“It’s not bothering you, is it? Seeing Natasha?”

It considered for a moment. The Widow evoked unease, and she was difficult to read, but the longer it observed their interactions, the less suspicious it was of her motives, at least in regards to the handler. There was no pain. No unmanageable malfunction. It had reacted irrationally to her presence. Perhaps that was related to the sensation of familiarity, the obsolete orders clanging through its head.

“Negative, sir. It…” It hesitated. “It knows her?” It had not meant for the phrase to come out as a question.

“You remember something?”

He appeared to expect some specific response, but it had no inkling what that might be. It shook the head. “Negative, sir. Only… sensations.”

His mouth turned up into a smile, but his eyes were tight. He stroked over the back of the head as if attempting to soothe some nonexistent pain. “That’s alright, honey. You met her a long time ago. It’s okay if you can’t remember.”

The sound of water came from the cleansing facility. It ran for ten seconds, then shut off. The Widow emerged, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“So,” she said, back to her previous efficient demeanor. “With Stark on our side, we’ll be covered for transport. That car is all but undetectable, and he’ll scramble everything else. Assuming James’ schematics are accurate, this should be in and out. I’ll be on comms, and I’ll get Tony caught up on our surveillance needs.” She turned to the handler, arms crossed and hip co*cked. “Are you waiting for Wilson?"

The handler shook his head firmly. "Not on this one. Let's see how it goes first."

"If you say so," she shrugged. "Think you can handle infil without blowing everything up this time?”

“I’ll do my best.”

He was smiling. Why was he smiling?

“Good. James, you’re on lookout. Keep this idiot out of trouble. You have a rifle?”

It must have been malfunctioning. The primary handler should not be in the field. He was far too valuable. Surely he would designate a secondary handler for combat operations. If he was injured– The heart rate was increasing beyond standard parameters, the internal axis shifting again. The Soldier looked from the handler to the Widow, then back. They said nothing, awaiting its response. It could not even remember what the question was.

“Sir. Please clarify: identity of designated field commander.”

“That’d be me,” he said bluntly.

The mouth opened and closed several times before it managed speech. “The primary handler does not participate in combat, sir.”

He fixed his jaw. [Here we go.] “You heard me. I’m leading the op, and the rest of them going forward.”

Highly, highly irregular. And dangerous. And stupid. [Cognitive error: insubordination.] Even if he was skilled in combat, he had the Soldier now. There was no reason for him to risk injury or death. If the Captain died, it would be left without a proper handler again. It would… [jump right off the beam after him into the blazing hellfire below, consequences be damned.] The concept was unthinkable.

“Sir,” it insisted. “The safety of the handler should not be–”

His free hand cut through the air, sharp and sudden. It shut its mouth immediately. “I’m going, Buck. This is my fight. It’s been my fight since forty-f*ckin’-three. I’m not gonna let them get away with what they did. To you. To SHIELD. Any of it. If you’ve got an issue with that, you can stay here with Natasha.”

[Submit for disciplinary action.]

The handler stared it down, challenging. The steel in his gaze brokered no further argument. There was a strange stirring in the gut. It was not fear. There were no other options. If it was to serve the primary function, it would be under his command. And it would serve the primary function.

“Understood, sir.” He was still watching it, attentive for further misconduct. It felt the urge to prostrate itself, but it remained upright. Forcing the facial features into a passive arrangement, it averted its eyes. “Apologies, sir. This asset submits for disciplinary action. It will comply.”

“James,” the Widow’s voice cut through its awareness. “What did you expect was going to happen?”

It said nothing. It did not report to her. It would not risk further disrespect by speaking out of turn.

The handler rubbed down the spine, as gentle as always. “Bucky,” he said, softer now. “Did you think I was gonna send you in there by yourself?”

“This asset is highly effective at infiltration and sabotage, sir,” it spoke to the floorboards. “Standard asset handling protocol for operations of this nature calls for only one additional operative at the extraction point. Expected mission completion time within given parameters: twenty minutes maximum.”

From its peripheral, it saw him shake his head. Did he not believe that it could complete the mission? It had yet to prove itself in combat for this handler. His opinion of it was no doubt colored by the severe malfunctions he had witnessed. He moved his hand, up to the back of the neck, and gripped firmly. A rivulet of calm flowed over the apprehension.

“I know you could do it alone. It’d be damn impressive, I’m sure. But that’s not how we operate. This is your first op with me. Your first time going up against HYDRA since you escaped.” The Widow scoffed, but the handler ignored her. “I’m not gonna throw you to the wolves with no backup. I’ve got your back, and I trust you to have mine.”

It lifted the head, unintentionally meeting his eyes for half a second. The emotion it saw there was so intense that it could barely process it. He meant every word he had said. Was this how it had been before? If the fragments of memory proved true, he had been both handler and field commander, but it had not expected that he had held both roles concurrently.

The arrangement was irregular, but something about it felt… correct. The Soldier had expressed interest in seeing him in the field again. It seemed it would get that chance very soon.

“Understood, sir.”

_____________________________________________________________

Natasha waved off Steve’s offer of the second bed, making up a place on the couch with some of the many blankets James had appropriated. The stupid part of her wanted to crawl across the floor and bury herself in Mishka’s arms, wind herself up in him until she knew nothing but the heat of his body. But Mishka wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for a very long time. And James didn’t know her, not really.

Steve would probably let her into his bed. He was sweet like that. But they needed their privacy, and so did she. As she adjusted the blankets, the scent of cheap conditioner, woodsmoke, and sweat billowed from the fabric.

She was beginning to regret not bringing vodka.

Steve was made of stronger stuff than she was, that was for sure. She’d listened to James’ nightmares and tearful begging for weeks now, but being here, watching him shift from defensive to subservient in an instant, broke her heart in ways she hadn’t thought were possible anymore.

Her little test had backfired on her. Once he’d decided she was a superior instead of a potential threat, he turned into a completely different person. She’d never in her life imagined James – sweet and caring but hopelessly foul-mouthed James – would call her ‘ma’am’ and cower in front of her. His facial expressions alone were enough to shatter her composure. He was just so vulnerable.

Of course he’d feared reprimand in the Red Room. They all had. But he’d never been like this. What they’d done to him after she lost him had broken him even further. Only a few traces of the old James were visible past the high walls of the programming.

The phrase had been on the tip of her tongue: prosypaysya, Mishka. She couldn’t do that to him. She’d heard how much it hurt him when Steve had tried to force his memories. One careless word could take him apart entirely. It must be ridiculously difficult for James to even question Steve, much less fight back when he disagreed with their plans. But he did it anyway. He was so damn strong.

She sighed and shifted, trying to get comfortable. The couch was dramatically lopsided now, but she’d slept in far worse places. As soon as the boys settled down, she’d be fine. They were still milling around the bathroom, Steve narrating their routine.

He didn’t usually do that, but James was unsettled, nearly at his limit after all the shocks today. After the revelation of Steve being in the field, he’d curled into a tight little ball of compliance, silent unless he was responding to a direct question. He was waiting for a punishment that wouldn’t come. Steve kept one hand on James’ neck the entire time, trying to bring him back down, and now he was chattering on about something totally inane – different flavors of cocoa, of all things – while he combed James’ hair.

Mishka had done that for her so many times, fixing her braid while he spun fanciful stories. Or James, telling her about a cute cat he’d seen on a mission that week. He’d loved animals. He’d actually brought one of them back to base. Natasha had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. The Winter Soldier, late for extraction because he was trying to rescue a stray kitten. He’d earned himself a session in the chair and two days in isolation for that, which was merciful by their standards.

James was so kind-hearted. A warm refuge in a very long, very cold winter. How such a man had been molded into the most brutal weapon on the planet… Well, she knew how it’d been done. She’d seen his bare back today, just a brief glance through the bedroom door. Aside from the persistent scarring around his shoulder, he was pale and unblemished. His enhancements erased almost all evidence of what they’d done to him, but she knew the marks were there, lashed across his mind deeper than any whip could reach.

“Idi syuda, Soldat.”

They’d moved to the bedroom, but the door was cracked, making Steve’s abysmal Russian audible. Fabric shifted. James kneeling, shuffling into position. The mattress creaked. Steve leaning over, curling himself around James protectively. She’d listened to them go through this dance a hundred times now.

“Vse v poryadke. Ty v bezopasnosti. Nakazaniya net. You didn’t do anything wrong. I know today was hard. I didn’t realize… I should’ve made it clear before that I’d be going out with you.”

The first time she’d heard this, her eyes had stung, some weak, childish part of her imagining someone saying that to her – with much better pronunciation, of course – when she was still fresh out of the programming and running scared. It was over a year before she'd met Clint, with his disarming smile and suspicious offer of a safehouse. Maybe she should crawl into bed with Steve. Let him brush her hair and tell her everything was okay. James would probably implode from confusion and jealousy.

James mumbled something in reply, too low to make out.

“It’s okay. Natasha’s not upset. You were just trying to protect me, we understand. Nobody got hurt. There were a lot of surprises, but you did so good today.” Another unintelligible response, a quiet gasp, and Steve went on, “Net. Net, dorogoy. Prosto dyshat'. C’mon, baby. Just breathe.”

There was silence for a long time then. She thought about creeping over to the doorway and peeking through the crack. She’d never seen the full tableau, just heard James’ muffled sighs and Steve’s steady comfort, intense devotion ringing through every word. She always pictured them trying to burrow under each other’s skin, Steve holding tight to James' hair like a lifeline, James hiding his face in a sturdy shoulder and letting himself fall apart.

She almost regretted being the cause of that. She’d pushed him a lot, but it was necessary. He’d be alright, and hopefully he could come to trust her after this. The mattress creaked again.

“Think you can try and get some rest?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was unlikely James would actually sleep with a relative stranger in the house. Natasha could try to be as non-threatening as possible, but even going to the bathroom in the night might rouse his suspicion.

She dug her phone out of her pocket and stared at her contacts. She could call Clint. He was probably still awake, even though it was almost 1AM in New York. But the porch was maybe the only place she wouldn’t be overheard, and that was doubtful. The boys should be resting, not trying to ignore her phone calls. It was freezing out there, anyway, and she’d finally gotten the blankets how she wanted them. She sent him a text instead.

Emergency feelings management protocol.

He replied right away with a picture of Lucky laying on the disaster that was Clint’s living room floor, his legs sprawled out in sleep. What a goof. Natasha smiled into the pillow and sent back a string of emoji with an incriminating number of hearts in it.

How she’d managed to end up with so many good people in her life, after all she’d done, after who she’d been, she would never understand. She could only wish the same for James. If anything of who he was was left, which it clearly was, he’d have no problem. And he had Steve in his corner, which was worth a hell of a lot. Damn. Steve was in her corner, too. And Clint, the beautiful idiot who'd risked his life to bring her in. How dare they have faith in her humanity.

Her phone buzzed with another text message. Clint was now detailing the entire plot of the horrible sitcom he was watching. Natasha wrote a thick paragraph in response, dissecting every character’s motivations and bitching about plot holes. She was going to kiss his stupid face so hard when she got back.

Chapter 51

Chapter Text

The Widow brought more weaponry. Four long-range rifles, six submachine guns, a dozen handguns, one shoulder-fired grenade launcher, one anti-aircraft weapon, plentiful ammunition, and a healthy supply of explosives. Its assessment of her improved dramatically when she revealed this cache from the back of the armored vehicle. It could not help running the hands over the M16A4, a thrill tingling up the fingertips and into the mind. The mouth twitched upwards. Highly positive.

“Don’t get too excited,” she chided. “You’re not allowed to set these off out here. We need to keep it quiet. HYDRA doesn’t know we’re in the area, and my life is much easier with a stable base of operations.”

“Ponyatno, agent Romanova,” it said, eyes affixed to the rifle.

“Good luck, Nat,” the handler laughed. “I think that one belongs to Bucky now.”

[The Asset does not own.]

“He can have it. I’ve got a whole warehouse full of reclaimed SHIELD sh*t, and Stark is already on another inventing bender coming up with ridiculous new gear for everyone.”

“Better that than an actual bender.”

The Soldier suppressed an irregular noise, exhaling shortly through the nostrils. It should not express disdain for the technicians, but Stark had been a serious threat to the handler. For that to suddenly change with one phone call was extremely suspicious. The energy weapon he sent was also impractical, and had caused the handler distress. It did not trust him.

The Widow leaned against the bumper, catching its eye. “You good on inventory?”

“Da.”

“Alright. Pick your favorites and take them inside. I know you’re going to want to take them apart at least four times before we head out.”

[The Asset has no preferences.]

It glanced over to her. Her arms were crossed, and she was smiling that knowing smile, but at this moment it did not inspire unease. How she was aware of its protocol for weapons checks, it did not know. But she was correct. It nodded and selected weapons which would be most effective for the upcoming mission: the M16A4 along with a Beretta PM12 and two Glock models.

The current garments did not have appropriate weapons storage. Before it could even attempt to arrange them on the body, the Widow threw a bundle of black leather and nylon at it. The Soldier caught it in the right hand. Straps and holsters, as well as a pair of night-vision goggles. She was confusing, but she was well prepared.

“Come on. You can fondle the grenades later.”

She closed the trunk, forcing it to step backwards with a pile of guns and accessories balanced awkwardly in its arms. The eyes narrowed involuntarily. The handler caught the expression and laughed again, his hand landing on its back. Highly irregular.

_________________________________________

It did not sit in the chair for protocol implantation. It did not feel the grasping, gloved hands of the technicians placing the needle in the arm. It did not receive additional nutrient infusions, nor the jolt of pharmaceuticals to the heart and brain. It did not hear harsh whispers or barked orders echoing through concrete halls.

It sat in the warm safehouse and drank the liquid rations and chewed slowly through small portions of bread. It listened to the Widow and the handler’s idle conversation. The handler played with the hair and pet the back it as it cleaned and checked and reassembled the weapons. They were in excellent condition.

The technician confirmed the layout of the Portland facility remotely and surveilled for two days to provide an optimal window for infiltration. The communications devices were tested and fully functional. The tac gear was repaired and ready. Mission time was set. Everything was prepared that could be prepared.

One hour before mobilization, the handler took it aside to confirm its status. He stood with his arms crossed, his expression severe.

“You sure about this, Buck?”

“Affirmative, sir. Cognitive functionality: seventy-eight percent. Physical functionality: eighty-one percent. Prosthesis functionality: eighty-nine percent. Cognitive malfunction reduced in frequency and severity. Minimal interference expected. Functionality adequate for moderate field work, estimated up to seventy-eight hours.”

“Confirm mission parameters.”

“Monitor infiltration and provide cover fire. All agents of HYDRA are to be eliminated on sight. All other casualties are to be avoided. Nonlethal engagement only with non-HYDRA operatives. Stealth is to be given priority. Avoid detection. Leave no evidence.”

“That's right, sweetheart.” His eyes were hard, but his voice fond. He nodded toward the spare bed, where the Soldier’s tac suit lay ready. “You need a hand with your gear?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Suit up, then.” He thumped the right shoulder heavily and left the room.

It removed the soft cotton garments, folded them, and placed them on the bed. A pair of the new socks were laid out. Thick, warm wool that would cushion the feet against the worn soles of the boots. It applied those first. Then the compression garments, smelling not of pungent disinfectant, but the cleansing agent from the safehouse washing machine. Pants, belt tightened beyond the usual hole, then boots.

It put the one-sleeved leather jacket on and zipped the first closure. The material hung loose around the waist. The Soldier pulled the straps snug, tucking the extra length beneath the buckles. It wrapped the holsters around the legs and back and tightened them into place.

Next, the gloves. Not the stolen civilian garments, but the fingerless leather pair designed for weapons handling. The night vision goggles were hooked onto the belt, followed by four pistols in their respective holsters, eight knives in their sheaths, and the Beretta in the harness across the back.

It rolled the shoulders and initiated a recalibration cycle. The sensation transformed into a shiver of anticipation, rippling up the spine from the left shoulder and lighting up the skull. It could not recall ever being awake for so long before a mission. It had feared that the handler’s indulgent treatment might dull its instincts, that it would be less effective without the pharmaceuticals, but every sense was sharpened, and the limbs were steady. A gun, polished and loaded, the action made no less smooth by a warm, dry safe.

It took the combat mask in hand, running the fingertips over the familiar polymer for a moment before slipping it over the face. The cognition quieted. The heart rate slowed, and the breath came sure and even. It knew this better than it knew anything else. The scent of leather and gun oil. The weight of the jacket across the torso. The weapons at the ready. It was more than satisfactory. Beyond good. It was the fundamental purpose, the primary function. And the Soldier would serve it well.

It emerged from quarters, treading silently in spite of the heavy boots and crooked floorboards.

“Gotov, ser.”

The handler – commander, he was the commander now; it was evident in every line of his body – his entire attitude was changed, back straight, eyes sharp, his movements efficient and sure. He wore a generic SHIELD tac suit with the insignia removed. There were two pistols holstered at his belt, the Glock 17 and the questionable StarkTech energy weapon. The shield lay by the door, the formerly gleaming surface painted matte black. His eyes dragged from the Soldier’s boots to its face, cool and assessing. After five seconds of silence, he raised his eyebrows.

“You need the mask?”

“Vashe usmotreniye, ser.”

“Lose it. You’re staying outside, anyway.” The Soldier unclipped the buckle and pulled the mask from its face, hooking it into a belt loop. The commander addressed the Widow, who was ensconced in a large red blanket on the couch with two laptop computers, a tablet, and three cellphones scattered across her lap. “You good, Nat?”

She looked up with an impish smile. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

He slung a duffel over his shoulder, then took up the shield. “See you in a few hours.”

______________________________________________

Steve thought it might be upsetting, seeing Buck dressed in the Soldier’s gear. That he might feel the same twist in his gut he had in DC, the horror when he’d realized it was Bucky under that heavy black leather. That he might be disgusted, asking Bucky to slip back into the blank-faced weapon HYDRA had made of him. He still didn’t like the mask. But Steve wasn’t horrified, and he didn’t end up stuck in the past.

No, he’d expected a lot of different feelings at seeing Bucky kitted out for combat again, but rabid possessiveness had not been one of them.

Bucky looked dangerous. A bloodthirsty thrill ran through Steve, knowing that all the pain HYDRA had inflicted was about to be turned right back around on them. They’d see the result of years of their ‘training’ now, and it’d be the last f*ckin’ thing they saw. Some dark, twisted part of him understood how men might become tainted by having this kind of power at their command.

But he knew – under all the menace, the nearly inhuman grace and the perfect aim and the icy stare – he knew it was Bucky. And Steve would sooner shoot himself in the head than use Bucky like that.

The raging thing inside of him snapped its jaws and howled for revenge, but it was not entirely made of ice. The possessiveness grew from love, the anger fed by the hot tears of grief. Neither of those were something Bucky’s tormentors could ever claim of themselves.

Maybe it was a bit soon, after the flashbacks and panic, but Bucky insisted he was ready. He was physically fit and as stable as someone could be after all he’d been through. And Steve knew how it felt to be benched when your whole body was itching to do something.

As much as he resented Fury’s games and SHIELD’s duplicity, without that first mission, he’d likely have gone mad with inactivity after he woke up, cold and alone in a strange time. Bucky’s context was different, but he was dealing with a huge shift in his own framework.

Steve had seen the eagerness for combat, the way training focused Buck’s energy and inspired his confidence. He’d seen the flash of anger when he’d told Bucky that HYDRA took him. He’d seen the dedication to the mission, the keen intelligence at work. Bucky understood the risks, probably better than anyone. And he wanted this. Steve wouldn’t take that away from him.

A sharp smile tugged at his lips as he started up the car, Buck a quiet, solid presence at his side. It was good to be back in action.

______________________________________________

It was not shoved into the rear of the vehicle. There were no restraints, no batons primed and pointed at it, no heavy glares tracking its every move. The Soldier sat in the passenger seat and kept watch while the commander drove. The windows were tinted. The plates had been replaced with standard Oregon state ones. The technician would erase their presence from any surveillance.

Four hours in transit, winding through mountains under cover of darkness. They passed unnoticed. Oversized utility vehicles seemed common in this area. Theirs, on the surface, was not out of the ordinary. The commander was less talkative now, but still cordial. The new phone the technician had provided connected to the vehicle’s audio system, and he played music the entire drive. Shostakovich. It was fitting.

They arrived at the designated coordinates at 0154, three kilometers from the communications facility, in the middle of another vast forest. The air smelled of evergreens and impending rain. The wind was steady, the waxing moon hidden in cloud.

The commander put on a dark helmet and adjusted his gloves, affixing the shield to his back. The Soldier slung the M16A4 over its shoulder and collected additional arms from the Widow’s cache. It was unlikely that explosives would be required for this mission, but it was better to be prepared for all eventualities.

It followed the commander north for two kilometers, then, at his signal, split off to the west to take the higher ground. The vantage was selected and the rifle assembled in less than two minutes.

“Aktiv na meste.”

“Rogers, in position. Everybody clear on the plan?”

“Da, ser.”

“Yes, for the twentieth time,” the Widow groused. “This is a cakewalk.”

“Thanks for jixing it.”

“Why am I even here?”

“To interface with Tony so I don’t strangle him.”

“Chatter, Rogers.”

“Yes, ma’am. Heading in.”

The comms went silent. It watched through the scope as a shadowed figure emerged from the southern side of the clearing [the Krauts would never see them coming.] The commander bypassed the gate using the security code the Soldier had provided and scaled the exterior of the facility.

The communications hub was disguised inside of a disused water tower, the rough, aged concrete providing easy handholds. He made his way to the selected entrance, an unmonitored maintenance hatch halfway up the side of the tower, and shoved inside.

Six point three minutes elapsed. It scanned the perimeter for movement, observed the exits, and kept the ears sharp for incoming aerial craft. The forest was quiet, save for the skittering of small animals and the call of an owl several kilometers to the north.

At the seven minute mark, exactly on schedule, the lights blinking along the top of the tower went out. The commander had accessed the main array and shut it down. [Remaining objectives: extraction of data, elimination of the staff, exfiltration.] The Soldier readjusted its grip on the rifle, prepared for the resident technicians to sound an alarm at any moment. There were several muted thumps on the comms, but no raised voices, and no klaxon.

“Data transfer initiated,” the commander whispered. “You getting this, Nat?”

“It’s live. Two minutes.”

“Copy.”

Forty-one seconds of silence, followed by the sounds of a struggle and the familiar resonance of the shield impacting organic material.

“Five down. Two on the move, heading down the main stairwell. Heads up, Buck.”

It angled the rifle towards the southern entrance. As expected, the door slammed open twelve seconds after the commander’s order. It stilled the breath, stilled the heartbeat. Exhale. In the crosshairs, men became targets, and targets became corpses.

“Tseli unichtozheny.”

“Thirty seconds. One more goon on site.”

“Roger that.”

A gunshot exploded in its right ear, distorted by the microphone. Close range, handgun. The commander cursed. Vibranium clanged against concrete. [The safety of the handler–] It was to remain in position. The Soldier suppressed the physiological response and shifted the scope back to the top of the tower. No visible movement. Ten seconds of heavy breathing, then a final thud.

“All clear.”

There was an expected staff of eight. Unless the technician was incorrect, there would be no more enemy agents inside. It exhaled and checked the perimeter again. No incoming.

“Transfer complete.”

“Cleanin’ up and comin’ out.”

Six more shots. The commander laying false evidence. HYDRA would not expect him to be in this region, nor to use a gun. He exited through the main doors, his duffel burdened with additional physical data. The Soldier guarded his retreat until he was safely under cover of the canopy. It waited for ten minutes for any indication of enemy detection. There was no sound. He was not followed. The lights of the tower remained off.

[Mission success. Report to rendezvous.]

It disassembled the rifle, collected the spent shells, and made its way back down the ridge.

The commander was leaning against the vehicle, rapidly consuming a ration bar. There was no evidence of injury. No blood on his suit, no visible wounds, not even a bruise. His hair stuck at odd angles where it had been disturbed by the helmet, and his posture spoke of satisfaction and confidence. The Soldier ensured the footfalls were audible as it approached. He looked up from his phone with a wide smile.

“Hey, Buck.”

“Ser.”

[Initiate weapons check and inventory.]

It folded to its knees and laid the case containing the disassembled rifle on the ground. It removed the Beretta and pistols from their holsters, the comms from its ear, and the ammunition, grenades, and blades from its belt, arranging them in appropriate order.

[Report for debrief.]

The fingers were threaded together behind the head, and the eyes fixed to his boots.

“Gotov otvetit', ser.”

His stance shifted, dirt crackling beneath his feet. The commander pocketed his phone and came towards it. Easily, sedately, a bit of swagger to his step.

As the clarity of mission focus ebbed, a sudden swell of uncertainty overtook it. It did not know his protocol for debrief or post-mission maintenance. He had rejected the secondary function before, but now, with his blood hot and the thrill of victory on him… It would not anticipate his response. The Soldier had executed its role to his specifications. It had performed well. Perhaps he would be gentle, use it quickly and be done. It remained still and impassive.

Fingers threaded through the hair, sliding under its palms to reach the back of the head. [“Open up. Get it wet.”] The commander’s hands were bare, gloves hanging from his pocket. His nails raked lightly across the scalp, and sensation trickled down the neck. He cupped its jaw with his other hand as he bent to look it in the face, the scent of gunpowder and perspiration heavy on his skin.

“Look at me.” His eyes, pupils wide in the darkness, tracked over its features. [Shh, the guys are still up.] The smile still lingered on his lips, though it was softer now. “You with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At ease.” It lowered the arms, mindful of the commander’s position. He took the opportunity to spread his fingers further, encompassing nearly the entirety of the parietal. Something under the sternum fluttered with warmth. “You did well, soldier. We got everything we needed. No debrief, unless you have something new to report.”

“N-negative, sir.”

He scrubbed his thumb across the cheek. “Breathe, sweetheart. Everything’s okay. Vso khorosho.” It inclined the head in acknowledgement and complied, exhaling slowly. The cycle continued for one point eight minutes, the commander stroking along the back of the head in time with its breathing. After it had calmed to his satisfaction, he shifted and nudged at its shoulder.

“We should get a move on. They’re gonna notice the tower’s out pretty soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

It rose, replacing the knives and pistols in their holsters. The rest of the weaponry was stowed in the proper order in the trunk. Again, it was directed to the passenger seat.

When they left the cover of the forest, the commander drove cautiously at first, doubling back and watching for tails, but there was no suspicious activity. The roads were largely unoccupied. The music played, almost lost to the roar of the engine and the crush of gravel under the tires.

His hand hovered over the middle console for a brief second. He did not force the head down or place its hands on his body. He simply grasped the knee, exerting just enough pressure to be felt through the heavy canvas.

“You’re okay, Buck. We’ll be back soon.”

It attempted to focus on the touch, to still the churning of the emotional response, but it could not shake the sense that something more was expected of it. [“Show the boys how much you appreciate them, Soldier.”] A prickling sensation overtook the extremities, as if it was coming from cryo storage and adjusting to the warm air. The pulse was too fast. It sat rigidly in the front seat and fixed the eyes out the window. The cognition skittered between observation and abortive anticipation. The commander’s hand tightened on its leg, solid and warm.

__________________________________________

“Well, Rogers, looks like you’re capable of stealth after all.”

The commander deposited the duffel in front of the Widow and rolled his eyes. He headed directly to the kitchen and tore into a box of ration bars, consuming one in two bites and opening another immediately.

“Gee, thanks,” he said, still chewing. “Glad to know you have faith in me.”

The Widow’s facial expression indicated disgust. The commander swallowed the last of the third bar.

“Buck,” he turned to address the Soldier. “Go get changed. I’ll get your… well, breakfast I guess. I dunno what time it is.”

He shrugged and deposited the ration wrappers in the refuse container. The clock above the stove clearly stated 0618.

It spared a glance at the Widow as it moved to the sleeping quarters. She was once again immersed in the screens of the many devices, a cup of tea in her lap, paying the Soldier no mind.

It placed the gear into the closet and laid the tac suit across the bed for inspection. There was no damage, only a few patches of mud where it had lain on the forest floor. After re-dressing in the soft cotton garments, it retrieved the cleaning supplies and brought the bundle of leather and canvas into the sitting area, settling in the far corner to allow the Widow a wide berth.

The handler passed it a glass of rations, then went to the sleeping quarters himself. He emerged moments later wearing his own leisure clothing.

“Any news yet?” he asked the Widow as he filled a mug with coffee.

“We’ve ID’d five new bases from the message logs. Tony’s sorting through the shipping manifests for anything more exciting than guns and construction equipment. Mostly they’re holed up and stocking up on ammo while they work on recruitment. A hundred new little wannabe fascists in the last two months. Now we just wait for the rats to scamper and follow them to the nest.”

The handler grunted, whether in acknowledgement or dissatisfaction it was not clear. He went to stand behind the couch to assess the data. “What about that one?” He pointed to something on the screen.

“Weapons development. This shipment came in from Algeria, probably old military supplies, but they’re not distributing. Might be working on something new. Looks like chemical weapons.”

“Bump it up. I wanna take those out before they start messing with civilians.”

“Noted.”

The Widow typed away. The commander glared over her shoulder at the computer. The Solder spent longer than necessary scrubbing at the knees and elbow of the tac suit. It was restless, anticipating the secondary function or cryo storage or… anything but this strange peace.

It knew there would be no cryo, but the body craved the surety of the chamber, the clear signal that the mission was done. It had served its purpose. The handler was satisfied. Why was it in this warm place with soft fabrics and soothing hands simply sitting idle and– No. This was the new protocol. The Captain said.

There was nutrition and a security system and an additional agent to aid in defense. There was no reason for the chattering apprehension that threatened to overwhelm its cognition. Perhaps this was why Commander Rumlow often initiated recreational use after missions. [“Need it don’tcha, kitten. Can’t settle down without somethin’ in ya.”]

Bringing the mind back into compliance, it exhaled slowly. It folded the clean suit and set it against the wall, then finished up the rations. The handler watched as it rose to place the empty glass in the sink.

“You wanna get some sleep?”

It felt no need for rest. The insistent energy of an active mission still hummed through the veins. It had hardly exerted itself. It almost seemed a waste to deploy the Soldier for such a task. But it had been present to defend the handler. That was necessary. If he insisted on being in combat, at least it could be there to guard him. [Someone has to watch his six.]

“Unnecessary, sir. It is capable of continued function.”

He looked it up and down, easily reading the tension in the body. “Yeah, me neither.” His head co*cked toward the front door. “Let’s go break some stuff.”

Physical training would be useful. It would allow release from this ever-tightening coil of unspent energy. It went to fetch the boots.

Chapter 52

Chapter Text

Three days passed while the Widow and the technician awaited further communications from the disparate cells. It slept, waking every hour or so in order to maintain awareness of the Widow’s movements; she never presented a threat to the handler. It consumed the rations. It provided what insights it could to their plans. And it trained, moving through hand-to-hand forms or grappling with the Captain – out of doors now, to avoid further damage to the facility.

The next target was a large cache of weapons development materials outside of Boise [Facility Omicron Five-Two,] only fifteen kilometers from the Soldier’s estimated location. It would be on the ground for this operation, working alongside both the commander and the Widow. [Mission parameters: eliminate all HYDRA agents. Set explosive charges for maximum destruction of weapons components. Defend the Captain and the Widow.]

They still had the advantage of the enemy’s ignorance. It was unsure how long that would last. HYDRA was fractured more dramatically than before, many of their members revealed and apprehended by law enforcement, or forced underground. Each new cell was isolated, operating nearly independently, only coordinating enough to disseminate orders from those attempting to establish themselves as Heads. Eight technicians eliminated in the night could be attributed to a rival faction. An entire facility dispatched in the commander’s signature style would be more difficult to disguise.

This time, the Widow drove. The Soldier was given the choice between the passenger seat and the rear. It elected to sit in the rear, keeping her in its sights while it completed final weapons checks. Guns and explosives were spread across the back seat, shifting precariously as she sped down rugged backroads. Her driving was even more concerning than the commander’s. She seemed to find enjoyment in jostling the contents of the vehicle as much as possible.

At one point she took a turn so sharp that the commander was forced to steady himself against the dashboard, hissing, “Jesus, Nat!” Several grenades rolled into the floorboards. The Soldier glared at the rearview mirror and held the gun it was attempting to reassemble tight against the legs. She cackled in response, grinning wide and whipping the wheel back around with a screech of tires.

“C’mon, boys. Where’s your sense of fun?”

“I left it in an elevator in DC,” the commander grumbled, sounding vaguely nauseous.

She gave him an assessing look, then accelerated. It could not even say that this was irregular. Commander Rumlow had treated tactical vehicles like his own personal toys. At least now it was allowed a seatbelt.

They arrived at 2137, nearly an hour ahead of schedule. The Widow activated a surveillance array that must have been built into the vehicle – Stark’s doing, glowing holographic screens leaping from the dashboard – and checked the movement of personnel. All was as expected. Comms and weapons were distributed, and the commander and the Soldier were ejected at the drop site at the southernmost gate. The Widow relocated the vehicle to the designated evac position point six kilometers away at a much more sedate speed. They would meet her in the first level after she completed her own infiltration. She would not be detected. She was a highly skilled operative. [She was a goddamn manic.]

It slung the duffel over its shoulder, affixed the combat mask, and sank into mission focus. The landscape was different here, wide, open plains giving little cover, the air dry and cold. They approached in the shadow of a few sparse trees. This facility had minimal defenses, relying on its remote location to keep it protected, rather than a large contingent of guards. The commander signaled, and the Soldier scaled the fence, leaping over the snarl of razor wire at the top and landing with a muffled thump in the bare dirt on the other side. It crept eastward until it reached the guardhouse. One lone operative sat in the little hut with her feet up, distracted by her phone. [Minimal threat.] She was dispatched easily and her body stowed under the desk. The Soldier input the override codes for the alarm system and unlocked the gates.

The commander intercepted it outside. It gave a single nod. Objective complete. He nodded back with an approving smile and jogged off toward the western door. The Soldier went northeast. It eliminated two more guards in near-silence, only the scuffling of falling bodies disturbing the chill night air. It sheathed the bloodied knife and climbed the siding to reach the third floor. A crash echoed from the other end of the building, followed by the clang of metal and raised voices. [Here comes the cavalry.] The commander was inside. It used the distraction to break a window and stepped into the lofted storage area, pistol at the ready. No movement.

The Soldier swept the upper level. There were no operatives here, the majority of them engaged by the commander’s violence downstairs. His shield sang through automatic weapons fire as the Soldier laid explosives and arranged the most sensitive materials for maximum destruction.

It quietly reported, “Vtoraya tsel' dostignuta,” into the comms, then swung down from the loft into the second level. There were enemy agents here, six in total, all minimally armed, rushing around in an attempt to salvage their data. [Threat level: low.] Technicians with little combat experience. With samples and needles and vials and gloved hands and test it again. It did not know their faces. It did not matter. Each of them fell under its hands in turn, barely aware of its presence until the knife found their throats. It left consoles and steel tables spattered in blood, and the heart purred with satisfaction.

As it initiated a data transfer to the Widow’s indicated IP, boots clanked up steel stairs and something clattered across the floor. Grenade. It kicked the charge into the adjoining hallway and ducked behind a heavy console. There was a low click, and vapor hissed through the door. Chemical, not explosive. The Soldier assessed the incoming agent. [Two weapons, one at the ready. Hands shaking, pupils wide behind his protective goggles. Threat level: low.]

A knife slid from the belt and left the fingers. The agent screamed and dropped his pistol, clutching his injured hand to his chest. It rose to finish inputting the command on the console, then strode through the cloud of gas and broke his neck with a swift movement of the left hand. When the Widow confirmed, “Package received,” it cleared the remaining rooms and set more charges.

“Tret'ya tsel' dostignuta. Perekhodit na pervyy uroven'.”

The commander did not respond. It heard his breathing and the sounds of hand to hand combat. The Widow was silent, her comms muted entirely. The noise from the first level had died down, but there were still sporadic gunshots and shouted orders.

It retrieved the knife, drew the Beretta, and swung down the stairway. Four agents were clustered behind a steel shelf, firing on the commander from their impromptu barricade. A flash of anger cut through the mission focus. They were threatening the Captain. It could easily dispatch them from its position with a burst of bullets, but it moved, shadow in shadow, until it was directly behind them.

Breaking the neck of the leftmost agent drew the attention of the others. It ripped a rifle from the hands of the second agent and forced the barrel through her orbital socket. The third screamed,

“Oh f*ck, oh f*ck is that–”

as the fourth raised his weapon. The Soldier deflected the rounds with the left hand as the right closed around the third agent’s throat. His trachea collapsed, and it left him to suffocate in his own spittle. It kicked the fourth agent’s gun from his hands, then followed through with a boot to his sternum. Under the heavy body armor, his ribs cracked, piercing his lungs. Death imminent within six minutes.

It turned to watch the commander emerge from behind his shield. He gave a short nod. The left arm of his suit was split to reveal a shallow gash caused by a glancing gunshot, but he was otherwise uninjured.

“You good?”

“Da, ser.”

He co*cked his chin toward the southeast corner. “There’s more in back.”

“Ponyal.”

It ducked under the stairs to the indicated location, forcing back the imperative to stay and defend the handler. He was the field commander. It was common to receive injuries in combat, and he was enhanced. It was not critical. He would heal quickly.

The Soldier kicked down a steel fire door to find two agents attempting to establish communications with another base. They would not succeed. Two shots. Two wet thumps. It tore the satcom unit from the wall.

The commander was behind it in the hallway now, edging forward with the shield raised. It fell into position at his back, walking backward with the gun at the ready. Pistol fire ricocheted off the shield, and it spun, aiming over his shoulder to eliminate the responsible agent. The commander kept advancing, stepping over the corpse without a downward glance.

Footsteps came from the hallway ahead. He raised his right hand in a fist. It held position, and held fire. The shield was loosed from his arm. It impacted a wall and flew at an angle around the corner. A thunk of metal into flesh, and a pained shout. He motioned, and the Soldier followed as he went to retrieve his weapon. The commander removed it from the agent’s chest before he raised it again and brought it down on his neck. His head rolled half a meter from his body, blood gushing across the concrete.

“We clear?”

“How many was that?” The Widow was back on comms.

“Eighteen for me. Buck?”

“Desyat'.”

“I got seven. Should be four more. Check the loading bay.”

“Copy. Buck, finish laying the charges on this level.”

“Da, ser.”

It left the commander to return to the main warehouse floor. There was silence over the comms as it set charges along the outer walls and ensured that the electronic detonators were functional.

“Dostignuta.”

Another round of clanging and grunting announced the deaths of more enemy agents.

“Three down. We’re gonna need some explosives in here. How the hell did they sneak a tank into Boise?”

“One piece at a time,” the Widow said.

“V puti.”

“Me too.”

She slipped into step behind it, finished with her work in the records room – carving additional intel out of the agent in charge. As they made their way back down the hall, the snick of metal on metal whispered from a storage closet. A magazine being loaded. It pivoted to eliminate the threat, but the Widow had already engaged.

She ripped the door open, kicked the weapon from the agent’s hand, and had a garrote around his neck within three seconds. Under the combat mask, the corner of its mouth ticked upwards. [Velikolepno, malen'kiy pauchok.] She stepped away from the body and shook her hair out, lifting one eyebrow as if to ask why the Soldier had stopped moving. It went ahead, allowing her its back once again.

They found the commander in the western loading bay, along with two disabled vehicles. He was digging through a crate that appeared to have been busted open by the shield. A mess of weapons components lay at his feet, casing of various sizes and styles, some looking like they had already seen combat. Several were marked with the Stark Industries logo.

He held one up and mused, “You think Tony will want any of his toys back?”

“Doubtful.” The Widow shifted her weight onto one hip as she assessed the cache, black leather rippling with strange highlights under the fluorescent bulbs. “That stuff is all from the eighties. Just blow it.”

The Soldier proceeded to lay the final charges, concentrating on the heavy equipment. Besides the tank, there were three autocannons, five portable anti-aircraft weapons systems and fourteen shoulder-fired rocket launchers. The estimated blast radius would have to be extended by a kilometer to account for the additional force from the ammunition.

“You know what this thing is?” the commander asked.

The Widow had already walked away, inspecting the corpses of the felled targets. The Soldier turned to see the commander hefting a large rectangular object from the crate. Black casing, collapsible feet, and a flat face consisting of twenty-four regularly spaced plates, glinting with circuitry. [Blinding light and noise shrieking into the mind and white fire across the body and pain, pain, pain.] It swallowed compulsively, suppressing the physiological reaction that jolted through it.

“Massiv elektroshoker, ser.”

The face was covered, but the voice must have betrayed it. The commander immediately put down the taser array and stepped away from the crate. His mouth turned down, but his helmet disguised the rest of his expression.

“It’s alright. We’ll leave it. Let it burn with the rest of this sh*t. You ready to go?”

“Da, ser. Vzryvchatka na meste.”

“Good work,” he said, clapping it on the shoulder. “Let’s move out.”

Exfiltration was much more direct. They walked through the loading doors and across the open field, keeping watch for unexpected engagement. There was none. The vehicle was waiting at the extraction point along the western perimeter. The Soldier swept for any signs of interference, then climbed into the back seat, divesting itself of weapons and duffel as it reported, “Trebuyetsya rasstoyaniye v dva kilometra,” to the Widow.

“Vas ponyal.” She nodded and sped away. Once at a safe distance, she parked and turned to the commander, holding out a tablet. “You want to do the honors?”

“Gladly.”

He highlighted the controls for every detonator at once and set a timer for five seconds. The relatively flat landscape allowed a vantage of the facility, and the satellite surveillance provided an aerial view.

Smoke and ochre rolled across the horizon, and secondary explosions sent fireballs roaring into the air, lighting up the night sky. No evidence of their presence would survive the heat. None of the weapons would be salvageable. Highly satisfactory.

[Mission success.]

______________________________________________________

Damn, that felt good.

It wasn’t exactly what he wanted. None of those agents had been directly responsible for Buck’s torture, according to their intel. None of them at the comms hub, either. They were still HYDRA. Still working under that banner even after all of the rot was exposed, creating weapons and upholding the necessary secrecy for the rest of the organization to keep operating. It wasn’t enough. Not yet. But this was just the first of many strategic strikes. With this rather dramatic display, HYDRA would know something was up. They could only hit a few more bases like this before they’d have to pull out the big guns.

He’d been a little concerned about how Bucky would react to spilling blood again, getting his hands dirty as they went up against HYDRA in close quarters. He shouldn’t have worried. In the field, Buck was just as sure and confident as during training. It was beautiful, watching him work. He was fully present, sharp and focused, moving in perfect concert with Steve like the last sixty-odd years had never happened. Part of him was tempted to let Bucky have his way, to send him in alone and watch as he mowed down dozens of HYDRA bastards without a single wasted movement.

But then, about an hour down the road, Buck got that lost look in his eyes. It was strange, seeing the looming specter in black kevlar collapse into anxious docility. Steve had hoped being on the ground this time might help him get some of the nervous energy out, but there was no such luck. Bucky stared out the window, hands fisted in the fabric of his pants, obviously holding himself back from bouncing his legs. The Asset probably did not fidget.

“Buck.”

No response.

“Bucky? You with us, honey?”

Steve was about to reach out and put a hand on his knee when Bucky snapped to attention, his hair whipping around so fast he nearly took out an eye.

“Da, ser.”

“You okay?”

Bucky curtly bit out, “Functional, sir.” He looked like he immediately regretted the tone, lowering his gaze to the floorboard.

“Sure, Buck.”

One look at him was enough to tell that that wasn’t the case. Bucky wasn’t injured, hadn’t even gotten scraped up on the fence, but something was wrong. He’d been a bit keyed up after the comms hit, shredding about a dozen logs before he calmed down, but it hadn’t been nearly this bad. He was gonna break another window if this kept up.

Steve considered his options. This wasn’t new. Bucky used to get pretty twitchy after action, on edge and spoiling for a fight or a drink or something to settle his nerves. They still had about eight hours on the road, maybe seven with the way Nat was driving, so it wasn’t like they could take it out on the firewood any time soon.

Through some contortion of the laws of physics, Steve managed to squeeze between the driver and passenger seats and crawl into the back without kicking Natasha in the face. He pushed a duffel full of guns aside to sit down next to Bucky.

Who immediately folded into the footwell at Steve’s feet, making himself smaller than a man his size should be capable of. He was careful not to touch Steve, keeping perfectly still, barely rocking with the movement of the car, the leather jacket squeaking up against the leather seatback. His hair hung over his face, and his hands, thankfully, were pressed into his lap.

“Gotov sluzhit, ser,” he said, voice hollow.

The roar of anger made Steve’s teeth crack and his hearing fill with static. Of course. Of course those bastards would exploit this, too. Deep breath. Hold it. He reminded himself of the upcoming missions, the bases they had left to take out, the stash of C4 Nat brought with her. The satisfaction of his shield shredding through cartilage and bone. And breathe out.

“Nope. C’mon, up.”

Steve took him by the arms and pulled him back onto the seat. He caught a hint of confusion before Bucky’s face flattened back out into the blankness he’d put on along with his gear. Bucky was so tense, wound tight like he was ready to jump out of the damn car. This, Steve could handle. He reeled Bucky in, tucking his head against his shoulder.

“You’re alright. You did good, sweetheart. Ty khorosho sdelali.”

It was an awkward angle, half-turned toward him in the back of a moving vehicle, their knees knocking together as Nat took a hard turn. Steve shot her a look in the rearview, part chastising her driving, part daring her to make another comment about his accent. She said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and turned back to the road. He shoved aside the useless self-consciousness that bubbled up in his stomach. Natasha wasn’t going to judge. She was the one who’d encouraged this in the first place.

He tried to massage Buck’s back, but the jacket was too thick, and the leather clung to his hands, making the gesture ineffective. The muscles beneath were still taut. Bucky leaned stiffly up against him, clenching his jaw so much that the grinding of his teeth was audible. This wasn’t like the fear Buck had shown when he thought Steve was going to punish him. He wasn’t shaking or breathing hard. More like holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Steve’s stomach turned when he realized that the unknown routine of not being abused was making the post-combat jitters worse.

“Breathe, Buck. C’mon.”

Finding the exposed skin above Bucky’s collar, he put his hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, holding him down, and tapped out the familiar pattern. A shaky exhale warmed Steve’s jaw, but Bucky didn’t unwind. His heart was pounding so hard Steve could feel it through the tac suit, and the plates of the prosthetic arm shivered with nervous energy. Steve pulled him closer, wrapping his other arm around Buck’s waist and tightening the hold. He was using a good portion of his strength now. It was rougher than he’d handled Bucky before, but he had to get through the panic.

“Vol'no, soldat. Dyshi. It’s over. We’re gonna be back to the cabin soon. Get a nice hot shower and some food and rest up before the next hit. That’s all.”

He wasn’t sure if Bucky nodded or if it was just the bumpy road jostling him. After a few minutes without any change, he slid his hand up into Bucky’s hair and got a good grip, pulling hard enough that Buck’s back arched and his head was lifted off Steve’s shoulder. There were a couple more hesitant breaths, gasped right into Steve’s ear, then Bucky finally deflated. Steve could feel it where his left hand rested on the back of Buck’s ribs; his whole body softened, muscles releasing like he’d just fallen out of a pose.

“There you go, baby. Just relax. I got you.”

Steve flexed his fingers, tugging at the roots, and Bucky let more of his weight rest against him. His arms were still limp at his sides. He always did that when Steve held him. He didn’t think he was allowed to touch back. Steve shifted the prosthetic to make sure it wasn’t pulling at Bucky’s shoulder, then settled further against the seat. Bucky ended up laying limply across his chest, pinned in place by the grip in his hair, but he was content.

“Go on and get some sleep. We got a while on the road yet.”

Buck muttered, “Yes, sir,” against his neck, back to his usual soft-spoken self.

A curl of affection thawed the brittle ice that had crept in around Steve’s heart. Bucky needed this, that was clear. But maybe Steve did too. Something to remind him what really mattered when all he wanted was to tear the world apart with his bare hands. A way to use his strength that didn’t involve bloodshed.

He tried again to rub Bucky’s back, but eventually he just let his hand rest on his hip, the leather warming under his skin. He kept up the pressure on Buck’s hair for a while, pulling and releasing in a slow rhythm.

About twenty minutes had passed with Bucky resting peacefully on top of him when Steve looked up to see Nat smiling at them in the rearview, not a hint of irony in the expression. She gently engaged the brakes as she made the next turn.

Chapter 53

Chapter Text

The handler provided it with two portions of rations and two slices of toast. Additional nutrition to account for the energy spent in combat, and the disrupted routine. He made use of the supplies the technician had delivered – the second delivery drone had come with advance warning – to make his own meal. A hearty pile of fried meat and eggs, with six pieces of toast. The plate was cleared within seven minutes. As he left the kitchen, he stopped where it sat against the wall and placed a heavy hand on the top of its head.

“You need anything else?”

It looked up to see a soft, tired smile.

“Negative, sir.”

His only response was a short nod. Then the warmth of his touch was gone, leaving the Soldier somewhat unmoored. His path to the sleeping quarters was not hasty, but it was direct. He said, “Wake me up if the world’s ending again,” before firmly closing the door.

A little huff came from the figure currently occupying the couch. “He’s a real bear when he misses his beauty sleep, huh?” the Widow said. Sarcasm, or something adjacent to it.

It made a sound more in acknowledgement than agreement. This was irregular. The time was 0914. But the commander had been awake for over twenty-four hours now, between mission prep and the extensive travel to the target location and back. He had not slept much the days prior to the mission either, staying up late to review the schematics and waking early to complete extra physical training. With the added exertion of combat, he would require extensive rest.

It was unsure if it should join him in the sleeping quarters. The Soldier had slipped from restlessness into unconsciousness under his hands during transport. He had not expressed anger at this lapse in awareness. When it woke to the jolt of gravel under the tires, he had been perfectly at ease, his fingers still carding through the hair.

It was strange, to allow such laxity in the presence of another agent, especially one so unpredictable as the Widow, but the commander trusted her, and his touch had made ‘sleep’ irresistible. There was no need for rest now, and it should remain alert for defensive duties. So soon after such a visible strike, there was still a chance their location might be discovered.

It cycled through potential courses of action. The previous protocol was no longer in effect, though it was deeply ingrained in the body. No cryo, it reminded itself. No chair. Very little in the way of debrief. The standard daily routine called for physical training or the drawing exercise until 1100, but the mission had interrupted the routine. It was not to leave the safehouse without the commander’s supervision, but he encouraged initiative in taking on other tasks.

The alarm system was functional, and there was an additional agent here for defense. With Stark mollified and the Widow keeping SHIELD at bay, the threat level was low. The body had been decontaminated. The tac suit was currently airing on the porch in preparation for further cleansing. There was a second suit in the storage area, if it was required to serve the primary function before that task was completed. Facility and weapons maintenance, then.

As it stood to attend to its duties, the Widow looked up from her work. She retrieved an empty mug from somewhere beneath the blankets and held it out toward the Soldier in a silent request. Her expression was impassive, neither expectant nor insistent. She could have ordered it to take the cup. It answered to her, just as much as it did to any other field agent. But she was waiting patiently for it to make the choice itself.

If this was not a trick, it would be no imposition to clean one more item. Operatives often behaved differently around the Soldier when the handler was absent. [“Ty nichevo polkovniku ne skazhesh', bespoleznaya shlyukha.”] She would likely report back on its behavior. It stepped closer, wary of any suspicious movement, but the Widow held perfectly still as it took the vessel from her hand.

It kept her in its periphery as it went to the kitchen, placing the exhausted tea bags into the refuse bin, but it was forced to give her its back in order to access the sink. It listened closely for any movement. There was only the click of the keyboard and the shifting of coals in the stove. It turned on the faucet and began scrubbing. She waited five minutes exactly to speak again.

“Spasibo, Dzheyms.”

[Red lips and soft skin, peeling paint and smog-stained snow.]

“Ne za chto.”

The hands halted their movement. Water spilled fruitlessly into the basin, splashing across metal and ceramic and taking the cleansing agent with it down the drain. It had not intended to utter that phrase, but the words had come slipping off the lips before it realized that it had spoken. Even if she was not a superior, it was unacceptably familiar.

It turned, cautiously glancing toward her. No sign of agitation. She was still reading from the computer screen, the only change in her expression a nearly imperceptible upward curl of her lips. She might tell the commander about this incident, but it was not her place to administer discipline. Not that that had stopped other operatives from doing so in the past. It returned to the maintenance duties.

After eight point three minutes, the laptop clicked shut. The couch creaked and fabric rustled, but there were no footsteps, not even the Widow’s shadow-silent ones. It completed the cleansing and replaced the kitchenware to the designated storage positions. When it went to retrieve the duffel and begin weapons maintenance, it was once again given pause.

The Widow… [Natalia] Agent Romanova, was curled on her side, her face nearly obscured by the heavy blanket she had pulled over her head. One cheek was visible, a scattering of freckles sweeping across pale skin. Her hair spilled over the cushion, copper against taupe. Her eyes were closed, and her torso rose and fell in regular breaths. She was not yet fully asleep, but she was pursuing the state.

She had… She had slept here before. It was necessary. She had been in the safehouse for six days now. But always when it was in the sleeping quarters with the handler. To make herself so vulnerable while it moved about the facility unsupervised… The Soldier felt as if there were taut guy-lines wrapped around the ribs, pulling them out of place.

This response was irrational. It was always here. It was always armed, as was she. It had been at rest in her presence as well, though the first few attempts had been fitful. They had aided each other in combat, and it relied on her intelligence to complete the missions, to keep the handler safe. But this show of trust seemed more significant somehow, both the Widow and the Captain placing themselves in its care.

It stepped quietly to each of the windows and drew the curtains closed, then shut off the lights in both the sitting area and the kitchen. The Soldier’s eyesight was acute enough that it could easily complete weapons maintenance in the darkened room. It gathered the necessary tools and stationed itself against the wall, within sight of both the alarm console and the front door.

___________________________________________________

When Natasha woke, the house was quiet and dark, only a few shafts of afternoon sunlight peeking from under the curtains. She checked her phone. Four o’clock. Usually the boys would be up and about this time of day, James working on more research and Steve attempting to cobble together something resembling food. Steve had gone to sleep off the mission, but she couldn’t even hear his snoring now.

She emerged from the blanket cocoon and went to freshen up. The bedroom door was open. One bed was empty, the other serving as a shelf for James’ freshly polished gear. The little pile of quilts in the corner, his usual nest, was unoccupied as well.

Natasha washed her face and stole one of James’ elastics to put her hair up into a bun. She had her own, but the stupid feelings were winning right now. He’d never even notice. As she went to the kitchen to put on the kettle, she finally heard signs of life.

Steve’s voice carried from outside, not quite clear enough for her to make out the words. There was a muted crack that could’ve been log splitting or shield practice; it was hard to tell the difference between vibranium on wood and titanium on wood. Steve’s current options for exercise were hilariously limited compared to his usual workouts, and he’d already destroyed the punching bag Stark sent.

The morning after her arrival, she’d watched their stampeding elk routine out in the yard. It had healed some of the uncertainty that James’ brittle state initially inspired. Seeing the life model sessions in person was even better. James was much more present, sinking into his body like the dancer he used to be.

The mistrust faded by a degree once he decided she wasn’t a threat to Steve. And when he fought, he was a force of nature. She hadn’t tried to talk him into sparring with her, but she was sorely tempted, watching him move through the same practice forms he’d drilled with her so long ago. After the shock of her arrival, he deserved a bit of space to adjust.

Her debt to James wasn't paid, not even close, but she'd done what she could for now. She’d proven that he could handle an unannounced guest without violence, and he could distinguish old targets from new. If he didn’t give in to the programming to try and attack her, even in the heat of combat, Wilson and Stark should be alright. As long as they didn't run their mouths.

James had been exceptional in the field, but that wasn’t surprising. It was what he was made for. Afterwards, though, it looked like he was going to shake apart. She knew what he was expecting: rough handling, a rushed debrief, another assault, then cryo. He was only going to get one of those, whether it was Steve’s big arms around him or Natasha having to subdue him. Steve stepped up. He was beginning to get over his fear of hurting James, and he handled the incident in the car well, despite his obvious anger. It was kind of sweet, the two of them covered in blood and cuddling in the back seat.

When he woke up, James seemed… settled. And not just physically. His eyes had been so soft, the usual tension almost completely gone from his face. He used to get like that after sex, too. Natasha wondered if he truly needed to feel like someone owned him, or if it was just somatic, the heavy pressure helping to ground him. Probably fifty-fifty. It might not have worked with anyone but Rogers.

What she wouldn’t give to witness the old power play, Steve in his true body, wielding that bad attitude just as precisely as James handled his knives. It would be fascinating.

Natasha took her tea to the front door, setting it on the floor for a moment to pull on her coat. There were once side tables in here, but they had all met the same fate as her chairs. She slipped out onto the porch and took a seat on the steps to watch the show.

It was shield practice and log splitting. They’d arranged one of the fallen trees upright somehow and were taking turns whaling on it. And showing off. Every throw was more acrobatic, Steve angling the shield against the log in such a way that James had to flip up into the air or roll across the dirt to catch it. James gave as good as he got, using his left arm to put extra power into the throws and send Steve running. Every time they hit the log, it splintered a bit further, cellulose shrapnel flying out in all directions. The tree looked like it’d been attacked by mutant beavers, and they were both filthy, covered in mud and sawdust and sweaty as all hell.

Absolutely ridiculous. But a pretty nice view.

Steve laughed as he caught the latest rebound, the force sending him skidding backwards through the slush like he was trying to stop a moving car. He looked up at Natasha with a boyish grin and flipped his overgrown bangs out of his eyes before he tumbled into a front flip and sent the shield back to James.

It was good to see he was still capable of real joy. Not just vengeance-joy. His heart was big enough for both, though, as well as the seemingly bottomless well of rage she’d witnessed at certain moments during their planning sessions. HYDRA deserved it, but she at times feared that it might consume him, the rage burning hot enough to soften the steel of his usually staunch moral foundations.

It might have been shocking to some, to see the icon of morality turn into a bloodthirsty killer. But he'd never been a true patriot. That was just the lycra. Steve was a champion of the people, an underdog. A good man. And this was what happened when good men broke. It was just a blessing for the rest of the world that he’d broken into salvageable pieces.

James, though. He still didn’t fully understand what he was fighting for. She wouldn’t ask if this was what he wanted. He couldn’t answer that right now. Feeling useful was important, even if he didn’t have the moral imperative that drove Steve, that had driven Natasha to turn on her old masters. Either way, Steve wasn’t going to stop, and it was unlikely James would tolerate him going out alone. He was rabidly devoted to Steve’s safety. She’d never seen him so protective of anyone else, save perhaps the girls, when they were young and he was more human.

They’d made him forget. But they made her remember. It was a lesson. The knowledge of what she’d lost, the picture of James screaming in pain as she was erased from his mind, was seared permanently into hers. A fitting punishment. The lesson hadn’t really stuck, though. Despite it all, the idiocy of love kept creeping in. Whether it was truly a weakness, she couldn’t say. Someone more optimistic might argue that it was what had saved her, in the end. The knowledge that there was something out there worth living for, something beyond false patriotism and the satisfaction of a clean kill.

She turned her attention back to the display of superhuman anatomy before her, making a note to actually call Clint once she got down the mountain. She’d already grieved James once, and she refused to do it again. He’d come back to her in time. Natasha was as sure of that as she could be of anything.

After a couple more hits, the log finally gave up the ghost, crumbling into pieces on the ground. Steve signaled to James to wrap it up and came jogging over to greet her. James followed, ever-watchful of both Steve’s attitude and their surroundings. His hair had nearly all fallen out of the little stubby ponytail, sticking to his face and highlighting his prominent cheekbones even more dramatically. He inclined his head at her in a vague acknowledgement as he came to heel at Steve’s left side. There was still wariness there, but he’d warmed up enough not to glare her down every waking moment. She thought there might even be a hint of respect in his gaze. You know, assassin to assassin.

“Hey, Nat,” Steve said easily, as if he hadn’t just spent three hours working out. “Sleep okay?”

“I did, thank you.” Her eyes flicked toward the results of their man-powered woodchipping. “You two looked like you were having fun.”

“Oh, yeah. Hope we didn’t wake you.”

Natasha smiled, studying his torso with vague interest as he lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat and grime from his forehead. If he caught the ogling, he didn’t say anything. It was hard to tell if he blushed. He was already pretty pink.

“Not at all,” she said. “It was thoughtful of you to keep the destruction outside this time.”

“I’m real polite like that,” he grinned. His real self was poking through more and more since they'd been in the field again. The man started drowning if he had to hold still. Natasha understood. Steve jerked his thumb toward the cabin. “I was just about to work something up for dinner. Any requests?”

“Just as long as it’s not more scrambled eggs,” she lamented. Steve Rogers was many wonderful things, but a chef was not one of them.

“If you’re so unimpressed with my cooking, you’re welcome to do it yourself," he sassed.

Natasha brandished a threatening eyebrow. “I will drive all the way to Eugene and get Thai without you, Rogers.”

“Fine, fine,” he waved. “I think Tony sent some kinda microwave thing, anyway. I can’t screw that up too badly.”

“Well see about that,” she said, taking a pointed sip of her cold tea.

Steve laughed again and shook his head. James was superficially impassive, but he was cataloging the conversation with barely disguised perplexity. His eyes slowly trailed between Steve and herself, taking in subtle cues as he followed the exchange. If he’d been even slightly more himself, his head would have been tilted to the side like a curious kitten trying to figure out a new toy. As he was, he could usually tell when people were joking, and suss out their general state of mind, but the finer points of interpersonal relationships seemed a mystery to him.

“Well whatever we’re doin’, I gotta get cleaned up first. C’mon, Buck,” Steve said, thumping James’ right shoulder affably.

Natasha stood to make way for them to climb up the stairs. Before they went inside, there was a cursory attempt to remove the worst of the wood chunks from their clothes and hair. James stood there patiently as Steve brushed him off, looking at him with something that might have been in the neighborhood of amusem*nt as Steve tried to finger-comb the sawdust from his hair. It was hopeless. The septic system would just have to suffer.

Steve made another cup of protein slurry before he went to shower. James sat cautiously by the stove and tried not to get mud everywhere as he drank it. He kept his usual watch on the exits, but every few seconds he’d glance up at the bathroom door, then down to where his hands were wrapped around the glass, almost nervous. It took Natasha a minute to identify the emotion hidden there. It wasn’t concern about Steve’s safety or confusion about what was going on. It was longing.

Those two were so gone on each other. If James wanted to, he could've had Steve wrapped around his little finger. He'd been trained in espionage, but he'd never been very good at the more subtle varieties of manipulation. And he was much too conscientious for that kind of thing, even in his current state of mind.

She held her tongue and busied herself with packing. There wasn’t much to take. The files and weapons would stay here, otherwise she’d only brought a few days’ worth of clothes and her tech. She’d already stayed longer than she planned, and there was a mountain of work waiting for her back on the East Coast. Natasha tried not to let her resentment towards SHIELD interfere with her duties, but it stung, constantly fixing the incompetence caused by power-hungry shadow organizations. Having to clean up another mess she’d helped cause, if only through ignorance.

She allowed herself a smile as James padded past to get to the kitchen. He was almost as diligent about dirty dishes as he was about maintaining his guns.

The boys switched places, Steve heading right to the bedroom to get dressed – what a shame – and James taking his turn in the bathroom. As usual, James left the door cracked. As usual, Steve laid out a clean pile of clothes. A fresh pair of the new socks, soft sweatpants, and a knit sweater that, if cheaply made, was thick enough to keep James warm. It was a lucky thing the WalMart had the winter collection out when they stopped by, otherwise they’d have to share the one old ratty Army hoodie. She didn’t think they’d really mind.

Natasha joined Steve in the kitchen, perched on the counter to watch while he dug around in the freezer for food. Thankfully, Stark’s version of a microwave burrito had actual vegetables in it.

“So,” she said, swinging her feet back and forth. “No more shower cuddles?”

Steve flinched. Even with the chill vapor on his face, the back of his neck went red. He closed the door a bit harder than necessary. “No,” he said firmly, still facing the cabinets.

“He misses you. Looked like a puppy left home all alone.”

“Natasha.” His shoulders sagged. “You know I can’t… You saw how he was in the car. I should never have done it in the first place. I scared the hell out of him in Knoxville.”

“And since then?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He shoved a couple of organic free-range superfood chicken fajita wraps into the microwave and set them cooking, then finally faced her, leaning up against the opposite counter and crossing his arms.

She fixed him with a meaningful look. “He thinks something’s wrong. You changed the routine.”

“He’ll get used to it.” Steve stared right back, stubborn as always despite his embarrassment.

“Does he need to?”

They’d already had this conversation. Steve was being too cautious again, acting like the very sight of a penis was going to send James into conniptions. James didn’t give a sh*t about nudity. He’d been hurt a thousand times, a thousand different ways, clothing or no. He wanted Steve to be near him. And he deserved to get what he wanted.

One big hand came up, gesturing demonstratively towards the bathroom. “He’s perfectly capable–”

“Does it get you off?” Natasha interjected. “Shampooing a malnourished assassin?”

Steve rubbed at his face, escalating from dusky rose to ripe tomato. “Jesus Christ, Nat.”

“What?” she asked, all false innocence. “You did do the assigned reading, didn’t you?”

“You know I did,” he sighed.

“So what’s the problem?”

The microwave dinged, and Steve turned around with a huff. “Stick a burrito in it.”

A steaming plastic package came flying at her head. Natasha caught it, tossing it from one hand to another until it actually cooled down enough to handle. “Rude, Rogers.”

He took a monstrous bite from his boiling hot burrito and pointed an accusing finger at her. She thought he might have said, “You’re one to talk,” but it was hard to tell through the half-chewed tortilla.

She turned up her nose at him. “Fu. Ne govori s polnym rtom, zhivotnoye.”

“Oh no.” His eyes went wide as he swallowed. “How are you gonna talk about me behind my back now?”

Natasha gave him her most unamused expression, stating flatly, “I have plenty of insults you won’t be able to translate.”

“I’ll just have Buck tell me, then,” he said primly.

Speak of the devil. The pipes shuddered as the water switched off. Steve hit her with a pleading look, urging her to end the conversation. Natasha shrugged. He’d figure it out eventually. He wasn’t that dense. He should be able to understand the borders between intimacy and sex. And he wasn’t hung up on old school propriety like everyone expected him to be. He was trying not to hurt James, and that was decent of him, but it wasn’t like it was difficult to tell when James was upset, no matter what programming he parroted.

She unwrapped her own dinner, took a dramatic bite, and zipped her fingers across her lips. See, Rogers? Mouth full. No words coming out. He rolled his eyes and stuck two more burritos in the microwave.

James crept into the living room, and Natasha swung her legs over the other side of the countertop just in time to see him settle down against the wall. He was perfectly still, kneeling with his head lowered and his hands in his lap, holding a plastic comb. Note to self: buy him a better comb. Something nice. Sandalwood, maybe.

Steve inhaled the rest of his food and washed his hands. He finally noticed the lack of paperwork and blankets in his usual spot on the couch, gesturing James over as he sat down. This was familiar by now, but it never stopped giving her stupid squishy feelings. She watched from the corner of her eye as Steve combed James’ hair, idly scrolling on her phone and working through the burrito. It wasn’t terrible, for microwave food.

The change in James’ posture was as dramatic as always. As soon as Steve’s fingers found his scalp, his eyes fell closed and a silent sigh left him.

This man, who was capable of toppling governments and slaughtering entire armies, was made helpless by a simple kind touch. She wanted to go to him herself, wrap him in her arms and kiss the furrow from his brow. But he didn’t know her. It was miraculous that he could relax this much with her around in the first place.

Once the knots were out, Steve laid the comb down. He kept petting, pulling the dark strands behind James’ ears and scritching at the roots. He was totally shameless about this at least.

“You’re leaving?” Steve asked.

Natasha nodded. “I got what I came for. I’ll be more useful elsewhere. Got a few new piggies to stick, see if they squeal.” James looked at her then, his eyes sharp with approval. She smiled. The inner fourteen-year-old nearly combusted. “You’ll have Stark on comms if you need him. You really need to start checking your old email again, your inbox is a mess. And call Wilson back, he’s getting on my nerves. I’ll give him the coordinates, and Tony will pay for the flight and send a car.”

They really needed the backup. Natasha would be more of a hypocrite than usual if she was the one who told them to go straight. If she could even get Steve to listen. Personally, she didn’t really see the problem in taking the bastards down, but the whole illegal vigilante serial murder situation was looming over them like a guillotine, and Steve was on track to burn himself out way too fast. James was in no position to keep him tethered to reality right now.

She’d let them have their fun while they could, and Wilson would do his empathy thing with those big soulful brown eyes and maybe be able to talk some sense into them. Easy peasy. And one less thing that was her problem.

Steve hummed unhappily. “We’ll miss having you here. Sure you don’t wanna stay for a few more hits?”

“No,” she said. “I think you have it handled.”

He turned fully towards her then, one hand still in James’ hair, and raised his eyebrows. Are you sure?

She returned the look, pursing her lips. Yes, Rogers. You’ll be fine.

Steve tilted his head, beseeching. But I really will miss you.

She rolled her eyes and gestured with her phone. Then call Stark and go home.

He glanced towards James and shook his head. Not yet.

Natasha gave an exasperated sigh, and he relented.

“When?” he asked.

"Right about now.” She hopped down from the countertop. “Thanks for dinner. If you can call that dinner.”

Steve huffed in faux-annoyance. He nudged at James, who stood when Steve did, then opened his arms. Natasha stepped into the offered hug, and her feet nearly left the floor.

“Be safe,” he said, cheek pressed against her hair.

She tried to return the gesture, squeezing his ribs ineffectually. “No, you. And think about what I said.”

He let go just enough to lean back and fix her with a sh*t-eating grin. “What, about talking with my mouth full?”

Natasha punched him in the arm. Lightly. James was watching. “I’m serious. You’re good for him. Don’t start wallowing again.”

Steve managed to look annoyed, guilty, and grateful all at once. It had to be a learned skill, to fit that much emotion into a simple shift of the eyes. He was intolerable. “Thank you, Natasha. For everything.”

“Don’t get all mushy on me. I’ll be around.”

“Nope,” he said, tugging her in for another mama bear hug. “You saved our asses ten times over. You get all my mush now.”

“Ugh. Gross.” She held on tight for a good twenty seconds, smiling into his shirt. It was a good thing there were no cameras here. If anyone ever saw this, she’d never live it down. He released her with a kiss to the cheek.

Natasha stepped back and turned to James, still standing at attention at Steve’s side, damp hair already falling back into his face. He’d been tracking their interaction with that same wounded look, like he wanted to be the one in Steve’s arms. If what she’d seen was representative of their usual behavior, he’d get his chance soon enough.

She lifted her right hand, clearly telegraphing her intent. He didn’t move. He was curious, maybe a bit hesitant, but not defensive. She laid her hand on his left bicep and squeezed enough for him to actually feel it.

“Vsevo khoroshevo, Dzheyms.”

__________________________________________

It watched from the porch as the Widow departed, the old truck bumping through the frozen gravel. She left behind the armored vehicle, still laden with weapons, for the commander’s use. The strange sensation came again, pressure around the ribs and a hollowness in the throat.

Something about seeing her walk away, the red hair and black coat barely visible in the gloom as flakes of snow spiraled around her, scraped across the cognition like so many little cuts. It did not dare prod at the feeling for fear of inciting another malfunction.

The commander turned away once her vehicle was out of sight, and the Soldier followed him back into the safehouse, glancing over the shoulder one last time.

They went about the usual routine of intelligence work and physical contact, the commander sitting with his hand in its hair, asking questions now and again, but largely silent. The plan of action was well-laid, but it relied heavily on the commander’s prowess in combat. Without the Widow here to provide backup, he would be at greater risk in the field.

She had instructed him to call in Wilson, but whether he would defer to this recommendation, it did not know. It could remember only part of the previous interactions with that operative. It would have been ideal if he was still capable of aerial support, but the Soldier had damaged his flight suit. Perhaps the technician would be capable of repairing it. The gut churned. Another instance in which it had failed the commander. But it had not known. It had been under different orders. It was… [Cognitive error.] It was before. It shook the head. It would still be present to defend him. The upcoming missions called for close quarters combat in addition to ranged defense.

The commander took note of its movement, his fingertips tracing small circles over the scalp. “She’ll be alright, Buck. Natasha can handle herself. And once we’re ready to come in, she’ll be there.”

“Yes, sir,” it replied quietly.

Against its directive, the cognition spiraled over and over, distracting it from the HYDRA communications logs as it fruitlessly tried to untangle the knotted cords of memory that the Widow’s appearance had tugged at. It knew her. It knew the Widows were operative in Moscow since at least the nineteen-fifties, the same period it had been held there. But it could not remember… An ache loomed at the temples, the text of the documents blurring before its eyes. It shoved the thought away, focusing instead on the weight of the commander’s hand on its neck.

That night, it woke with the taste of strange spices on the tongue, the crackling of electricity in the ears, and the grip of ice around the limbs.

Chapter 54

Chapter Text

Steve checked his damn email. It’d been really nice, just using the secure account Natasha had set up. The only messages he’d gotten in months had been from her or Bruce, until Tony got ahold of the address and flooded him with nominally useful information. He took what he could from those emails, trying to ignore the extraneous details and terrible puns.

He prepared himself for the deluge of information he knew he’d find in his old account, the official SHIELD one. Between Natasha and JARVIS, no one would be able to track that he’d logged on from the safehouse.

The inbox was chock full of frantic requests for comment, explosive demands for his appearance before Congress, and increasingly desperate pleas from Hill. He tried to make sense of all of it, to figure out what Natasha had wanted him to see. Most of the messages were months out of date, but a few pages back, it became obvious.

Hill was rebuilding SHIELD. Steve knew she’d been working on something, and Nat had said as much. But he’d been a little occupied before, and he hadn’t had much mind for the details during his frantic search for Bucky. When he saw it all laid out, he fumed.

It was more of the same: clandestine operations, hidden bases, and veiled political string-pulling, much of it far above his clearance level. Or, what his clearance level used to be. Now that he was a fugitive again, he wasn’t even privy to the vaguest plans. The latest message was a strongly worded screed that could be summed up as ‘we know what you’re doing, we suspect we know who you’re doing it with, and we do not approve.’

Well, that was too bad. They didn’t have any solid proof, nor did they have the manpower to bring them in. Not unless they wanted to get the whole US military apparatus involved, which he doubted they’d do. Steve was cleaning up their mess, after all.

There'd been a public outcry that Captain America had disappeared so soon after Insight. He couldn't find it in himself to care. He'd given enough, and the last two times he took a government job, they screwed him over and used his face and his body for their own ends. He was still doing the work, just without the bureaucracy and exploitation.

He respected Hill. She was a good CO, and a decent person, but she was far too comfortable with Fury’s style of ‘compartmentalization.’ It was that kind of thinking that allowed HYDRA to grow unchecked. What part of “it all goes” wasn’t f*cking clear? His resolve to keep Bucky as far from that sh*t as possible hardened. Even if Tony was on their side now, there was no way Hill would leave them be if they showed back up in New York or DC.

He thought about calling Peggy, but… he honestly didn’t know how to feel. He should've been angry, but it was such a deep, insidious hurt, it made him numb. She had to have known something was up. She’d always been sharp. Steve didn’t think he could bear it, to confirm for sure that her calculating mind had overruled her moral compass.

He knew about Operation Paperclip. It had been the done thing, to try and capture as much skill as they could from the Axis. To win the war. But what about after VE Day? All those scientists stayed on, including innumerable double agents.

It didn’t escape him that Howard’s signature had been on some of the devices in the Winter Soldier files. Maybe they didn’t know who the Winter Soldier really was, but those schematics alone should have told them something was deeply wrong. He pushed it aside. Howard was dead, and Peggy was an old woman now. Whatever she’d done, whatever she’d known, she wasn’t the one pulling strings anymore.

He thought about calling Sam. He really did. He’d told Sam they would reach out to him as soon as they got started, but he found himself putting the conversation off day after day. As much as he’d craved Sam’s friendship, things had changed since they started hitting bases. Part of him was still jealously guarding his time with Bucky, their freedom to take out HYDRA without criticism.

Steve might have been avoiding the moral quandary there. The bigger issue, he knew, was that he was avoiding telling Sam about his new role in Bucky’s life. That wouldn’t just be a quandary. It’d be a goddamn sh*tshow. It was one thing to hold Buck and talk him through flashbacks at the safehouse, but Steve could just imagine what Sam would say if Bucky fell apart after a mission. That Steve was using him. That Bucky shouldn’t be out in the field in the first place.

Bucky wanted this. He thrived with something concrete to do, something besides shredding firewood or cleaning obsessively all day. He glowed under Steve’s praise of a job well done, and he came back to himself easy enough. Steve asked, point blank, multiple times, if Buck felt well enough to go out. The answer was always an unequivocal ‘yes, sir.’ He might have been more concerned that Bucky was just doing as he was told, serving as a weapon, if Bucky’s eyes hadn’t been aflame like he was offended by the question. Maybe he didn’t fully grasp the extent of HYDRA's crimes against him, but he’d get there.

The tension after the mission wasn’t like a flashback, or a panic attack. There was no hyperventilation or loss of awareness. Buck was just a little mixed up, subconsciously expecting something that wasn’t going to come. He needed time to adjust to the new routine, which he would. He was extremely adaptable, unless something violated the old programming and he thought he was due a punishment.

It’d only taken a few days for him to relax enough to trust Natasha. Maybe it was the Russian. Maybe it was the half-remembered connection with her. Her understanding during difficult moments definitely helped. As often as she meddled and prodded, she hadn’t said a word when Buck was upset, just stepped back and let Steve bring him down. There was no way Sam would let it go that easily, and Steve had no f*cking clue how to even begin explaining what was going on between them.

They didn’t really need to get Sam out here right away. HYDRA was still unbalanced, not expecting the scale of attack they were about to launch. With Tony’s tech keeping them hidden, he and Bucky could handle just about anything. It was New Year’s, anyway. Sam deserved some time with his family. He’d already done so much, giving up his safety and stability to help when SHIELD had turned against them. Schlepping all over the country helping Steve hunt for Bucky. Not that it had amounted to much, with Buck just wandering up on his own. At least they’d cleared out most of the East Coast.

That’s what they needed: a few more hits. They could do a few more hits, and Bucky would settle into things, and then maybe Sam wouldn’t tear Steve a second new one (as if he wasn’t ninety percent asshole already) about the strange behavior. Steve opened up a new email, sending Tony a few potential locations for their next target.

______________________________________________

Where the Widow’s voice had been low and practical during strategizing, it was replaced by the frenetic babbling of the technician Stark. The Soldier sat out of range of the laptop camera while the commander took a video call with him. It could see Stark, but he would not see it, and it would not be recorded.

It knew the technician’s face from the previous briefings, had heard his voice a few times on the phone calls, but it had not been prepared for the sheer intensity of emotion constantly flashing across his features. [“You’re gonna love this one, Barnes!”] Stark was a hurricane of verbalization and disjointed ideas, and his manner of speaking was so idiomatic as to be nearly incomprehensible. Even the commander seemed frustrated by him.

“Focus,” the commander said with exasperation. “I just gotta know which one is the real base. Half the places I hit on the East Coast were abandoned, and they’ve been feeding us bad intel. It looks like most of the orders are coming from the Reno compound, but they could be spoofing the records.”

The technician spoke to someone off screen, asking for verification of a point of data. A polite, measured voice came through the speakers, bearing an accent that indicated high social standing and British origin.

“That is correct, sir,” the voice said. “Surveillance shows regular movement to and from these coordinates, beginning two weeks after Insight.”

“Thank you, J,” the technician replied. “So yes, Reno awaits. Maybe you two can swing by Vegas for a themed wedding. Elvis is after your time, but they’ve got cowboys and aliens, probably even an Iron Man impersonator. Hell, I’ll just fly down. I’ve always wanted to officiate a wedding between two geriatric felons. Wait, where is Vader? He hasn’t been introduced yet. Is he gonna freak out about the AI thing? I’d really like to keep my tech in one piece if JARVIS has to talk to you guys. No need to go all stranger danger on my nice earpieces.”

The commander glanced down at it, nudging his ankle against the Soldier’s knee. “Bucky’s here. I didn’t think he’d want to be on camera right now.”

“Not fit for company, eh?” the technician said with a strange inflection. “Did I interrupt your festivities? I’d hate to cut your New Year’s kiss short. Or is Creeping Beauty a bit gun shy?” His eyebrows contorted dramatically, as if trying to convey some specific meaning.

“f*ck off, Tony,” the commander spat. He was turning pink again. It seemed to be due to increased blood pressure as he attempted to contain his anger. “Just ignore him, Buck,” he said to the Soldier with much less vitriol. “He doesn't know what he’s talking about.”

It was already planning to do so. Only approximately twenty percent of the technician’s words made any sense, and less than half of that was actionable information.

“Did I hit a nerve? Far be it from me to impugn your chastity, Captain Boy Scout.” The commander glared at the screen, but before he could reprimand the technician further, Stark flitted back into a more pragmatic tone. “Anyway, J, say hi. Ghost in the machine, meet the ghost of Red Scares past.”

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes,” Jarvis said, disarmingly calm in comparison with Stark. “I am JARVIS – Just A Rather Very Intelligent System – Master Stark’s artificial intelligence. I handle ninety-six percent of computational analysis and security for Stark Industries, as well as the majority of operations of Sir’s personal projects. I am also integrated into all StarkTech devices utilized by the Avengers, including the phones and computers that have been provided for you. Should you ever have a question or require assistance, feel free to address me directly.”

The Soldier did not respond. It assumed JARVIS was speaking to it. ‘Barnes’ was part of the current designation, but… it did not have a rank. It might have seen that title before, though it could not identify where exactly [the face in greyscale, haunting and translucent–] Stark continued speaking rapidly, unconcerned with its silence.

“J’s gonna be handling most of your surveillance, so just text him or email him or whatever when you’re gonna head out. I’m up to my balls in legal bullsh*t right now – you’re welcome, by the way – and the less I interact with you two directly the less chance there is of an actual indictment. You know we could avoid all this spooky spy sh*t if you’d just come back to New York and let me–”

“Not yet,” the commander interrupted. “We’re gonna finish what we started.”

“Ugh,” the technician sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes, “why do you always have to do sh*t the hard way?”

[Dammit, Rogers, don’t you know when to quit?]

He and the commander worked out a plan of attack, though the Soldier could hardly parse the details. It was difficult to follow the technician’s words, and it was distracted by the information swirling across the tablet on its lap. The display had changed without its input.

Where it had been reviewing communications logs, there was now a digital diagram, a very simplified representation of complex code [a fractal of points and stars]. JARVIS was not, in fact, a human technician, but a conscious, semi-autonomous being housed in redundant servers at over a dozen classified locations. The concept was understandable. Familiar. It had interacted with the… the artificial Doctor. [Green and black, overlaid with yellow and bright white, “My greatest creation, it is good to see you again, Sergeant.”] It suppressed a physiological reaction. JARVIS was not a man trapped in a machine. He had been created whole cloth by this technician, his code untainted by the memory of humanity or faulty hardware. Unlike the Doctor. And unlike the Soldier

No, it could understand the unique structure of JARVIS, in theory. But the reality had so many unexplored implications that the Soldier could hardly fathom it. There were a dozen questions hovering on the tongue – If JARVIS was an asset like the Soldier, why was he given a human form of address? He called Stark ‘Master.’ Where did his loyalties lie? Would he defer to Stark over the Captain? Did he ever act of his own volition? How did he come to decisions? – but it did not pry further.

It did, however, keep a keen eye on security and surveillance, double-checking the technician’s work using the secure laptop that the Widow had provided. The one that JARVIS did not have automatic access to. Though, given the sophistication of his software, it was likely he could easily infiltrate any digital device he or the technician desired. There was no sign of intentional sabotage. Stark’s methods were effective, even if they were implemented in a more flamboyant fashion than the Soldier’s preferred counter-surveillance techniques. Whether or not he was lying, it was impossible to tell with his mercurial demeanor.

__________________________________________

[Mission report: January 4, 2015. Undesignated facility, Reno: munitions and recruitment. Thirty-two enemy combatants eliminated. Supplies of technological and communications equipment sabotaged. Documentation retrieved. Facility destroyed. No witnesses. No survivors. Mission success.]

The next seven operations went smoothly. The Widow and the technician coordinated via electronic messages and infrequent calls, though neither were present for every mission, leaving the Soldier and the commander to coordinate with JARVIS. The AI was effective and straightforward, with none of his creator’s extraneous verbiage. It grew to trust him, despite its misgivings. JARVIS had the power to sabotage their plans at every turn, but instead he supplied intelligence, reported enemy movement, and used the scanners in Stark’s vehicle to monitor the commander’s health. He was an extremely useful ally.

In this manner, they eliminated two more supply depots, two upstart Heads hidden among the political elite of this region, two small safehouses, and one administrative facility. The former were much the same as before, facilities minimally staffed with inexperienced agents who were quickly dispatched, the buildings destroyed. Weak, green buds easily ripped from the vine.

The safehouses were straightforward assaults. The Soldier provided covering fire while the commander took out the agents inside and salvaged any relevant data. There was very little, the operatives appearing to have been simply lying low and passing along messages.

The commander rarely made use of interrogation, and the one time he did, he handled it himself, though he must know that the Soldier excelled at the task. There was no information to be extracted. The operatives sputtered and spat at him until they were damaged beyond speech. Something in it bristled when it heard the aborted cry of ‘Hail HYDRA’ over the comms, immediately soothed as the blunt force of the commander's weapon ended the slogan with a grisly crunch.

[Mission report: January 6, 2015. Facility Beta Nine-Seven, Sacramento: administration, databanking, and psychological operations. Thirty-six enemy combatants eliminated. Extensive data retrieved. Communications sabotaged. Malicious software successfully installed on servers. Facility intact. No witnesses. Four survivors: civilian personnel, disabled before infiltration. Mission success.]

The administrative facility was slightly more challenging. It was the first urban operation it had undertaken since it was activated in DC. They ghosted through the streets in the early morning light, tac gear hidden under civilian garments. The enemy agents were disguised as employees of a data processing company.

The Soldier scaled the office building while the commander entered through the basem*nt. It worked silently, eliminating personnel with the knives and hands alone. When it met the commander in the middle, he gave another of the blinding smiles, his chest heaving, a streak of blood across his chin.

The Widow identified four civilians present who were not allied with HYDRA, entirely unaware of the conspiracy funding their livelihoods. The commander incapacitated them and removed them from the premises before raising an alarm.

Exfiltration required a hasty change of clothing in the back alley, faces hidden under hats and scarves as they took a meandering route back to the vehicle. With the technician’s assistance, their presence went undetected by CCTV. They could not incinerate the facility. It was too close to other civilian businesses, and non-HYDRA casualties were outside of mission parameters. Some federal agency or other would handle the corpses, having received an anonymous tip as to their affiliation with HYDRA.

Before the first of the individual assassinations, the commander inquired as to its status, insisting once again that fieldwork was optional. The Soldier assured him of its readiness. He seemed uniquely concerned about this type of mission, but the assignment was familiar to the point of being comfortable, like slipping the feet into the thick, soft socks. The commander kept watch as the Soldier was set loose on the targets’ homes, disabling the security systems, eliminating the guards, and silently slitting throats as the targets slept.

[Mission report: January 9, 2015. Primary target: Elijah Young, Salt Lake City. Minor politician and investor. Potential Region Eight Head. Private residence infiltrated. Primary target eliminated. Acceptable collateral: security personnel. Two agents eliminated. Unacceptable collateral: wife Bethany and children Wylder, Zarah, Rebeccah, and Hunter Young. Five survivors. No witnesses. Mission success.]

It knew these agents by name only, having never been active on the Pacific coast for more than a few weeks at a time. They had already accrued enough power to interfere with civilian affairs, but their influence was limited to local matters only. Their deaths would send a very clear message to the nascent cells. The families of the potential Heads were left alive, safe in their beds. Untouched, save the dark stains creeping across the sheets.

Debrief was always… brief. There were no higher authorities to which to report. Only the commander and his fiery gaze and rough hands, smiling fiercely when it relayed actionable intelligence and reported mission completion.

Every mission ended with the routine of praise and grounding touch. When the target location was more than three hours’ drive from the safehouse, the commander would move the vehicle to a safe distance and pull over. He instructed JARVIS to initiate privacy protocols, then wrapped himself around the Soldier as a buttress against the feverish post-combat energy. With each repetition, the Soldier grew more and more at ease, the transition from mission focus to standard cognition – without the use of cryo or sedatives – becoming routine.

The secondary function was not initiated. It wondered if the Captain might be like Agent Rollins, simply uninterested in the Soldier’s recreational purpose. He kept himself at a careful distance from it during the cleansing routine, but his eyes lingered on it, trailing over the face and the arms, lit up with an indefinable emotion. Perhaps it was pride. His touch was confident, and there was no sign of disgust, no matter how much blood painted its skin. More like the Colonel, then, admiring his weapon for its physical capabilities, finding his satisfaction in a job well done. Still, it could not be sure. There was something more there, and the malfunction-memories… it could not be sure.

[Mission report: January 13, 2015. Undesignated safehouse, Eureka. Three enemy combatants eliminated. Communications sabotaged. Facility intact. No witnesses. No survivors. Mission success.]

The non-standard foodstuffs came more frequently, in ever-increasing variety. The technician, via JARVIS, delivered a new box of supplies every week. The Soldier was allowed a portion of pureed apple [tart and sweet and cinnamon and sugar wafting from the oven], a cup of something called yogurt [thick and creamy and luxurious, but somehow… different than it expected], and a steaming bowl of cooked oats [savory and warm and “settle down now, girls” satisfying in the stomach]. The handler said that these were not rewards, simply supplements to the nutrition solution, but they felt like rewards, lighting up the tongue and the mind with texture and flavor.

Aside from the novel rations, he did not treat it any more or less indulgently than he had before. The protocol remained the same whether it had completed a mission that day or not: hot water, warm hands, thick blankets, effusive praise, and plentiful food. As if he was rewarding it for simply existing.

But the handler, the commander, was changed. He was relentless, inexhaustible, wearing the mantle of command at all hours. His actions were controlled – he did not direct his ferocity at the Soldier during downtime as previous field commanders might have – but he never stopped preparing for the next deployment. The fire in his eyes was only made brighter by the rivers of gore left behind him.

Somehow, it knew he would not stop until every target had been destroyed, and his fervor fueled its own. If they were not occupied with physical training or weapons maintenance, they were poring over the documentation sent by the technician, adjusting their strategy and mission priorities as HYDRA began to respond.

[Mission report: January 16, 2015. Primary target: Carolyn Montreau, San Francisco. Noted attorney, philanthropist, public figure. Potential Region Eight Head. Temporary residence infiltrated. Primary target eliminated. Acceptable collateral: security personnel. Three agents eliminated. Unacceptable collateral: civilian staff, other residents. Sixteen survivors. No witnesses. Mission success.]

The commander kept asking for its input, and it gave it to the best of its ability. He considered each suggestion seriously, taking its intelligence into account as he would any other operative. It was as he had said. Working with autonomy and independence. This was not entirely out of the ordinary. The Soldier was often allowed tactical flexibility. It was expected to analyze layouts and determine ideal points of ingress. It moved through target facilities freely, completing its objectives as it judged most efficient.

But he deferred to its recommendations more often than not, which was highly irregular. [“–figured we should go in here.” “Negative, sir. The eastern entrance will be under-surveilled due to the density of the forest.” “Oh, good thinking.”] Even when he disagreed and insisted on his own way, he did not discipline it for questioning him. Instead, he heaped rewards on it, smiling and petting and feeding it sweet things from his own hand until it was nearly too stupid with positive input to continue the discussion.

It did not know how to put words to the satisfaction it found in working under the Captain’s command. Something about these assignments felt right. It should not matter. A mission was a mission. This was the Soldier’s purpose. But never before had it been so energized for the work, the motivation coming just as much from inside of it as from the commander’s orders. Even the Colonel, with his expansive philosophy and safe, warm office, had not inspired such loyalty in it. This, too, might be the original programming, an even greater reward response for its true handler.

[Mission report: January 21, 2015. Undesignated safehouse, Spokane. Five enemy combatants eliminated. Facility equipped with temporary holding cells. No prisoners present. Communications intercepted. Documentation retrieved. Facility destroyed. No witnesses. No survivors. Mission success.]

Several malfunction-memories came, some in response to the food, some in response to certain facilities, others seemingly at random. It reported what it could. Disjointed pictures of children on a sandy shore [“C’mon, Bucky!”], training sessions in unmarked concrete rooms [“Faster, Soldier.”], and sparse, hesitant summaries of punishments [water and cold and hands on the face].

The latter caused the commander to clench his jaw concerningly hard. But he never punished the Soldier for these reports, and the malfunctions never interfered with the primary function. Even when it saw the medical tables and the tools of discipline, the images did not come until after the missions were complete, when it was safely wrapped in the commander's arms.

The body… it did not fail, but at times it felt unduly fatigued. The Soldier had reached nearly ninety percent physical functionality. It should have been able to operate for days at a time, but after the missions, the combination of exertion and the commander’s heavy, warm touch would conspire to lull it into unconsciousness. Perhaps this was the result of functioning without the pharmaceuticals. It woke from the sleep routine with strange images playing in the mind most every night. It was still able to achieve the commander’s goal of four hours of rest, though they were not always consecutive.

It was strange, to be active for so long. To remember every detail and apply the knowledge to the next mission. The body still itched for the nothingness of cryo at times. But it was logical. In this way, the Soldier’s actions were even more effective, its analysis more complete. It was able to see the entire field of battle, the culmination of all of their efforts, and how their strikes affected each new target. This was extremely advantageous, with an enemy so devoted to secrecy.

HYDRA knew they were under a coordinated attack. They had not yet identified who was targeting their facilities, or in what pattern the commander would strike, but with SHIELD crippled and no evidence of federal involvement, there were only so many potential culprits. They had begun to compensate for the pressure. Defenses grew more intricate. Personnel and supplies were moved, communications given heavier encryptions, codes updated, though each new method of communication was monitored or sabotaged by the AI JARVIS.

[Mission report: January 24, 2015. Facility Echo Five-Nine, Olympia: munitions development and distribution. Twenty-five enemy combatants eliminated. Shipment of chemical and weapons components interrupted, remanded to Stark for disposal. Supply lines sabotaged. Documentation retrieved. Facility destroyed. No witnesses. No survivors. Mission success.]

They found little in the way of active experimentation. Only caches of stolen weaponry, some including Chitauri or Stark components.

(JARVIS supplied a summary of the Chitauri attack on Manhattan, including footage of the Captain and the Widow performing impressive feats on the battlefield. It wondered why it had not been activated at that time, then recalled technicians’ panicked voices, speaking about a nuclear weapon, and a sudden return to cryo.)

The records spoke of plans for genetic manipulation, the creation of more inhuman operatives, but the commander ended these schemes before they could take root. When this data was discovered, the technician spoke at length, with great vitriol, about how foolish HYDRA was to “play with sh*t they don’t understand.” Something inside the Soldier curled up like a smile at that assessment.

HYDRA was still regrouping, new installations cropping up every other week, hidden amongst civilian research facilities or technology development companies. Destroying one lab or supply line would slow their efforts for a time, but as each branch was cut, it split and regrew in another direction. Even at the rate the commander set, it would take a minimum ten months to eliminate all of them. Perhaps this was why he discontinued cryostasis. There was no need to put the Soldier to rest, not with so much work to be done.

Chapter 55

Chapter Text

Approximately halfway through the journey to the next base, [Facility Echo Five-Seven, Alturas: munitions, training, and recruitment] Stravinky’s “Infernal Dance” was interrupted by the technician Stark. He had not been slated to assist on this mission, but that never seemed to prevent him from providing unnecessary commentary on previous operations. His voice was more jarring than usual, coming through the vehicle’s speakers from all sides at once.

“Rocket Man to Old Glory. Do you read me, Glory?”

More strange code phrases. Every communication with him was like this. It was beginning to wonder if he spoke entirely in riddles.

The commander rolled his eyes. “Hi, Tony.”

“How d’you like the ride? I upgraded the suspension to offset Romanov’s road rage.”

“It drives alright,” the commander said lightly, “but I can’t seem to find the mute button.”

“Hardy-har. Alright Captain Sass, I got a fresh update on tonight’s lineup. Looks like the party’s bigger than we expected. They’ve beefed up security, but it’s a bunch of new recruits. Plenty of cannon fodder for your murderfest–” The commander cleared his throat. “Not judging! Not judging. There’s fifty-four on site. Even with most of them being rookies, you might have your hands full without Natty Lite backing you up. You sure you don’t want me to send a suit?”

“No. We’ll handle it. If someone spots a suit out here, they’ll think you’re going out alone again. Hill’s already pissed enough as it is.”

“Whatever you say, mon capitaine. Good news is, the fun explosion you have planned will be even bigger. They just got in a new shipment of fertilizer components. You don’t even have to build the bonfire, just lay the charge and light her up. There’s not much new data on site, but if you swing by the lab, maybe grab their logs. It looks like basic hillbilly bomb construction, but it’d be good to know if they’re up to anything particularly nasty.”

“Copy. Buck, you got that?”

“Da, ser,” it confirmed, parsing the useful information from the technician’s meandering soliloquy. “Tretichnaya tsel' poiska dokumentov.”

“Well hey there, Red October,” the technician said. It sounded like a greeting, but the Soldier did not know to whom he might be speaking. Perhaps someone physically present at his location. “How’s it hangin’? Still heavily to the left?”

“Tony,” the commander rebuked.

“It’s a communist joke!”

“I got that part. It’s Barnes or Soldier over comms.” Had Stark been referring to the Soldier? It had never used the designation ‘Red October,’ and it was incapable of holding political affiliations. “And keep down the chatter.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

His tone indicated he was being sarcastic. The Captain was his superior, but he never addressed him with proper respect. Despite the commander’s attempts to clarify, it still did not fully understand the chain of command for this new unit. It was possible that he was simply far too tolerant of insubordination in general. So far, the Soldier had not judged this to affect his work in the field, but, then, it had only seen him work with it and Romanova.

“Coming up on target,” the commander said. “See you on the other side.”

___________________________________

The Soldier had completed the tertiary objective, several folders of documentation shoved under the tac jacket, and was progressing steadily through the secondary [eliminate all agents of HYDRA] when the commander’s plan fell to pieces. The bullets had taken sixteen targets, the blades seven more, and the hands were currently wrapped around the throat of number twenty-six. As her spinal column gave way, the echoing groan of steel against steel came from the far end of the facility, coupled with a much more distinct shrieking over the earpiece.

“JARVIS,” the commander grunted. “Get Tony on the line.”

“Right away, Captain.”

So far the noise on comms had reflected only the normal sounds of crushed body armor and his measured breathing. Now, his respiration was erratic. It did not know his exact location. He was supposed to have been clearing the western wing of this facility while the Soldier took the laboratory section. What he would need the technician for, in the middle of combat, it could not guess. The Soldier was handling the data transfer, what little of it there was. This base was no different from the other weapons depots, aside from its size. There was not much in the way of new information to be gleaned. Twenty-one seconds and three felled targets later, Stark came on.

“Cap?” he said with obvious concern. “What’s up?”

“I hear you got some missiles handy.”

The commander was even more tense now, speaking as if through clenched teeth. The Soldier forced itself to continue its current objective, moving toward the final technician where he was huddled up against the wall. He had soiled himself in fear. [Threat level: minimal.]

“Well, yeah. But according to my extremely accurate thermal scans, you and the Cold Shoulder are still ass deep in that factory right now.”

“Tony–”

“Yeah, yeah. Barnes. You and Barnes.”

“Send them, Tony! Aim for the silos. Buck. Emergency evac. Level two, west side.”

“V puti.”

A flash of panic crackled through the mission focus, heat forming fissures across an icy lake. The pulse attempted to rise, but the Soldier contained the response. The commander needed it. He was going to detonate this entire facility ahead of schedule. And there were chemical weapons components in those silos, volatile gasses and liquid explosives. [Revised mission priorities: defend the Captain and get the f*ck out of here.]

It kicked aside the corpse of target number thirty and bolted from the laboratory, taking the most direct route to the commander’s location. Drywall and concrete shattered under the prosthesis as it forced its way through several walls and into an elevator shaft from the wrong side.

“Steve,” the technician said, “what the hell are you–”

“Just do it!” the commander shouted. “They’re trying to move the bombs.”

He sounded as if he was in great pain, or exerting himself to the point of collapse. [The safety of the handler– Mission failure– Steve, you idiot.] The Soldier slid down the shaft, using the boots and the gloves to moderate the speed of descent. The screech of titanium on aluminum drowned out the next words spoken over the comms as the fingers of the prosthesis gouged into the wall. It crashed through the doors and made for the western wing.

“ –forty-five seconds, Cap.”

The second level entrance to the silo was nothing more than an open bay door. The flooring stopped at the end of the hall, falling away into a ten meter drop. There were nine hostiles on the first level, firing upwards. Towards the commander.

He was suspended midair, his feet hooked into the maintenance ladder of the fifth level, the shield guarding his torso. His other hand was gripped tight around the rail of an ultralight helicopter attempting to ascend from the open roof of the silo. He was the only thing preventing it from leaving the facility.

Two more were at the ready, waiting for the first to clear the opening. The agents would escape. With documentation. With weapons. With reports of their attackers. That could not be allowed to happen. The anti-aircraft weapons were in the vehicle, three kilometers away. The commander, the handler [Steve] was under fire. He was already wounded, bleeding from the leg where a round had found flesh. His pained grunt came in the right ear as the helicopter increased power to its rotors.

The Soldier drew the submachine gun from its back and rained down bullets onto the unsuspecting agents. Four of them fell immediately. It clambered one-handed up the maintenance ladder, moving as rapidly as possible while returning fire. When the assault from below ceased, it focused its efforts towards the helicopter. A choice shot to the rotor slowed the movement of the blades.

“Otpusti!” it called, voice audible only over comms as the plummeting helicopter took out the structural supports in a barrage of metal and smoke. “Steve, let go!”

The commander released his grip, and the craft went careening toward the ground, the rotors scraping along the side of the silo. He swung downward, hanging only by his ankles now. There was a grunt and a dull thunk as he buffered his impact with the shield.

The first helicopter crashed into the other two, creating a heap of crumpled metal and broken bodies on the concrete below. Noxious fumes began pouring from the wreckage, fire already licking at the spilled cargo.

The Soldier dropped its weapon and climbed the last few meters to the commander’s position. It took hold of his uninjured leg and hauled him up so that he could wrap his free hand around a rung of the ladder and get his footing.

“Twenty seconds, guys,” the technician reported. “You better haul ass because I cannot get out there in time to pull you out.”

It looked to the commander, then to the floor. He nodded, switched his grip on the shield, and wrapped his arm around its torso. The Soldier kicked off from the ladder and used the prosthesis to rappel down several levels, the commander’s additional weight speeding the descent. He grunted as the force of the landing jolted through his injury, but spared no time in moving for the exit.

It kept hold of him, at once pushing him forward through the heavy smoke and guarding his undefended side. The remaining HYDRA agents were unaware of the incoming airstrike, firing on them continuously. Bullets deflected off the shield and the prosthesis as the Soldier and the commander leapt from the loading dock.

Fifty meters outside of the doors, it heard the wail of descending missiles. Giving a final desperate burst of speed, it threw itself behind a low concrete barrier and shoved the commander to the ground. It wrapped the left arm around his head at the same instant that he raised the shield above their bodies.

The world was noise and smoke and pressure for uncounted seconds. Debris rained down on the shield, and the wall lurched against the Soldier’s back as the blast wave rippled through the landscape. It held tight through the first impact, knowing that more would follow.

Secondary explosions went off in staccato as the chemical holding tanks blew. The stench of ammonia and methane filled the air, detectable even through the vents of the mask. Its heart jumped. The commander did not have a mask. Even at this distance he could be damaged, and it was too late now to give him its own.

It curled the left hand tighter, pressing his face into the crook of its neck. There was little it could do but try to preserve the pocket of breathable air. The atmosphere here was dry, and much of the vapor would rise and be carried away by the wind. When the cacophony faded into the steady roar of burning gas, it slowly unwound itself from him.

“I can’t see through the blast,” the technician’s voice crackled in its ear. “Are you assholes alive?”

“Da,” it said, disregarding the colloquialism. It looked to the commander. “Ser. Vy mozhesh' dvigat'sya?”

He nodded, helmet bumping against its chest. It did not know if he was unable to speak or simply choosing not to. His shoulders were caked with dust, his face hardly any cleaner despite its attempt at covering him. There was a shallow cut on his cheek where the swirling grit had gotten under the shield, but the majority of the shrapnel had been deflected.

The Soldier rolled just enough to scan the horizon. Nothing incoming, at least not that it could see through the thick cloud of dust. It placed a hand on his shoulder, [initiation of physical contact permitted if required by the mission] urging him to the north towards where the vehicle was hidden.

“Derzhat'sya nizko nad zemley.”

The commander locked the shield onto his back and elbow-crawled in the indicated direction. He kept low, but he was still inhaling the fumes. They had to move quickly, before he lost consciousness. It followed, checking the rear as they edged across the open field. The Soldier’s pistol eliminated seven enemy agents attempting to escape the conflagration.

It caught up with the commander where a chain link fence encircled the facility. The Soldier tore through it with the prosthesis, holding the loose wire away as he squirmed under. At four hundred meters, when the gasses dissipated and the swell of a low hill obscured visibility, it motioned to stop. The commander flopped flat on his stomach and coughed into the dirt for twenty-six grueling seconds before he was able to catch his breath. There was no blood on his lips. His lungs appeared mostly functional.

“Stark,” the Soldier said, “Podtverdíte vso chisto.”

There was a slight pause before he replied, “Confirmed. Nothing on aerial except a big ass explosion. Cap okay?”

“I’m good,” the commander wheezed.

“Yeah, you sound great, buddy. Fire department will be inbound in fifteen, but I can delay them for a few minutes if you guys need time to clear out.”

“It’s fine.” Another ragged cough. “Let’s move, Buck.”

He shoved himself upright, wincing slightly when he put weight on his left leg. It was difficult to determine if the wound was still bleeding. The dark pants and low light obscured the stains. The Soldier rose and placed itself on his left side again. His expression wavered between gratitude and stubbornness for a moment before he threw his arm around its shoulders and allowed himself to be guided to the vehicle.

[The safety of the handler– Steve is hurt, Steve is hurt, Steve–]

Keeping the ears sharp for any sign of assault, it sat him on the bumper and tore into the medical supplies. By the time it found the appropriate items, he had removed his helmet and tugged his pants down to reveal the injury. For some reason, his acquiescence gave it pause. [–just hold still for a damn minute.] The Soldier shook off its hesitation and bent to inspect the damaged limb. Through shot, no arterial damage. The bleeding had already slowed. He was enhanced as it was. There was no risk of infection. It pressed a bandage to the entry wound, held the gauze against the front of his leg, then tucked another pad across the exit wound as it wrapped several layers of gauze around his thigh.

As it stood, he said a quiet, “Thanks.” His voice was very rough. His rattling breath caused the cognition to sharpen to a fierce edge. [You’re not gonna die on me, punk. Sit up, c’mon.] It attempted to further assess his health, but it was impossible to determine how much damage his lungs had sustained. He was still ambulatory. He would heal in due time. The Soldier had [chest aflame and throat like raw bleeding meat and it could not even scream, it–] healed from similar damage within fifty-five hours.

“Are you okay?” the commander asked.

[Report.]

“Minimal damage, sir. It will drive.”

“I can–” The words were cut off by more coughing, dry and pained. When he recovered, he gave a weak nod. “Yeah. That’s prob’ly a good idea.”

“Wow, Barnes. How the hell did you do that?” the technician interjected.

“Can it, Tony.”

The commander removed the comms unit from his ear, cinched his belt, and made his way to the passenger side of the vehicle. He seemed uncharacteristically fatigued now, though he was determined to move under his own power. It stowed the rest of the gear and took the driver’s seat.

The Soldier could not suppress a flinch when the seat automatically adjusted two inches forward. It breathed deeply, only then realizing it was still wearing the combat mask. Before it could reach up to remove it, the commander’s hand was at the back of the head. He unclipped the mask, threw it into the back seat, and dug his hand into the Soldier’s hair.

It glanced over. His eyes were closed, head reclined against the seat, his chest rising and falling with regularity. He gave a gentle squeeze to the roots, his grip just as sure and strong as always. Even injured, he was attempting to perform the post-combat routine, to aid the Soldier through the transition into downtime. The hair was even more tangled than usual after action, his fingers catching on the knots, but the sensation was positive nonetheless. It exhaled again, then engaged the engine. As they pulled away, the measured cadence of JARVIS’ voice came through the vehicle’s speakers.

“Captain, in addition to the gunshot wound, your medical scans indicate mild internal burns and moderate inflammation from gas exposure. Projected recovery time with proper rest is under four days. Sergeant Barnes sustained several contusions, but no major injury.”

It did not know how Stark’s technology could assess his condition so accurately with no visible scanning, but JARVIS had been nothing but reliable and truthful in the past. It chose to accept this information as valid.

[Conditional mission success. Further assessment pending.]

“Copy that,” the commander replied. “Thanks, JARVIS.”

There was silence for thirty-seven minutes as the Soldier navigated north. It seemed that the technician was mollified by JARVIS’ report, feeling no need to continue his rambling. The Soldier was grateful. It was not sure it could tolerate that input at the moment. Despite the technician’s previous assurances that they would not be tracked, it took several detours. It could not be too cautious, not while the commander was injured. When the roads transitioned from packed earth to pavement, he activated the sound system. The music picked up right where it had left off, the familiar interplay of violin and woodwinds like a salve on open wounds.

The hands relaxed on the steering wheel, but the chest was tight, the jaw clenched. The Captain had been in danger of fatal injury multiple times. No other mission had put him at so much risk. The Soldier was not at fault, but that did not matter. Somehow, HYDRA had mobilized more personnel and weaponry than they had predicted.

There were many ways to prevent their escape that did not involve the commander hanging from a moving aircraft, but it could not change what he had already done. He was intelligent, quick-witted and insightful during strategy. But in the field he had a baffling tendency to [put his over-muscled ass in damn stupid situations] take unnecessary risk.

He intended to take on the other bases, many of which were as extensively guarded as this one. HYDRA was learning, shifting their countersurveillance so that even JARVIS could not know every detail. This pattern was unsustainable.

The Soldier was an effective weapon, an excellent combatant, but even it could not be in multiple positions at once. The commander required more backup. The Widow was unavailable, off on some mission of her own devising. The technician could not come, with his gaudy suit and bombastic methods, for fear of exposing the operation to SHIELD.

But there was another option. An independent operative, loyal to the commander, who had proven himself a moderate challenge as an enemy combatant.

The lips tightened for a moment, and it swallowed before carefully speaking, “Tactical recommendation, sir.”

“What’s that, Buck?” the commander croaked.

“Additional reinforcements strongly advised. Aerial support ideal.”

Chapter 56

Chapter Text

Bucky wasn’t quite pissed, but he was close.

It wasn’t Steve’s fault. The ‘copter had been loaded down with chemical weapons. It was on a direct route out of the country, and there were three more waiting to follow it. If he hadn’t taken the leap, HYDRA’s bombs would be even further out of their reach. Hill wasn’t about to approve them for action on foreign soil. Not that she’d approved this one, but it was close enough to home – and to Tony’s questionable lawyers – that she could turn a blind eye. The WSC was still on edge, and it was all Natasha and Tony could do to keep them distracted. If the Council tried to stand in Steve’s way right now, he might end up punching a Senator. Maybe he and Tony could start a club.

Anyway, Steve was fine. His leg was basically back to normal by the end of the drive. He could still feel the itch of healing in his lungs and throat. It was annoyingly reminiscent of pneumonia, but he’d be good as new in time for the next hit. He’d inhaled caustic substances before, and the damage never lasted long. At least it wasn’t burning Chitauri guts.

Buck probably had a point about calling in Sam. He had promised. HYDRA’s retreat was growing more organized by the day, and they ran the risk of losing some of the bigger players and weapons if they couldn’t move fast enough. It’d be nice to spend time with someone who wasn’t Tony, as well. Maybe give Buck some practice socializing with a person who didn’t talk like a machine gun.

When they pulled into the driveway, Buck was looking at him so intently Steve was sure he was going to get a dressing down. But it didn’t come. Bucky was quiet, the dirt and smoke caked across the top half of his face making his eyes even more intense than usual. It reminded Steve of the greasepaint Bucky wore that night in DC, icy blue against soot gray, now made almost unreal by the electric glow of Tony's fancy dashboard.

Steve suppressed another cough as he double-checked the satellite. They hadn’t seen any tails, and JARVIS was running interference, but he knew there was always a risk of someone figuring out where their home base was.

So far, so good.

Bucky didn’t leave his seat until Steve unclipped his seatbelt and went for the door handle. He let Steve move by himself, gathering up the dirtied gear instead of hovering, but he was watching closely, wound tight. It was different from the usual post-action nerves. He was worried, torn between concern and compliance. Steve had been injured before on ops, but it was always glancing wounds or bruises that faded quickly. The internal damage was stressing Bucky out, and Steve suspected the coughing reminded him of the years he spent by Steve’s sickbed, even if he wasn’t consciously aware of it.

Once inside, Bucky set down their kits and herded him into the bathroom. Steve went with no protest. The time after missions was delicate, as were the moments when Buck was skirting the edge of a memory. Steve used to hate being coddled, but it was better to let Bucky do what he needed to calm down. And, well, tonight’s mission had taken the wind out of him in more ways than one. He took off his tac jacket and undershirt, preparing for inspection.

Bucky’s eyes trailed over his chest like Steve was an uncooperative engine he was trying to diagnose. His fingers twitched. He wouldn’t touch, not outside of the battlefield, and not without permission, but he wanted to. Steve found his right hand, still gloved and filthy, and pressed Bucky’s palm to his sternum. His chest rattled a bit with the next breath, undermining his intentions, but Bucky’s expression softened.

“I’m okay,” Steve said. His voice already sounded clearer, less like he was gargling gravel. “JARVIS is right. I’ll heal up in a couple days.”

A little frown played at Bucky’s lips. “Yes, sir. Apologies, sir. It submits for disciplinary action.”

He lowered his head, and his arm went limp as the veil of determination fell away. Bucky was hovering on the border of that unsettled place he went when the adrenaline faded. They hadn’t stopped along the way back for their usual wind-down.

“C’mere.” Steve stepped closer and reeled him in. He guided Bucky’s arm around his back and Bucky’s head to his chest, hoping that hearing his lungs up close wouldn’t cause more stress. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were amazing today. I couldn’t have gotten out of there without you. Eto khorosho, dorogoy.”

Bucky turned his face into Steve’s collarbone, inhaling in a long, slow draw. His hand tightened against Steve’s back. Leather and metal pressed into Steve’s bare stomach, tacky with the remnants of combat. Steve’s fingers found their place in Bucky’s hair, careful not to yank on the knots. It was all matted up where the strap of his mask had laid across it.

They were both a mess. There was a solid layer of dirt over every inch of them. The fine grit had gotten into his suit, under his helmet, even in his socks, mixing with his sweat to become Steve-flavored mud. He really wanted a shower. He really didn’t want to let go of Bucky, who was so tense he was almost shaking now. Steve tried to smooth his hand over Buck’s scalp, but it couldn’t feel very nice with all the grime between them.

He sighed, Natasha’s parting words ringing in his ears. There was an option available that would solve both problems, but it might create even more. He couldn’t bear to hurt Bucky again, especially not like that. The stray thought that Natasha got some sort of thrill out of putting him in compromising situations crossed his mind. There was probably some truth to it, but he knew she had good intentions, even if she smiled a bit too sharply at his fumbling.

Steve had seen the confusion, the hint of disappointment, every time he closed the door behind him to leave Bucky alone in the bathroom. It wasn’t like they hadn’t been naked together a thousand times, in this life and the last. Buck wasn’t body shy, and he’d enjoyed the shared showers before. Before Steve knew better, before he found out that his lingering looks and clinging hands might be causing harm.

It was doubtful Bucky had any concept of desire as an extension of attraction. For so long, sex had been nothing but a weapon wielded against him, but he never reacted badly to Steve’s affection. He craved the closeness, especially when he was upset like this. Steve did too. Now that he knew, he could be careful. And right now, exhausted and shaken up, he didn’t have the heart to deny either of them what they wanted, no matter how ill-advised it might be. Never let it be said that Steve Rogers wasn’t a selfish, foolhardy idiot.

“Hey, Buck?”

“Sir?” Bucky said, stubble scraping against Steve’s skin.

“I think we oughta get cleaned up.”

Bucky sagged, already anticipating being sent away. “Yes, sir.” His weight shifted, and he let his hand fall from Steve’s waist.

Steve stepped back just enough to look him in the face. He held Bucky’s shoulder, stilling his retreat. “You can stay. We can wash up together, if you… If it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable. We’ll both have to be undressed to get all this dirt off. It’s your choice. No wrong answer. But if you want to…”

He knew it was coming before the words left Bucky’s mouth.

“The Asset does not want.”

Buck lowered his eyes, glancing down to where Steve’s free hand laid by his thigh. It always gave him away, how he stared at Steve’s hands.

“Okay," Steve said. "But like I said, either option is acceptable. You can stay here, with me, and I’ll wash your hair like before. Or you can wait for me and take your shower when I’m done, and I’ll do it for you after.”

Bucky studied the floor, his bottom lip firmly fixed between his teeth. It was so far from how he’d been in the field, making snap decisions and giving orders with ease. Steve rubbed his arm and kept quiet. The offer was kind of out of the blue, and they’d had a stressful night. If Buck couldn’t make a choice now, it was better to err on the side of caution. Steve could still help him settle down afterwards.

After what had to be a solid three minutes of silence, Bucky hesitantly said, “With you. Please, sir.”

He looked somewhere between hope and fear. Steve’s stomach turned, and he had to consciously re-center himself. He knew what Bucky might be expecting, some kind of trick or mind game, or just more pain. If it wasn’t so obvious that he didn’t want to leave, Steve might have thought Bucky was just capitulating to try and appease him.

“Eyes up.” Steve spoke as calmly and seriously as he could manage. “We’re just taking a shower, okay? Just getting clean. That’s it, Buck. You remember what to do if you start feeling bad?”

“It is to signal, sir.”

“That’s right. If you can’t reach me, or it’s hard to initiate physical contact, you tap the wall, or yourself, loud enough for me to hear it. Got it?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good job, baby,” Steve said, a bit hoarse. His voice was starting to give out again after all the talking. He smiled softly and reached up to run his thumb across Bucky’s cheek, exposing a smear of skin beneath the dirt. “Let’s get outta this damn kevlar, then. I started itching five hours ago.”

Bucky nodded and immediately began undoing the straps of his jacket. It was ridiculously overcomplicated, but he could do it in under twenty seconds. Steve followed suit, kicking his boots off and shucking his pants. His borrowed STRIKE uniform ended up in a dusty heap in the corner. Bucky carefully folded his filthy gear and laid it next to his boots by the door.

The anxiety squirming in Steve’s gut was stamped out as soon as Bucky pulled off his undershirt, overtaken by concern. JARVIS said he’d gotten bumped up a bit, but nothing like this. Deep, dark bruises painted blue and black and purple across the pale canvas of his back, his chest, and all the way down his right arm.

“Buck,” Steve admonished. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

Confusion flashed across Bucky’s face, and he glanced down at himself as if he was just now noticing the injuries.

“Minimal damage, sir. Physical functionality of eighty-nine percent. Subcutaneous contusions only. Expected healing time: less than four hours.”

“Are you sure? You look like you ran right through solid concrete.”

Bucky tilted his head, tangled hair brushing his collarbone. “This asset took the most direct route to the Captain’s position, sir.”

Maybe it was Bucky’s deadpan delivery. Maybe that explosion had shaken Steve’s brain up more than he realized. The tension broke, and he burst out laughing. The sudden contractions made his damaged esophagus burn and sent a twinge of pain through his diaphragm.

“Christ,” he wheezed. His laughter turned into another ragged cough. “Sorry,” he said, still catching his breath. “Did you hit your head or anything?”

Bucky looked askance at Steve’s sudden outburst, confused and a little incredulous. “Negative, sir. No further damage to report.”

“Alright, then. The quicker we get cleaned up, the sooner we can get some food and sleep. I know I need it.”

Stubbornly shoving past his reservations, Steve finished stripping and turned on the shower. He gave himself a few seconds to relish the hot water on his back and the steam soothing his throat before he moved aside to make room for Bucky.

When he realized he was keeping careful distance between them, which kind of defeated the purpose, he lathered himself up and stepped closer, mindful of any negative reaction. Bucky wasn’t scared, but he was just standing there like he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

“Here.” Steve soaped up a cloth for himself and held out the bar to Bucky. “Turn around and I’ll get your back, you get the front.”

Bucky followed the instruction, using his left hand to run soap across his chest. His movements were perfunctory at first, but when Steve started working across his right shoulder, he let out a silent sigh, and his hand slowed.

Steve was as gentle as he could be while still getting the job done, trying to avoid the worst of the bruising. He moved Bucky’s hair aside, forgoing the cloth to rub his thumbs over the ring of dirt left by Bucky’s collar. As he pressed into the tense muscle, Buck’s head fell forward, a low hum vibrating from his throat. The hesitation ebbed. He wrapped his fingers around the back of Bucky’s neck, risking a heavier hand.

“You did so good today, Buck. You were perfect.”

The shift in attitude was visible, a wave of relief loosening Bucky’s spine. Steve stayed there, holding Buck in place until the last of the tension shuddered out of his back. He used both hands to massage across Bucky’s shoulders, easing up when he ran his palms over the injuries, and stopping at the bottom of his ribs, a safe distance from his hips.

A subtle twitch passed through Bucky’s shoulders, and his right arm shifted. Steve lightened his touch, prepared to back off immediately. He waited a few seconds, giving Bucky the chance to signal, but there was no tap, no new tension, no uptick in his pulse. Rubbing back up to Bucky’s neck resulted in another soft sigh. Steve repeated the action that had given him the best response, gripping tight beneath Buck’s filthy hair. Bucky kept lazily passing soap over whatever he could reach without changing position, running his hand across his stomach and thighs almost indulgently. After a few minutes, it seemed like the calm was going to stick around. Steve let go and took a step back.

“Go on and finish up, then I’ll get your hair.”

When Buck bent over to get his feet, Steve turned around. He wouldn’t stand right behind him, not like that. Steve focused on cleaning himself up.

He’d been worried about losing his composure like he’d done when Bucky made that gorgeous drawing. But this was different. Bucky was beautiful, of course he was, even – maybe especially – bruised and battered from battle. He’d been damn impressive in the field today. But this didn’t stoke the same fire in Steve’s gut. He knew he had to be careful. He was full of emotion, felt like he was burning with it, but it was all in his chest, his heart clenched tight and his throat threatening to close up. Or maybe that was just the gas inhalation.

They'd done this before. Usually when Buck got fed up with Steve stinking of fever sweat, cajoling him into the tub and gingerly washing his face. During the war, too, Bucky sneaking into the officer's showers at 0200 to find a moment of privacy, just holding each other close after a rough mission. Steve might have defaulted to sharp teeth and sharper tongue to express his affection, but he was capable of softness. It was easier now. He was older, less defensive. Less stupid. Bucky craved the gentle touch just as much as he did the heavy hand, and Steve was deeply, deeply grateful that he could provide both without hurting him.

Bucky put the soap back in its little dish on the shower wall, and Steve pulled himself from his thoughts, quickly rinsing off. He turned to find Buck looking at him, his eyes dragging over Steve’s shoulders. In another life he might have been checking him out, but there was no way to know what he was thinking right now. Asking directly would probably just cause him stress. Steve didn’t want him to feel like he was on the spot, or like his private thoughts were being monitored. He leaned out of the shower to grab the comb from the sink. Buck knew this routine. He gave Steve his back and let the water pour over his hair.

Even after however many minutes under the hot water, the fresh stream took more dirt with it, a line of ochre sluicing across mottled skin and white fiberglass. Pulling a few stray strands behind Bucky’s head, he set to work. It took a while to undo the knots at the back, and he ended up massaging conditioner into it to help detangle. When he got to the actual shampooing, Steve took his time, scratching little circles into Bucky’s scalp.

As it often did, the sensation seemed to loose the subconscious restrictions on Buck’s voice entirely. He hummed with pleasure every few seconds. Each new sound made Steve want to move closer, to kiss the delicate skin behind his ears. He let his fingers be a proxy, massaging along the nape of Bucky’s neck until the water ran clear.

He didn’t have to say anything. As soon as he stopped scrubbing, Bucky leaned back and let the suds wash away. He was so close to Steve’s chest, it was instinctual to put one hand on his arm and close the gap. Bucky’s only response was another slow exhale.

Steve consciously kept the contact to just his upper body, letting Buck’s head rest on his shoulder as the last of the shampoo flowed from his hair. He wrapped one arm around Bucky’s chest, on the left side, making sure there was nothing blocking his right hand. Buck was still a bit lean, but it was such a relief to feel solid muscle where before there’d been protruding ribs.

Steve held fast, pinning him down like he did after every op. He had to resist the urge to put his other hand around Bucky’s throat. Buck had always liked that before, but right now Steve feared it would be a step too far. He simply squeezed reassurance, holding Buck tight to his chest. They stood there for a long while, letting the heat beat down on them.

“Still doing okay?”

“Functional, sir,” Bucky muttered.

His eyes were closed, droplets hanging from dark lashes like crystal, refracting pink and blue and white. He was as relaxed as physically possible, would’ve fallen over if Steve wasn’t holding him.

Seeing Bucky so at ease, so obviously content, roused every protective instinct in him. For a fleeting moment, Steve wanted nothing more than to wrap him up, shield him from the world, and stay here, in this quiet cabin for the rest of their damn lives. But it would never work. HYDRA was still out there, and SHIELD. They’d find them eventually, shatter this peace. Try to take Buck from him.

He tucked his head over Bucky’s shoulder, his cheek pressed into Bucky’s, unforgiving metal under his chin. Less than an inch away from putting his lips to Bucky’s scruffy jaw. Buck might not even notice. Not that that would make it any better. Was a kiss any different than petting all over him? Did he even remember the significance of that kind of thing?

Steve’s fingers tightened involuntarily, slipping against wet skin. It was probably time to get out. They’d been on the road for fourteen hours, fighting for two more, and his stomach was starting to complain. He guided Bucky upright, combed more conditioner into his hair, and shut off the water.

Bucky’s arm click-clacked through the wet cat routine as Steve wrapped a towel around himself. He handed one to Bucky for him to do the same, then used a third to blot at Buck’s hair. Bucky was calm under his hands, but he was studying Steve with something that might have been confusion or anticipation. The routine had changed again, with little explanation. Steve didn’t know how to put words to what he was thinking right now, how to convey his motivations without confusing Bucky. Hopefully this wouldn’t throw him off too badly. It’d definitely helped him settle.

“Thank you, sir,” Bucky said, barely a whisper.

“‘Course, baby. C’mon. I’m thinkin’ we can try some jam on your toast today,” Steve smiled. “Then I’m gonna sleep for about ten hours.”

______________________________________________

The commander acted as if he was undamaged, preparing the rations and speaking to it as he did every other day. He seemed in a good mood, despite his fatigue. He had been so generous, providing touch during the cleansing routine in a manner that he had not for weeks, soothing the bruised muscles and the frayed cognition with his steady hands. Perhaps its was a reward for successful extraction.

But disquiet lingered in the mind. His breathing was strained. Regular and unchanging, but strained. The mission had taken them far from the safehouse, and they had not returned until 0618 that morning. He took his rest at 0811. It laid awake, listening intently as he slept. The sun rose higher and higher, and the Soldier became more uneasy with each rattling exhale.

When the commander rose at 1500, another fit of coughing came over him. It knew he was healing. It knew he was enhanced. It knew that he would be fully recovered within a few days. But that sound, the crackling lungs, the dry cough, made it feel as if there were hot coals under the skin.

[ “–not gonna call the priest, you asshole. I’m gonna be fine.”]

He did not complete physical training. That was good. Correct. He required rest in order to heal. The Soldier followed him into the sitting area. It tended to the woodstove, then prepared the coffee, the machine gurgling its purpose into the chill afternoon air.

The sink was empty and the counters were clear, but the body kept moving. The Soldier fell into a half-conscious daze, rifling through the cabinets, searching for something it could not name. The commander watched it in silence, sitting on the couch with his sketchbook held in his lap, but not drawing. His damaged lungs were audible even from across the room.

[–wheezing something awful, the radiator clanging, opened up as high as it would go. The damn fool had tried to go into work yesterday, walkin’ out in the rain with no coat, and now it was gettin’ worse. He’d never heal up if he didn’t sit still. It was lucky they still had leftovers from Sunday. Half a chicken, with plenty of bones for stock.]

There was a pot on the stove. Carrots and onions half-cut on the countertop. An aluminum can opened, and liquid poured from it, smelling strongly of saltwater and savory herbs. It put the kettle on. That was important. He needed hot water. Steam. The shower had eased his lungs for a while. There was no menthol here, or liniment, or… It did not matter.

The Soldier poured the warm soup into a ceramic bowl, and the boiling water into a larger glass one, and– Itstood there, disoriented, surrounded by vessels of various size and composition. Something was burning. The stove was still on, scalding the bottom of the empty pot. It should turn off the heat. It should… It had to…

[C’mon Steve, just a few more minutes, then we’ll see how you’re feelin’.]

A towel. It had to get a towel. That was the protocol, the imperative lurching to life from some murky pit in the back of the mind. It bent to retrieve one from the drawer. Something moved in the other room, and a pair of bare feet came into its field of vision. Pale and pink and bigger than they should be. That was… He wasn’t supposed to– [Get your ass back in bed, Rogers.] The stove clicked off. Water ran, sizzling against hot metal. The Soldier righted itself, scanning the meager line of spice jars by the stovetop. Not even any rosemary.

“What’re you up to, Buck?”

“Steve’s sick.” The words came from nowhere, an unfamiliar voice hovering in the air. “ Gotta… Gotta make…” It faltered, placing one hand on the counter to maintain balance. Whatever had been about to leave its mouth died on the tongue. It looked to the– the commander. The Captain. The– The cognition juddered like a spool of film flying off the reel, half-seen images flashing through the mind, distorting the present moment. It felt the eyes widen, the breath hitching in its throat.

“Sir, m-malfunction. Reset required.”

The voice was weak, thready with some choked, desperate sensation. What was it doing? The commander stepped closer, his face unreadable. A heavy hand landed on its back, another covering its flesh fingers where they gripped the thick cotton towel.

A sick swoop of fear moved the stomach. [Submit for disciplinary action.] It had– It had taken the commander’s food. Why had it taken the commander’s food? It was not a systemic malfunction. There was no loss of consciousness. It could clearly remember doing it. But it could not remember why. The Soldier was not programmed for nutrition preparation. It had not–

His hand marked circles across the trapezius, friction warming the skin through the clothing. The left ear was full of his labored breathing.

“Why don’t you sit down, honey.”

The pressure on its back increased. It folded to the floor right where it was, the arms locked behind it. The room was heady with the smell of coffee and heated food. Cold crept through the cotton pants from the ceramic tiles. The right hand shook, and the neck prickled with perspiration.

“S-sir. It submits–”

“No,” he said, hoarse but calm. “It’s okay.”

It watched from the corner of the eyes as he surveyed the cluttered countertop. “This all for me?” It nodded. That was… It assumed that was the purpose of this activity, though it was not entirely sure. “Huh. I didn’t think Tony knew what instant soup was.”

The commander opened a drawer to retrieve a spoon, then sat down on the floor in front of the Soldier, his legs crossed, the steaming bowl held in his lap. He cleared his throat. It did not know if this was a nonverbal signal or simply a symptom of his damaged esophagus. It lowered its gaze.

“Sit all the way down, ass on the floor. At ease.”

It complied, letting the hands fall to its sides as it mimicked the commander’s posture. He moved closer, knocking their knees together. An upward glance revealed another of his soft, disarming smiles. His hand found its own, squeezing at the fingers of the prosthesis.

“Are you with me?”

“Yes, sir,” it spoke quietly.

“Did you remember something?”

It shook the head, but it was not responding in the negative. More an attempt to clear its thoughts. “Incomplete protocol. The Captain is… The Captain is injured.”

“I’m alright now, Buck. I don’t get sick like I used to.”It knew this. I knew the Captain had been enhanced. [How the hell do I keep him outta the fight now?] But that did not stop the hollow feeling settling in the stomach, nor the imperatives moving the body through this familiar-unfamiliar routine.“Can I tell you a little bit about it? You tell me if it starts to hurt, okay?”

The Soldier was not looking at his face, but it could sense his hesitation. It nodded assent. The commander placed its left hand on his knee, firmly pressing metal into muscle before he let go.

“My lungs were sh*t before the serum. Just about every year, when it got all cold and wet in February, I’d get pneumonia or the flu, or both. I always pulled through, but you’d fuss and fidget like I was gonna die if I didn’t eat eight bowls of chicken soup and stay in bed all week. Piled every blanket we owned on top of me even though I was sweating my ass off already. Shoved nasty cough syrup at me every time I opened my mouth, even though I'm pretty sure it was snake oil. My ma was a nurse. It wasn’t like I didn’t know how to take care of a fever.”

He paused to swallow a spoonful of the soup, then gave a short, crackling hum. “Your recipe was better than this stuff, though. Made it from scratch. I think it was Winnie’s originally–”

The fingers twitched against the commander’s leg. He was silent for three seconds, then went on, his voice growing rougher. “Your ma, I mean. That was her name. Winnifred. She made chicken soup with these big juicy dumplings. You didn’t have much time to cook usually, but whenever I was sick…”

It did not understand the meaning of these words, but something about them was undeniably wrong. Before it could begin to dissect what the commander was saying, the stomach clenched, and it felt the phantom pain begin to rise in the skull.

It attempted to control the breathing, forcing itself to remember the new protocol. There was no punishment. He did not intend for it to be in pain. It had been over a month since the training exercise, but the body knew the correct response. The fingers moved again, with more intention this time. Tap, tap, tap.

The commander went quiet. His rattling breaths grew calmer once he stopped speaking. The pain paused in its expansion. The Soldier exhaled heavily, the eyes falling closed, allowing the silence to soothe the impending headache. The commander pet its hand again, then shifted. Ceramic clinked against ceramic as he sat the bowl on the floor. It felt him lean forward. The fingers in its hair were not a surprise.

“Good job, baby. Molodets.”

The tension drained from the body, the negative response to the verbal input slowly fading. It was not disobeying. This was simply an older protocol, one that had been overwritten many times, but still persisted. It might have been obsolete now that his physiology was changed, but it was part of the original programming, which the Captain wished to recover. He was pleased with this, even if it was extraneous to its current functions.

Once it could think clearly again, it tried to assimilate what little information he had given it. This, this Winnifred person…The name skittered through the mind, leaving raw, open wounds where it struck. [“You have no name.”] The Soldier could not think on it. But the rest, it had known before. That the Captain had been ill many times. That there was a procedure for mitigating these health issues.

After two point three minutes of firm, careful strokes through the hair, he sat back. “Thank you.” The commander smiled, taking up the bowl. He consumed a few more spoonfuls, then passed it to the Soldier. “Here. Give it a try.”

The soup was lukewarm now. Given his reaction, all of the associated emotional data, it expected a dramatic response to the taste. It was pleasant, warm and salty, with tender bits of chicken and soft glutinous noodles that yielded easily between the teeth. But there was no malfunction, no sensation aside from the physical.

It spoke quiet thanks, returning the dish to the commander. The protocol for trialing new foodstuffs was still in place, though it had not had a negative reaction to any of the substances he presented so far. He ate his fill, then poured another portion and allowed the Soldier to consume all of it.

Chapter 57

Chapter Text

“Mind explaining why your drones were out inspiring more UFO conspiracy theories last week? I thought we had an understanding about this HYDRA sh*t. You’re supposed to call me before you start blowing up farm equipment.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tony lied. “I haven’t left the Tower in weeks. Just ask JARVIS. He says I’m reaching critical levels of vitamin D deficiency. He’s probably right. I can’t really feel my ass anymore. Maybe I should put in a sunroof.”

Hill glowered at him from the holoscreen. She wasn’t nearly as intimidating when she wasn't here in person and couldn’t shoot him. She was all the way in DC today. And after dealing with Natashalie for years, normal spies were old news.

“Right,” she said. “Like you can’t cause an international incident without lifting a finger. That’s five unexplained explosions in the past month. We know it was you, Stark. The satellites picked up ordinance in a recognized pattern outside of Summit Lake. Which is Native territory, by the way. You were fifty miles from bombing reservation lands. Not even your publicist can deal with that kind of mess.”

Tony shoved his rolly chair across the lab, picking back up where he left off with the new designs for the compound. If the geriatric duo was actually going to cooperate, he’d need to account for two more superpowered idiots smashing up his equipment. And add a few extra levels of security. Barnes seemed functional (ha). But Tony had no idea how stable he was when he wasn’t on leash, and letting him bust out and murder some nice retired B&B-owner lesbians in the middle of the Catskills, now that was bad PR.

“Please,” he scoffed. “If the US Army can cover up their nuclear weapons testing, I think I can get away with taking out some terrorists. It’s for the good of the people. And your little bureaucracy wasn’t doing anything about it.” He turned back to the camera just long enough to give Hill a patronizing smile. “Unless you had some secret plan to take them out? Or were you just gonna let HYDRA get a foothold in the Cascades so they can start making super-heroin and zombify all the tech nerds? I’m sure Rogan would appreciate it.”

Hill made a frustrated noise. More scoff than growl. She definitely didn’t growl at him. She kind of looked like she wanted to, though.

“We have eyes on the new bases,” she said. “We’ll move in when we have the resources and the approval.”

Resources. Ha. They were so understaffed Hill was probably making her own coffee. Even with Romanov on the job, there were still gobs of double agents to sort through. Turns out all the spooky surveillance at their disposal couldn’t stop SHIELD from hiring bad guys. Take that, psych evals.

“So what’s the problem?” Tony shrugged. “You need resources? I have resources. I’m a trusted agent, they’re Nazis. Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“You are not a trusted agent, you're a megalomaniac with lawyers sleazier than Cochran–”

“Hey now, my legal team is perfectly–”

“And my problem is I have Congress on my ass about more unsanctioned engagement on domestic soil. We barely avoided another subpoena after the East Coast hits. I’m already screwed with Rogers going AWOL, I don’t need to be chasing after you, too.”

And she could just keep on getting screwed. Tony had taken inspiration from Spidergirl, laying false leads across four continents. Watching SHIELD chase their own tail was pretty f*cking fun. Almost as fun as helping Rogers systematically destroy the organization that killed his parents.

It was kind of stupid for them to be all the way out on the West Coast in some dinky safehouse, but far be it from Tony Stark to begrudge someone a cross country trip and/or bloody revenge tour as a coping mechanism.

He plastered on his disaster management face. Nothing to see here. Everything is fine. Please stay behind the police cordon.

“Let me deal with Cap. He’ll talk to me, once I find him. Kinda surprised the geezer can avoid you guys so well. Aren’t you supposed to be the best intelligence organization in the world? Outwitted by an antique? I mean, either way, he still doesn’t trust you. Not that I can blame him. What with the whole fascist infestation and the stealing my tech. You do remember that, right? The part where you asked for a consultation then ripped me off? Maybe I should sue. That wouldn’t be very nice, though. I know you couldn’t afford it right now. You’re down to what, twelve trusted agents? What about Romanov? She hasn’t heard anything?”

Hill was well aware that he could follow through on the threat of litigation at his whim. And he had a lot of whims. She glared even harder this time. “If she has, she’s not telling me about it.”

She knew, but she couldn’t prove it, so she was up sh*t creek without a paddle. Serves her right for stealing Tony’s oar and building the Nazi ark to go with it.

“Huh. Well, good luck with that,” Tony said, turning back to his blueprints. Maybe another pool over there. No, the light was wrong for that, too hot in August. Would anybody want a vegetable garden? Growing your own food was kind of pointless when hydroponic robots existed, but apparently it was a thing people did. Ana’s caprese always did taste better that way.

At some point, the call ended. Whether Hill just hung up or JARVIS made an executive decision, either way it was fine with Tony.

An irrelevant amount of time passed, marked only by the growing pile of shop rags DUM-E made at his feet and the increasing ache in his back as he plotted and poked and rearranged decor. He’d already had half of the new Avengers Compound built when Rogers had decided… Okay, when Tony had decided to call a truce. Pepper would say he should probably ask what kind of accommodations American Eagle and Hot Topic wanted, but Pepper wasn’t here, so she couldn’t critique his ‘gaudy ultramodern’ design choices. It was more fun to make it a surprise, anyway. Cap was going to hate this wallpaper.

The voice of an angel interrupted Tony’s petty schemes.

“Really, Tones? Are you trying to get sent to the Raft?”

He whipped his head up fast enough to turn the crick in his neck into a full blown spasm, but he didn’t give a flying f*ck. His flying cuddlebuddy was back.

“Honeybear!”

Tony was across the room faster than you could say five-nanometer semiconductor micromanufacturing. He scooped Rhodey into a somewhat ridiculous hug, trying to pick him up and failing. He used to be able to spin his sugarpie around without an effort. Had Rhodey gotten more buff? Was Tony actually wasting away in here? He guessed he hadn’t been to the gym in a while. Oops.

“I thought you were in Berlin until next week,” Tony mumbled into Rhodey’s stupid stuffy dress uniform. He smelled good. Sweat and engine grease and a little cocoa butter and the same silly mid-range cologne he insisted on wearing even though Tony kept trying to get him to use the nice stuff.

“It is next week,” Rhodey said. “JARVIS texted me again. He says you’ve been awake for two days straight harassing government agents and avoiding your therapist.”

Tony stepped back and gave him a grin that was mostly genuine, only twenty percent sh*t-eating. “I plead the fifth.”

“That only works in court. This is a best friend tribunal.”

Rhodey took him by the shoulders and looked him over, tsking at whatever signs of disrepair he found. Maybe Tony was a bit of a mess, but it was a better mess. He’d only stayed awake that long because he hadn’t drank himself to sleep again. That was an improvement, right?

“I plead the second, then.”

Rhodey scoffed. “What, are you gonna shoot me? Try insanity, that’ll probably get you a lighter sentence.”

“Yeah but it won’t let me avoid the ther-a-piiist.” Tony gave the last word a little sing-song. He spun back toward the holograms of the Compound. “C’mon lemme show you the thing! I made you a sweet little clubhouse for whenever you deign to grace us with your presence. I know you’re all super important Army guy now–”

“Air Force.”

“ –but I figured you could stay with the rest of the gang when you’re not jetting off for your analingus sessions with the joint chiefs or whatever. Look, I made you a flying gym. Okay it’s for me too, but still. We can do loop de loops even if it’s all gross and stormy out.”

He turned around to ask if his precious platypus wanted a De'Longhi or a Breville in his apartment, but Rhodey was still hanging out in the doorway, his arms crossed and his ‘Tony, I know what you’re up to’ face on.

“What?”

The Face intensified. “What do you think?”

“I mean, generally, a lot of things, all at once. Someone told me I should probably be medicated for it, but I fired them.”

Butterfingers came to the rescue, momentarily distracting Rhodey with a plaintive beep. He obligingly shook the bot's claw, his grouch levels decreasing by about ten percent. Tony's children could be helpful when they wanted to. His sugarplum looked back up at him, still exasperated, but in a slightly amused way this time.

“You’re not gonna get out of talking about the illegal hits. And the Rogers situation.”

“What situation?” Tonywas so innocent. He was practically a saint. He’d still be glowing with heavenly light if he hadn’t decided the structural integrity of his ribcage was more pressing. “There’s no situation. I don’t even know a Rogers. You mean the watch company? I don’t think we bought them out. I’m more of a Rolex guy.”

“I’m on your emergency contact list. You programmed the emergency contact list. JARVIS told me everything. And a month ago you called me screaming drunk and bitched about Rogers for two hours.” Rhodey abandoned the bot to sidle closer to the holoscreen, squinting at the new addition. “Now you’re designing him his own gym? What gives, Tones?”

“Rhodey bear. My darling. Light of my life. Joy of my loins.” Rhodes grimaced. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m taking the high road?”

“Only if you meant it literally, but if you’ve picked up the cocaine habit again we’re gonna have an even longer, louder conversation. Come on, buddy. We’re going outside. You’re gonna eat something that wasn’t prepared by a robot.” DUM-E chirped disparagingly. Poor little guy. He was doing his best. “And you’re gonna tell me what the f*ck you’re thinking inviting an internationally wanted terrorist into your house. Again.”

Tony couldn’t deny his dearest Rhodey anything. Especially not after his not-great behavior recently. He owed him an explanation at the very least. Maybe a couple new watches. Plus it was… huh. It was definitely dinner time. On a Sunday. When did it become Sunday? He could trust Rhodey not to spill the beans and get him arrested. Rhodes liked Cap, anyway, and he might be moved enough by the heartwarming reunion of two old soldiers to forgive Tony’s bullsh*t. He’d definitely forgiven worse. Some of the offenses Tony couldn't even remember.

“Fine,” he conceded, “but you have to promise you won’t tell the president.”

“Sure, like I haven’t risked my entire career covering for you enough times. Move it, Stark.”

Rhodey bullied him out the door, the bots trundled towards their charging stations, and JARVIS thoughtfully lowered the lights and locked up.

_________________________________________________

“Hey Sam, what’s–”

“‘Mysterious explosion at Nevada fertilizer plant’,” he recited, reading from the latest headlines. “‘Evidence of intentional arson. Unidentified objects seen in the night sky. Police are still investigating.’ Anyone ever tell you you’re not really great at subtlety?”

Steve laughed, long and hard, then started coughing. He probably got his dumb ass caught in the explosion, as he so loved to do. Sam tilted the phone away from his ear, kicked his feet up on the opposite chair, and waited.

“Well,” the big idiot said, still hoarse, “they didn’t really train me on stealth, y’know. Mostly it was singing and dancing. There was this great outfit, lots of sequins. You think we could’ve used more ordinance? The blast wasn’t as exciting as I was hoping. I like to put on a good show.”

Apart from the apparent lung damage, Steve sounded good. Less frantic. It was untelling if that was thanks to the therapy-via-violence or if Barnes had become more manageable since they last spoke. God, and Barnes was going on ops now, so there'd be even more gore. Sam hadn’t thought the guy would be in good enough shape for that so soon. The both of them were a mess just a month ago. He leaned his head on one hand, wondering what it might take to derail the Rogers revenge train. Oh hell. Note to self: avoid train metaphors around the super duo.

“I thought you were gonna invite me to the party?” Sam chided. “It’s been five weeks! I got my sparkly shorts ironed and my go-go boots all shined up, but here you are settin’ off fireworks without me.”

“Hmm. You would look good in sparkly shorts. Probably better than I did.”

“Steven. Can we save the weird gay awakening for after we blow up HYDRA?”

“Are we having a gay awakening?” Steve sounded like he was actually interested, the clown. “Jeez, I guess I’m a few decades late to that one, too.”

“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, barely exaggerating his exasperation. Did Captain America just come out to him? He kinda figured it was like that after the soul crushing look he got in that STRIKE van, but despite all Sam’s sarcasm, they hadn’t talked about it explicitly before. It was obvious Steve and Barnes were…something. Though how that worked with Barnes being a brainwashed murder machine now, Sam didn’t know.

“I was just about to call you,” Steve said. “We hit a few smaller bases to get warmed up, see how Buck worked with the team. It’s been good. If you wanna come out, come out. But I gotta warn ya, it’s tight quarters. There’s a spare bed, but I dunno how Buck will do with someone else in the room.”

Sam couldn’t tell which parts of that statement were supposed to be double entendre and which were just Steve being awkward. Then his brain assembled the full implications, and he nearly spit his coffee across the table. “Have you been cuddling with the feral assassin?”

“…Not exactly.”

A dozen images of the leather-clad nightmare and Cap’s spangly ass in various configurations of affection flashed through his mind, each stranger than the last. Sweet infant baby Jesus, he did not want to know. Maybe Barnes had remembered something for real. Maybe Rogers was just losing it, and he’d gone manic instead of depressive this week.

“Whatever,” Sam huffed. “I don’t think I could sleep with him at my back either. No offense, but your boyfriend is creepy as hell.”

“Sam,” Steve scolded.

“I said no offense.”

“Just for that, you get the tiny couch.”

“I ain’t even there yet and you’re already puttin’ me in the doghouse? That’s cold, Rogers.”

Sam stood and stretched, putting his empty mug by the sink. There wasn’t much to clean up aside from the juice in the fridge. He’d been living on frozen food and canned soup all month, ready to come out at a moment’s notice. His clients were already slowly being shunted onto other case workers, so there wouldn’t be a panic when we disappeared again. Romanov had texted right after she left, giving him the all clear and confirming that Steve was alive and in one piece. Of course, there weren’t any more details than that. It was really annoying – and probably stupid – to put his whole life on hold for superhero nonsense, but he was self-aware enough to know that his judgment wasn’t always the best.

“Just gimme a day to get packed and call the office,” he said. “Stark told me he’d send the new wings out to y’all with his next delivery. Not like I can take them on a plane with me, and I’m going nuts with nowhere to try ‘em. Plus you’re stressing me out, out there with no adult supervision.”

“Tony and Nat are–”

“Zero. Adult. Supervision.”

Steve broke into another rolling laugh, with only a hint of wheezing this time. “We’ll keep the light on for you. Can you drive in the snow, though? First Louisiana, then Afghanistan. I mean, you try to call if you get stuck, but with the reception out here… Maybe you should have Tony send the wings your way and just fly in. I don’t think it’s turkey season yet.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re hilarious, really. You know my driving is better than yours, old man.”

“Sure, sure, speed limits and all that. Look, Sam…” Steve’s tone shifted, voice going so low Sam had to turn up the volume on his phone. “I gotta talk to you about something before you get here.”

One guess what that was about.

“Shoot.”

“You know how I said Buck remembered I was his CO?”

And bingo. Of course it was Barnes weirdness. Steve didn’t want him to hear them talking about him. That would be tricky if his ears were as sharp as Steve’s. Rogers had been able to hear footfalls a quarter mile away and pick up Sam’s voice even above gunfire and screaming HYDRA agents. For a minute, Sam feared Barnes’ record of nonviolence against friendlies might’ve been broken, the rampage in DC flashing before his eyes, but Romanov was alive, though he had no idea if she’d survived her visit totally unscathed. That woman was so damn cryptic.

“Yeah,” he said cautiously. “I remember.”

“Well, it’s not past tense. The way they treated him, what HYDRA did… What he’s used to ain’t exactly regulation. It might seem strange, but I swear it’s helping him.”

Trepidation gave way to curiosity. What in the hell was Rogers trying to say?

“You do realize you said all that without actually telling me what’s going on.”

Steve sighed. “He thinks I’m his handler. And HYDRA’s definition of ‘handler’ went way beyond fieldwork. He’s doing better, but he sometimes needs orders to calm down. It might look kind of…”

“f*cked up?” Sam wagered.

He could hear the wince as Steve said, “I guess.”

So Barnes didn’t really know who Steve was. Or, if he did, he had Steve as his old Captain mixed up with HYDRA sh*t. No wonder Steve had been losing it. Still, it wasn’t surprising that Barnes was struggling to act like a normal person. It was common enough for any vet coming home, and he' been through several lifetimes of trauma.

“I get it, man. I mean, I might not get all of it. But I’ve seen guys come back from some rough sh*t, and I know trying to reintegrate is a learning curve. After what he went through, that curve’s gotta be steep.”

“Yeah… It is. But we’re working on it. He did okay when Nat stayed with us, and he’s solid in the field.”

Of course he was. See above re: murder machine.

“He might be a little tense for the first few days, but he just needs to get used to you. Maybe don’t make too many jokes about kicking my ass. He’s kind of protective.” Steve hesitated, coming back with a bit more confidence. “He has a hard time talking about stuff sometimes. Don’t ask him about the past. It gives him… migraines, or something like that. And don’t mention doctors in front of him. If he gets upset, just let me deal with it, and… Yeah, I think that’s it.”

Uh huh, that and a least a dozen other triggers Rogers probably hadn’t even discovered yet. They really needed to get some f*cking therapy, not just go running around blowing things up. But the legal situation was still touchy, and arguing with Steve Rogers when he had his teeth in something was hopeless. It wasn’t like Sam didn’t wanna join in. He said he’d help, and he wasn’t going back on his word. Taking out fascists was a pretty motivating mission. Plus, new wings.

“Copy that. I’ll try to tone down my intimidating charms, but you know I can’t help being awesome.”

Steve huffed a little laugh. “Fly safe, Sam.”

“See you soon, Cap.”

_________________________________________________

The briefing on robotic manufacturing that the commander had selected was much more relevant to its primary function than that of the juvenile felines. He had been observing for several minutes to confirm that this input would not cause malfunction when his phone rang. He stepped outside to take the call in private.

It was Wilson. There had been media coverage of the last mission, but no mention of the Soldier or the Captain. Stark had made sure of it. It felt a curl of satisfaction when it heard the commander request backup. It was somewhat surprising. While he often heeded its suggestions on tactics, he had been reticent to involve others in his campaign. His stubbornness was going to get him killed one of these days. [Cognitive error: insubordination.]

It focused on the computer, intentionally ignoring the conversation, though it could hear every word. So far, it had gained or enhanced its knowledge of the functioning of two common household appliances and a unique engine used in Italian racing automobiles. The Soldier noted all the ways in which it might sabotage or deconstruct these machines in order to create improvised weaponry, ready to report back to the commander. He would be pleased with this intelligence. When it heard the turning of the doorknob, it paused the video. The commander stepped inside, rubbing his hands together to warm them. His cheeks were pink from the cold, bunched up in an eager smile.

[“You’ll never believe what Gina told me today…”]

“Sam’s inbound. ETA Friday, 1900. You remember what we talked about?”

[Samuel Thomas Wilson. Codename: Falcon. Secondary target, level three. Threat level: moderate. Former Air Force, participant in experimental flight program EXO-Falcon. Skilled in aerial combat and martial arts. Personal associate of Captain Rogers. Designated ally: defer and protect.]

“Affirmative, sir. Agent Wilson, codename Falcon. Designated ally.”

“Right. So… We should try and be, uh. Friendly. He’s a bit shaken up by the fight in DC.” The Soldier’s brow furrowed. The commander noted the response, gesturing vaguely. “Well, you kinda ripped his wing off and murdered his car,” he said with a weak smile.

A vehicle could not be murdered. It was not a living thing. And the Soldier had not caused immediate damage to Wilson. Not that it could recall. The flight suit was not attached to his body. It was… There had been straps. It was not implanted directly, the Soldier was almost sure of it. Agent Wilson had survived the engagement, in either case. He spoke to the commander often, and he it had seen him again, in Tennessee, whole and functional.

“The mission required elimination of all obstacles in order to defend the launch, sir.”

“I know, Buck. He understands that, and he’s not gonna hold it against you. He’s still a little peeved about losing the car, though.” The commander laughed softly, then ran his hand across the shoulder. “Just so we’re clear: Sam is not a superior. You should listen to him in the field, but you don’t need to worry about what he says otherwise. If he seems mixed up, it’s just because he might need a little while to get used to our new protocols, but I’ll talk to him.”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

It assisted him in moving the mattress from the second bed into the sitting area. He piled two pillows and three blankets on top of it. The Soldier straightened them to regulation folds. This resulted in a raised eyebrow and a quirk of the commander’s mouth, but he did not reprimand it. He attempted to perform further facility maintenance, but the Soldier had completed the tasks already. The commander fruitlessly straightened a few cushions and pushed things around on the kitchen counters for twelve point five minutes before he poured a cup of coffee and resumed the video briefing.

Chapter 58

Chapter Text

At 1928, February sixth, another armored vehicle pulled into the driveway. The activation of the alarm system did not require a defensive response. This was expected. The satellite surveillance provided by the technician confirmed that this was the only vehicle inbound via ground or air.

The commander disarmed the alarm and opened the door to reveal Agent Wilson, carrying several large duffel bags and a stack of flat white boxes, which smelled strongly of meat and oil.

“Somebody order a pizza?”

Wilson’s burdens were quickly put aside. The commander greeted him with a beaming smile and an enthusiastic embrace.

“Sam,” he effused.

“Oxygen,” Wilson pleaded. Despite his complaints, he did not loosen his grip when the commander’s arms relaxed. Wilson patted at his back several times, but the physical contact continued. It did not understand the purpose of this gesture if the commander did not cease the contact. The Widow had made use of it, but perhaps something was different with Wilson. After eighteen seconds, he said, “Okay, it’s getting weird. Is it getting weird for you? Since when did you hug so much?”

“Sorry,” the commander chuckled, releasing him. “I missed you.”

“Obviously. I know I’m the prettiest Avenger – don’t tell Romanov – but try to control yourself.” Wilson stepped back [handgun at the waist, two knives at the ankles, unknown weaponry in luggage. Threat level: moderate] to assess the commander, eyes raking from his socked feet to his head and lingering there. “Man, what happened to your hair? You look like you lost a fight to a weed-whacker.”

“What, aren’t the kids into the bedhead look these days?”

“You’re still about two decades out of date, bud,” Wilson said distractedly. His attention had been captured by the Stark Industries weapons case sitting just inside the front door. He knelt down to run his hands appreciatively over the gleaming steel. “Now this is what I’m really here for. Hello, beautiful.”

“You two need some alone time?”

Wilson stood, shoving his elbow into the commander’s side as he kicked off his shoes. “You’re just jealous you’re too chunky to fly, Rogers.”

The commander laughed again, shaking his head, and guided Wilson further into the room. Wilson shoved his luggage next to the mattress set out on the floor, eyeing it with obvious skepticism. The sound and weight of the bags indicated that they were packed with clothing. He appeared prepared for a much longer residence at the safehouse than the Widow.

“Is this supposed to be my bed? I wasn’t expecting five star accommodations, but c’mon.”

“Me and Buck can sleep out here if you want the bedroom,” the commander offered. “Doesn’t matter to us.”

It was strange, and highly improper, that the commander would relinquish his quarters to a subordinate operative, but the allocation of resources was at his discretion. The Soldier did not react as Wilson placed his hands on his hips. He was not reaching for his weapon. It was simply a gesture of consideration.

“Might be better to put your thick head to use blocking the door.”

Another wide smile from the commander. He did not appear disturbed by the insult. “Sure thing. We’ll have to move a few of the guns, but…”

Wilson put his hand over his eyes. “Lord, what have I gotten myself into.”

The commander’s hand landed heavily on Wilson’s shoulder, and he smiled strangely. “A deep and beautiful friendship.”

“Speaking of which,” Wilson nodded toward the Soldier. “You gonna introduce us properly this time, or do we gotta do the whole fight to the death thing again? ‘Cause I’ll be honest, I’m kinda tired right now. Maybe we can schedule something.”

It was not to engage in combat with Wilson, regardless of the date. That had been made very clear.

The commander turned towards it, his free hand sweeping across the space between them. “Airman Sam Wilson, Sergeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.”

Wilson stepped forward, stopping point seven meters in front of the Soldier. He extended his right hand, but did not initiate contact. There was a visible gap between his front teeth, peeking out from between his lips when he spoke. “Nice t’meet ya, Sarge.”

[“Where you been off to, Sarge?”]

It looked to the offered appendage, then to his face. His eyes were softened but assessing, mouth curved in a careful smile [wariness]. His facial hair was very neatly maintained. He wore casual civilian dress, but his military training was obvious. Wilson moved with laxity to his limbs, the surety of someone familiar with combat. Not like the Widow, though. She had been fully self-assured, cloaked in duplicity. Wilson was easy to read; he was only pretending at confidence. There was a hint of perspiration at his hairline, and his pupils were wide, scanning over the Soldier as if trying to predict its next movement. He was intimidated by it.

This was not unusual. Despite its subservience to all allied operatives, they commonly treated it with suspicion. It did not know whether it should attempt to mitigate his discomfort by shrinking itself. It would be unwise to appear weak before him, but it was equally as bad to be accused of threatening an allied operative. Wilson shifted nervously. After four seconds of silence, he lowered his hand.

This was a type of greeting, it knew, but it could not complete the gesture. He had not initiated contact. It was supposed to be ‘friendly,’ to avoid violence and treat Wilson with respect, but it had not been instructed to perform subterfuge or feign human standard interaction. Wilson was aware of its status, but the commander did say he was unfamiliar with protocol. It fixed the eyes to his chin and addressed him.

“Agent Wilson.”

He choked, then tried to disguise the noise by clearing his throat. New operatives were sometimes surprised that it was capable of speech, jolting the first time the Soldier reported verbally. [“f*ck. That thing can talk?” “It is efficient to have a weapon that can tell you what is broken. And the tongue is very useful.”]

“Not sure where I stand on the ‘agent’ part, actually. You can just call me Sam.” Irregular. Did no one in this unit use proper forms of address? And how could he be unsure of his title? He had just referred to himself as an Avenger. "What should I call you?”

It glanced to the commander. He gave no indication as to the desired response. His expression was neutral, simply observing. “This asset has many designations. The current primary designation is the handler’s prerogative.”

One of Wilson’s eyebrows rose, the other inverting into a dramatic downward curve [skepticism, confusion]. The rest of his body was intentionally still, hands resting visibly at his sides. “Run that by me again?”

Perhaps his hearing was impaired. Or his cognition. It repeated the statement, enunciating more clearly this time. “This asset has many designations. The current primary designation is the handler’s prerogative.”

“Oohkay,” Wilson said slowly. “So what’s the, uh… current designation?”

It looked to the commander again. His lips were pressed tightly together, his eyes shining, but it was not the pained expression he got during malfunctions. He was attempting to suppress his laughter. [Unhelpful.] Was he amused by Wilson’s faltering, or was this some sort of test? He nodded at it and gestured with one hand, encouraging it to continue the exchange. It returned its gaze to Wilson’s left ear, giving as complete an answer as it could supply.

“The Captain addresses this asset as: Bucky, Buck, darling, sweetheart, baby, honey, Soldier, Soldat, or dorogoy.”

The commander snorted. Wilson choked again, and his eyes widened so much that he appeared to be at risk of bursting a blood vessel. He was silent for three seconds, then shook his head as if trying to dislodge water from his ears. A smile was forced back onto his face, but his perturbation was clear.

“Well I ain’t gonna call you ‘sweetheart.' Do you like ‘Bucky?’”

Clearly unfamiliar with protocol. But then, the commander did speak casually to it at times, forgetting himself. Perhaps Wilson would prove effective nonetheless.

“The Asset has no preferences.”

Wilson blinked several times. “Alright, then. Let’s go with Barnes for now.”

[Whatever, just stop callin’ me Jimmy.]

The Soldier could not approve or deny this proposal. ‘Barnes’ was part of the current designation. The Widow had called it ‘James,’ and the commander had not objected. It remained silent, awaiting further questioning. Wilson looked like he was about to speak again when the commander stepped forward, resuming physical contact with him.

“If you don’t get in on this pizza, it’s gonna be gone. I haven't had good takeout since October.”

Wilson directed an expression of exasperation towards him. “Please tell me y’all have real food out here. I promised myself my MRE days were over.”

The commander appeared thoughtful. “Well, we do have the highest quality protein powder science can provide. Might be a bit much for your metabolism, but…” He trailed off, shrugging. Wilson’s face fell into despair. “Kidding! I’m kidding. Tony sent so many groceries even I can’t eat ‘em all.”

“Oh, thank God,” Wilson sighed.

Effectively distracted by the promise of sustenance, he followed the commander to the kitchen with the white boxes. The Soldier took position against the wide wooden beam at the edge of the room, standing at attention in order to monitor both Wilson’s movements and the door.

A great deal of laughter and sarcasm passed between them as they divided up the foodstuffs, the commander piling his plate high. There were many idle comments about food preparation, references it did not understand. Wilson insulted the commander nearly every time he opened his mouth, but the commander only laughed and returned the favor. This was common among compatriots, it knew, barbed tongues belying camaraderie. Many of the tactical teams it worked with had been jocular with each other both on and off the field. But it was extremely inappropriate to address the commander in such a way.

The commander knocked his elbow into Wilson’s. “Thanks for bringing dinner. Sorry, Buck.” He looked to the Soldier with a small frown. “I don’t think this’ll be good for you right now. Bruce said to take it easy on dairy and meat.”

“sh*t, man,” Wilson said, glancing between it and the foodstuffs, “I didn’t even think.”

The Soldier did not respond. There was not a direct question, and Agent Wilson had no say over its nutrition.

“It’s all good,” the commander replied. “I’ll fix something up.”

He prepared additional rations using the microwave oven, traded additional chatter with Wilson, then they settled on the couch to eat. The Soldier was stationed in front of the stove. There was no briefing, no discussion of the coming mission at all. They simply sat there and spoke at length about seemingly irrelevant topics. Wilson’s work. Music. Some sort of competitive gambling organization called the Major League. [Don’t even get me started on the damn Yankees.] The Soldier attempted to determine if this League was collaborating with HYDRA, but there was nothing to indicate as such.

This was different from the commander’s interactions with the Widow. He seemed so… open. At ease. They touched each other almost constantly. If he had camaraderie with the Widow, he was most definitely emotionally entangled with Wilson. When Wilson stood to retrieve more food, the commander’s gaze followed him all the way across the room, smiling widely, his face lighting up like the summer sun and…

He looked at the Soldier like that as well. Perhaps that was the expression he made when assessing a favored asset. He was fond of it. He had said so. But it was not– The Soldier did not– [Cognitive error.] Another jibe from Wilson produced a deep, rolling loud laugh from the commander. An irregular response dug into the sternum, twisting the ribs and strangling the lungs.

Throughout the conversation, it found Wilson watching it. If he was attempting to be subtle, he did not succeed. It did not know what he might expect of it. He could do nothing without the handler’s approval. It observed him in turn, resisting the impulse to employ a more intimidating posture. It should not challenge him, but he– No. There was no threat. Of course there was no threat. Wilson was a standard human operative, an ally with uncomplicated allegiance. He was no longer military, and never SHIELD. He followed the Captain only. There was little reason to suspect he would betray the commander.

It consumed the liquid nutrition, as well as the portion of solid food it had been allocated, a packet of steamed rice, flavored with simple spices. The Soldier paused frequently to assess the status of the stomach, but there was no issue. With the additional distraction of monitoring Wilson, it took longer than usual to complete the nutrition routine.

It rose to attend to maintenance duties. He made a strange facial expression when it removed the plates they had left on the floor, but he did not address it. It proceeded as usual. The sounds of running water and clinking metal did not obscure his voice, though he was apparently attempting to whisper.

“What’s that about?”

“That’s just Bucky,” the commander said at a normal volume. “Always been like that. Used to follow me around with the dustpan fussing about pencil shavings.”

[–half the reason your asthma’s so bad.]

“Really? You think that’s old stuff. Not him catering to his ‘handler’?” Wilson’s reply was heavy with skepticism, the last word spoken with derision.

It placed another dish on the drying rack, cautiously loosening its grip on the fragile ceramic. It was extremely presumptuous of Wilson to question the commander’s handling of the Soldier. He had been present for less than three hours. He knew nothing of the new protocols or of the Soldier’s duties. Lowering the head, it made itself busy scrubbing glutinous residue from the countertops.

“Sure,” the commander scoffed. “That’s why he gives me the stink eye whenever I get within a foot of the sink.”

The eyes narrowed. It was unfamiliar with that phrase, but it could infer the meaning. It did not recall acting with disrespect toward him. Without other subordinates here to complete facility maintenance, it was only correct that it relieve the handler of such burdens. His attention was better devoted to the intelligence duties. And if the Soldier was more adept at achieving proper sanitation, that was simply an additional benefit.

Task complete, it prepared to resume its position against the wall, but the commander gestured to the cushion by his feet. It obeyed, taking its place beside him. The Soldier was on the commander’s left, Wilson on his right. It could still monitor the agent’s movements from the periphery, but it would have to visibly turn to see his face. It would not make its observations so obvious. The commander moved the hair aside, laying his hand across the back of the neck.

“Thanks, honey.”

It inclined the head in acknowledgement. “Sir.”

He massaged over the shirt, pressing his thumb along the trapezius, down the spine, then back up, coming to rest with his palm splayed across the occipital. His fingers carded through the hair, but he did not exert pressure, simply moving his fingertips along the scalp. A portion of the tension dissipated, but it could not fully relax, not with Wilson outside of optimal visual range.

“Steve.”

There was a warning in Wilson’s tone. Disbelief and admonition. It scanned the room, checked the alarm console, but it could see no threat. Nothing had changed. Neither of them moved, aside from the commander shifting slightly when he turned to address Wilson. His hand remained on the Soldier’s head.

“Sam,” he said, firm and unyielding.

After a moment of thick silence, Wilson sighed. “Whatever, man.” The couch vibrated as he adjusted his position. “So is that UFO stuff just Stark trying to take the heat off, or did y’all really send out a squad of dancing drones?”

_____________________________________________

Waking up to soft classical music and a crackling fire was definitely not how Sam expected his first night with the Winter Soldier to go. He’d been sure he wouldn’t be able to sleep well in a new place, especially not with the man who shredded his car, grounded him, and tried to kill him (in no particular order) in the next room. But after a day-long journey, an entire pizza, and an evening of increasingly uncomfortable interactions, he was ready to crash. He’d thought about bringing beer, but it didn’t do anything for Steve, and it was probably better not to be inebriated around a potentially hostile Barnes.

Sam did end up taking the bedroom. Steve relocated Barnes’ blanket horde, half the arsenal in the closet, and some of their clothes – which they shared, of course. He seemed happy enough sleeping on a mattress in the living room, surrounded by boxes of gear and guns and groceries. The house looked like the contents of a high-end military supply store had been dumped into a quaint little gingerbread container.

He was probably glad to switch beds. It was obvious the one Sam was using had already been subjected to Steve’s bulk. He kept rolling into the depression worn into one side. It was very telling that Steve only used half the full-sized mattress, as if Barnes was gonna get up and join him one day, even though there were two beds. All in all, Barnes sleeping on the floor was one of the more normal things about this whole arrangement.

Steve had tried to warn him. He’d done a sh*t job of it, but he had tried. For all his soul-crushing sincerity, Rogers kind of sucked at talking about things that weren’t battle plans or stupid jokes.

Sam did his homework. He hadn't dug into all the grisly details, but he knew enough not to operate under the assumption that Barnes was gonna be normal. If they were out fighting HYDRA, he had to be able to function with a certain level of autonomy, but that was after weeks of flashbacks and god knew what else. From the vague phone call, Sam figured they’d have a rigid daily structure, or that Barnes might need coaching for certain tasks. He’d expected a twitchy vet. He’d expected mood swings or violent outbursts. Hell, he’d expected someone like Steve, a vintage model who got tangled up in sarcasm or stoicism to hide his hurts. The man wearing Bucky Barnes' face was none of those things.

He was a freakin’ robot. A Steve-powered robot, designed only for staring creepily and following Rogers around like a codependent shadow.

Sam knew under that predatory glare was a damaged man. Barnes’ behavior was the result of decades of torture. His speech patterns alone reflected that. He didn’t even think he was a person, couldn’t tell Sam his own damn name without double-checking with his ‘handler.’ But it was hard to shake the instinctual fear that prickled across his neck whenever Barnes wasn’t in eyeline.

Everything about him screamed ‘massive threat’: his body language, his weaponized prosthetic, his (complete lack of) facial expressions, the knives and gun tucked under the soft pajamas. Sam ate his dinner obstinately trying to convince his sympathetic nervous system that there wasn’t a predator lurking in the living room. He was pretty sure he hadn’t seen Barnes blink.

Then Steve looked into those dead shark eyes, called him ‘honey,’ and cuddled him. That was the most troubling thing. Not Barnes’ behavior, but Steve’s.

Sam had just about had an aneurysm when he heard the Winter Soldier’s Soviet automaton voice reciting that list of pet names. At first he thought Steve had put him up to it as some kind of f*cked up joke – Rogers’ sense of humor was weird at the best of times – but he really did talk to him like that, as if they were still childhood sweethearts. Meanwhile, Barnes called him ‘sir,’ and knelt at his f*cking feet like a guard dog.

And Steve sat there and pet him like one. Barnes maintained a very healthy bubble of personal space with Sam, not even returning the handshake. It made sense for him to be touch averse after everything he’d been through. But Steve plowed right through that bubble, pawing all over him, coming up behind him, putting his hands on Barnes’ shoulders, his back, his neck, his hair, and somehow not getting his own neck broken in the process. Barnes didn’t react one way or another, just going quiet, a big life-sized Bucky Bear for Steve to manhandle.

Did his HYDRA handlers sit around petting his hair? Was that what Steve meant that he wasn’t used to things being ‘regulation’? The records were mostly torture and murder and freezer time, but Sam wouldn’t put it past the bastards to force some kind of trauma bond, parsing out little treats to get their touch-starved assassin to behave.

It was impossible to tell if Barnes appreciated the friendly touch now, or if he was just spacing out and letting his ‘handler’ do what he wanted. He couldn’t have a good sense of bodily autonomy, and with the way he deferred to Steve there was a huge power imbalance, and a massive risk of crossing his boundaries and reinforcing those sh*tty lessons. Steve had to be aware of it. He wasn’t stupid. He’d read the files, and the books. And he’d seen war. He must understand the implications of Barnes’ treatment, the sorts of things men would do to an enemy agent, or a compliant prisoner.

Sam knew Steve wasn’t a perfect emblem of morality. He’d watched the Captain America illusion shatter right along with the skulls of a couple dozen HYDRA agents. Steve had been unhinged before, overcome with grief and vengeance, but this was even more dangerous. If Barnes was as blank inside as he was outside, it’d be far too easy for Steve to project what he wanted onto him, whether that was a copy of his old Bucky or a lethal weapon to use against HYDRA.

Whatever was going on between those two was so not healthy. And it was so, so above Sam’s paygrade. He wasn’t about to start playing therapist, but, as a friend, he was extremely goddamn concerned.

He reluctantly pried himself out of the pile of cozy quilts. As if DC wasn’t cold enough, now he was in the damn Rockies in February. And Steve was out here runnin’ around in a t-shirt showing off his super titt*es. Maybe the serum just turned people into freaks. He checked his phone and replied to Sarah, confirming that he was alive and ‘staying with a friend.’ He’d been assured that Stark was keeping their location hidden, and there was astoundingly good reception, even all the way out in the boonies.

His path to the bathroom was interrupted by another pile of weird. Sam stopped short at the doorway, blinking several times as he tried to wrap his brain around the scene. Barnes was in the middle of the living room, balanced on one leg, with the other bent so his foot was resting on his knee. His arms were curved above him in a graceful circle, hands not quite meeting above his head. The shining metal of the prosthetic was on full display, the sleeves of his (Steve’s) black t-shirt bunched up around his shoulder. Despite the dainty pose and soft lighting, he still looked deadly, a leashed tiger ready to strike at a second’s provocation.

Steve was sprawled on the couch, easy as anything, like there wasn’t a Terminator doing… ballet? in front of him. From this angle, Sam could see the open page of his sketchbook, showing a full-body drawing of Barnes laid out in careful shades of gray. It was a really good drawing, and Sam had told Steve to get into his hobbies again. But he was not in the mood for art appreciation right now. He thought this was supposed to be an action flick, but it felt like he’d stumbled into some kind of romance novel, all low firelight and sultry cello. It was six in the goddamn morning. Way too early for this nonsense. At least they both had shirts on.

“The hell are you two doing?” Sam blurted.

Somehow, Barnes managed to glare at him without looking away from Steve’s hands.

“Grounding exercise,” Steve said blithely. Like he had any room to talk about healthy coping mechanisms.

“Sure. Yeah. Well I’m just gonna…” Sam motioned towards the bathroom, but neither of them looked up. They were tuned into the activity with deadly focus, Steve hardly blinking, Barnes definitely not blinking. Sam gave up any hope of normal human interaction and shut the door.

There wasn’t a mirror in here. He’d noticed it last night, but he’d been too jetlagged to give it much thought before he fell into bed. Where there used to be a mirror, someone had taped up a piece of cardboard, now distorted by the moisture from the shower. Guess he was right about the property damage. How was he supposed to trim his beard without a mirror? No wonder Rogers’ hair was a disaster. Sam shook his head and dug into his toiletry bag for his toothbrush. If he took a bit longer than usual to wash his face, well, that was his business. Eventually the smell of coffee outweighed his desire to avoid the Wonder Twins’ mutual staring.

When Sam came back in, art class was over. By some miracle Barnes and Rogers were technically in separate rooms, though the kitchen didn’t really have a door. Or a fourth wall. Steve’s chronic inability to cook sadly extended to breakfast foods. There was a literal mountain of toast, eggs, and bacon waiting on the kitchen counter, alternatively mushy or somewhat burnt. And it was too much to hope that they had decent hot sauce out here.

Barnes was tucked up against the wall, wrapped in a thick blanket like a homicidal burrito and surrounded by various foodstuffs. Another cup of protein mush, half a slice of toast, and a tiny little bowl of yogurt. It was impossible to tell if he was any calmer. He was still vigilantly tracking everything in the house, but it was less murder glare and more emo mope now, with all the hair in his face. Sam shoved in beside Steve and started loading up his own plate, pointedly ignoring the eyes on his back.

“What, no grits?”

Steve kept a straight face as he chewed through another half pound of blackened bacon. “No special orders.”

“Some service you offer, tryna put me on the floor and not even makin’ a decent breakfast. See if I leave you a good review.”

There was only an amused grunt, Steve too occupied with his sad excuse for food to sass back. He was kind of a weirdo when it came to mealtimes, shoveling it in like he was in a hurry to get it done with. Sometimes Sam thought he might be embarrassed about how much he had to eat.

He made to sit down, then realized his only option was the couch that put him directly in Barnes’ eyeline. Why were there no chairs? This looked like it was supposed to be a breakfast bar. More property damage, probably. He elected to stand at the counter. Steve passed him a cup of coffee that smelled like absolute heaven.

“Wow,” Sam said after the first sip. Single-origin dark roast. Stark’s money definitely came in handy. It was a little thick, but it wasn’t even burnt. That had to be a new high for Rogers. “You actually managed not to ruin the coffee.”

“You can thank Buck for that one.”

Sam looked at the grouchy ball of death currently camped out in the kitchen doorway, poking at his tiny yogurt like it was a mystery to him. He was not having coffee. It probably upset his freezer burnt stomach. But he’d made it for Steve. Okay, then.

“Well… thanks.”

Barnes scanned him up and down with an expression so blank it bordered on contempt. He said nothing.

“So,” Sam took another sip and prayed he wasn’t about to be poisoned. “What’s the plan?”

Swallowing down his last bite of soggy eggs, Steve said, “We’ve got two days til the next hit. Gonna go down to Medford and blow the base there, then we’ll work our way through the other compounds. We saved the big targets for you, so there’s still plenty of party.”

“What’s goin’ on at Medford?”

Steve nodded toward the murder bundle. “Wanna fill ‘im in, Buck?”

Barnes put his yogurt down and came up to his knees, the blanket trailing behind him. He locked his arms behind his back. It looked like he was preparing for arrest after a wild slumber party. Sam wondered for a second if he’d been dosed with something that made him hallucinate terrifying dudes in ridiculous tableaus. Barnes rattled off a precise report, his acquired accent making the words sound strangely soft.

“Region Eight, Facility Beta Two-Three, security level four. Function: weapons distribution, psychological operations, and recruitment. Current personnel: forty staff and sixty trainees. Known defenses: dual layer perimeter walls, electrified fencing, four motion-sensor turret guns, subterranean records room with biometric locks and triple-layer firewall requiring direct access for data extraction.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. That was the most he’d heard Barnes speak in one go. He tried to give him the benefit of the doubt that this wasn’t a pre-programmed recording, asking him directly, “And we’re gonna deal with all that, just the three of us?”

Cold gray eyes slid from Sam’s right shoulder to Steve’s chest, and Barnes said something in Russian, speaking with an easy, confident drawl. Well, just crank the creepy dial all the way up. The guy finally shows a hint of personality, and it’s backdated to the Cold War. Steve was unphased. He scoffed and replied in the same language, with a much clunkier inflection.

“Man, that’s rude,” Sam cut in. “Y’all know I can’t understand you.”

Steve grinned and took another bite of toast. “Buck said he could do it alone. Which I don’t doubt. But you’re not gonna.” The toast was pointed dramatically at Barnes. “I told you, we’re in this together.”

That was a pretty normal Cap response, and reasonable given the heavy artillery in play. But Barnes’ reaction – lowering his head, staring at the floorboards, and muttering “Da, ser” – was weird. Weird and concerning. He acted like a particularly spoiled prisoner. Why wasn’t Steve pushing back against this?

“Natasha’s gone dark again,” Steve said, turning back to Sam as if this was anything resembling a sane conversation. “We’ll have Tony on comms, monitoring personnel movement. He’ll handle the firewalls and some of the locks, whatever Buck doesn’t have codes for. I’ll show you the details later.”

Sam was still trying to process what had just happened.

“Since when do you speak Russian?”

“Since about three months ago.” Steve shrugged and polished off the rest of his coffee. Before he could even turn around to put his cup in the sink, Barnes was suddenly there, taking it from Steve’s hands like his life depended on every dish staying spotless. Sam jolted. He hadn’t even heard Barnes stand up. What the actual f*ck.

“We’re gonna go work out.” Steve’s smile was just plain evil now. “You’re welcome to join us.”

Were these two messing with him? Was Barnes in on it? Sam took a steadying breath and reined in the impulse to elbow Barnes in the solar plexus. Or punch Steve directly in the face. These suped-up old men were gonna be the death of him, whether from blunt force trauma, a heart attack, or straight up insanity.

“Sure,” he said. “I’d love to look inadequate next to two supersoldiers.”

Chapter 59

Chapter Text

Dread crept up his spine as he started his third lap. He was alone out here now, his feet soaked and his heart pounding. Steve had left him behind ten minutes ago, jetting off through the dense forest. Sam could just barely make out the path, squinting against the glare of fresh snow and carefully picking his way over fallen boughs.

He almost lost his footing when he heard the too-fast tread of superhuman feet crashing through the underbrush behind him. His pulse picked up, training kicking in. No weapons, minimal cover, just bare gray tree trunks on all sides. He couldn’t reach the lower limbs to climb up. He didn’t have his new wings on. There was nowhere to hide. He knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could only pray that Steve wouldn’t–

“Ya sleva!”

He didn’t need a translation for that.

“Seriously!?” Sam gasped.

He didn’t even try to speed up. It wasn’t worth it falling on his ass in the mud and having Steve laugh at him. Eating breakfast before running had been a mistake. Damn Steve’s enhanced metabolism. Sam followed him around the next bend in the trail, then lost him again. Whatever. At least it was pretty out here. He spent a few more minutes enjoying the scenery and trying not to think about the fact that he was miles from civilization with two emotionally unstable killing machines.

He jogged the last half mile and cut through the woods towards the house. Barnes would definitely hear him coming, huffing and puffing like this. Sam slowed to a stop a few yards away from where said creeper was, yep, doing target practice, burying his very shiny knives in a very dead log. Well, that explained the overflowing wood pile.

Barnes didn’t even acknowledge him, just threw another dagger into his target with an intimidating thunk. There was a perfect X across the face of the log, the blades lined up edge to edge. Soviet assassin training must involve bending the laws of physics. Romanov’s thighs could attest to that.

Sticking to his corner, Sam wound down with some stretches. It only took about five minutes for Rogers to finish his two-billionth lap and come beaming into the yard, still fresh as a daisy.

“What, done already?”

If Sam kept rolling his eyes like this they were gonna fall out of his head. “Ha ha. So glad I could be here to bolster your self esteem. I guess you need it, lookin’ all,” he gestured vaguely at… all that, “bulbous and glowy. How d’you even show your face in public?”

Steve’s big dumb shoulders heaved as he laughed. Sam definitely did not flinch when Barnes’ next knife thunked harder into the target log.

“Really though,” he said. “At least lemme give you a haircut. I brought my clippers. You can’t strike fear into the hearts of your enemies lookin’ like a scarecrow in a hurricane.” He wasn’t about to momma bird Captain America, but it was harder than usual to take him seriously like this. And, c'mon. Self care and sh*t.

“If you insist.” Steve ran a self-conscious hand through his hair. “Kinda just been doing it by feel.”

Sam bit his tongue to keep from making a comment about letting Barnes go all Edward Scissorhands at him with a combat knife. Barnes might not know what haircuts were, but the man sure knew his way around sharp objects. The reference would be lost on these two, anyway.

“I insist. And after that, I also insist on finding a good spot to try out those new wings. I ain’t flyin’ fresh in a combat zone.”It was the least he could ask, with all the hot nonsense he was putting up with.

“You got it,” Steve grinned.

______________________________________________________

Sam came out of the bathroom to witness yet another romance novel moment. Steve sat on the couch and combed Barnes’ wet hair for twenty straight minutes – literally. Sam watched the clock while awkwardly sipping coffee in the kitchen – then tied it back in a sad little pony tail.

He spent five more minutes prying himself away to take a damn shower.They stared soulfully at each other like they were saying their last goodbyes, Steve petting Barnes’ back and whispering something into his ear as he stood up. Barnes nodded, ‘Yes, sir’d again, then pulled the blanket back over his shoulders and grabbed a laptop before taking up his spot in front of the stove. Was that an order? To get cozy in front of the fire instead of creeping by the wall again? Sam wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or unnerved.

He put himself within visual range so Barnes didn’t have to keep sneaking glances into the kitchen, settling onto the couch with his phone. His inbox was thankfully under control. Last time he’d run off after Rogers it was a mess for the other case workers, but he’d been thorough about who got which clients this time around, making sure everybody’s load was balanced.

They spent a few minutes tapping away at their respective devices before Sam figured Barnes was comfortable enough to attempt conversation. He kept his eyes on his phone, giving Barnes some mental space. Despite his own annoying staring habit, he was probably sick of being watched all the time.

“How you doin’, man? Sounds like it was a rough time for a while there.”

There was movement in the corner of his eye, Barnes looking up to assess his intentions. Sam made his face as impassive and pleasant as possible. After a moment of silence Barnes curtly replied, “It is functional.”

Apparently this was robot speak for ‘I’m not currently dying.’

“Well, that’s good to hear," Sam said. He was honestly a bit surprised Barnes had even responded to him without Steve around to urge him on. “So. You came and found Cap, huh? Must’ve been a long walk.”

Sam glanced over to try and gauge how the question hit. Barnes’ expression hadn’t changed, apart from his eyes tracking more to the left now, like he was looking for an answer in the corner of the laptop casing. He didn’t say anything for a long while, then only a blunt, “Da.”

It was a verbal keep-away, the bare minimum he could say without avoiding the question entirely. Sam really wanted to ask how much he remembered, why he chose to come and find Steve, but Steve had warned him not to pry about the past.

There was a more pressing question, anyway. Based on their time in the motels, Steve’s showers usually lasted about four minutes, and Sam didn’t know when he’d get time alone with Barnes again. It was too much to hope the super-hearing was muffled by the running water. To hell with it. Maybe Sam was banking on Barnes being a bit more open with Steve out of the room, but it wasn’t inappropriate, and it didn’t break any of Rogers’ rules.

“So, I notice Steve’s pretty hands on. You okay with all this touching and stuff?”

Another long, tense pause. Then a low mechanical noise, the clack of… sh*t. That arm winding up. Barnes’s gaze shifted again, so that now he was glaring at the foot of the couch with the look of a cat tracking a plump, tasty bird.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson is not an approved secondary handler.”

There was a curl of menace in the words that, combined with hearing his full damn name, made Sam’s blood run cold. He had no idea what the hell Barnes was trying to say besides ‘I know where you sleep and I have many, many knives.’ Politeness obviously wasn’t on the menu, so he got right to the point before the not-stabbing-allies streak was broken.

“I’m not sure what that means. But I’m just sayin’, you can tell Steve if he’s making you uncomfortable. Or you can tell me, and I can talk to him. Steve wouldn’t be mad about it. He’s a good guy, but he can get a little overexcited sometimes.”

The glaring continued. Barnes repeated, with more emphasis, “Samuel Thomas Wilson is not an approved secondary handler. Physical contact is the handler’s prerogative.”

Well that was super disturbing. The threat in his voice was negated by the utter f*cked-up-ness of the words themselves. If that was how HYDRA had treated him, like his superiors could have access to his body at any time, it made Steve’s handsiness even more troubling. And why the insistence that Sam wasn’t a ‘secondary handler’? Whatever that meant. Did he think Sam was tryna get all up in his business like Rogers was?

“It’s your prerogative, though,” Sam said, intentionally casual, like he wasn’t debating with a POW about having his boundaries constantly violated. “Your body. Only you say who touches you, when and how. We’re not HYDRA. You can say ‘no,’ and nobody’s gonna hurt you for it. You know that, right?”

Silence hung heavy over the room. Slowly, bit by bit, Barnes unclenched, his eyes sliding back to the laptop. Sam couldn’t tell if he was plotting all of the ways he could commit homicide before Steve came out of the bathroom, or simply trying to absorb the information. It was probably a new concept. As much as Steve had had his nose in Sam’s old textbooks, Sam couldn’t imagine him stopping to give the consent talk in between rounds on the punching bag. Who knew, though. Steve was impulsive and stubborn, but he wasn’t a creep. In either case, his judgment was obviously skewed when it came to Barnes.

When Barnes finally spoke, it was so quiet Sam barely heard it. He ducked his head, using his hair as a shield, and muttered, “Not HYDRA.”

It was… kind of reassuring. Before Sam could clarify any further, the shower shut off. He went back to pretending to check his email.

The bathroom door clicked open, and Steve hollered out, “Where d’you want me?”

“There’s fine,” Sam said. “Just a sec.”

He heaved up off the couch and went to grab the clippers from his bag. He tried to check in on Barnes again, but he was solidly focused on the screen, face completely blank. Must be some real interesting blueprints.

Steve gave Sam a knowing look as he drew the door closed.

“I asked him, you know,” he said softly.

“Of course you heard all that,” Sam scoffed. “I had to ask, man. Especially when he’s all… like that. He should be in thera–”

“Sam,” Steve hissed. Right. The rule against doctor talk must extend to therapists as well. Sam had to trust that there was a good reason for that. Steve cracked the door and peeked out into the living room, sagging when there were no apparent signs of freakout. When turned around, his expression was mutinous. “I told you.”

Sam raised his hands in surrender. “I know. I’m sorry, that was my bad.” He was usually better at navigating new boundaries, but this entire situation had him wrong-footed. “I’m just sayin’, I don’t think he knows how to say ‘no’ to you right now.”

Steve stepped around him and took a seat on the closed toilet, grumpily spreading a towel over his shoulders. He was obviously trying not to get riled up, the muscles in his jaw ticking.

“He does. Maybe not in so many words, but I showed him– He fights back. Chewed me out for putting myself at risk. He’s the reason I finally asked you to come out. Because I got hurt and he knew I was being stubborn.”

It’d be nice if that were true – having someone else to call Steve out when he was being an idiot would make Sam’s life about ninety percent easier – but he worried Steve was reading a hell of a lot more into Barnes’ stilted words than was actually there. No matter the truth, he was not about to have a full blown Rogers Moment in the damn bathroom. He could get along without a mirror, but he’d prefer to keep the sink and toilet intact.

Plugging in the clippers, Sam squared up with the freshly-toweled bird’s nest on top of Steve’s head. He didn’t ask how he wanted his hair. Steve was getting a fade and he could deal with it. Sam snapped the guard in place and switched the motor on.

“I believe you,” he said gently. “I do. But you gotta know how this looks.”

Miraculously, the stubbornness broke.

“I know, Sam. I know,” Steve sighed. “I messed up. A lot. But we worked it out. I wouldn’t hurt him like that.”

Sam gave him a tight smile. Steve was still his friend, still trying to do the right thing, even if his version of the right thing was wildly unhealthy. “I didn’t think you would. Not on purpose, anyway. Just… Are you sure he knows you, for real? Hasn’t just imprinted on you like a baby duckling?”

Steve smirked. “Is everything about birds with you?” Before Sam could throw his hands up in the air in exasperation, Steve met his eyes in that painfully genuine way he had. “He does. I swear, he knows me. He’s just…” He shook his head. “Thanks for looking out for him.”

“Mhmm,” Sam hummed skeptically. They were so not done with this conversation. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you fools. Running off across the country doing vigilante sh*t.”

Steve took the out. “Welcome to the club,” he said with a smartass grin. “You ready to give up your status as the prettiest Avenger?”

“How do you know I ain’t just gonna shave you bald?”

Steve chuckled and shook his head again, then decided he should probably hold still while there was a moving blade next to his ears. The next few minutes were quiet apart from the buzz of the clippers. By the time Sam was done with the back and sides, there was a whole cat’s worth of dishwater blond chunks littering the floor.

“You got scissors, or have you taken after Barnes and just been hacking at it with a combat knife?”

Another amused huff. “Top drawer.”

Sam traded the clippers for scissors, as well as grabbing the comb that was laying on the sink, the teeth full of long dark strands. He handed that to Steve. “I ain’t cleanin’ up your beau’s hairballs.”

“You should see what he leaves in the shower.” Sam rolled his eyes for the five thousandth time. Were these two actually married? Steve untangled the Bucky fuzz and passed the comb back. He rubbed at the back of his neck before putting his hand in his lap again. “I forgot how good a decent haircut feels.”

“I bet you got super follicles, too.” Sam carefully measured and snipped the longer bits at the top. Steve’s hair was freakishly thick for being so blond. “I think Barnes’ has grown about four inches since DC. He looks like a moody rockstar or somethin’.”

“Hey, I gave him a trim. I think it looks nice.”

“Oh, is that your thing?” Sam goaded. “Gotta have the whole bad boy look to go with his reputation?”

Steve laughed. “Yeah, he’s the troublemaker.”

It was untelling if Rogers was trying to ease the tension himself, or if he really was stuck in the past, viewing Barnes through the thickest rose-colored glasses ever made. This whole situation could easily turn into some f*cked up Pygmalion sh*t, Steve locked up out here like a shut-in with a particularly murderous mannequin.

But Steve was smiling like Sam had never seen before, genuinely happy to have his buddy back. They’d only known each other for a few weeks before Insight blew up in their faces, but Sam knew he’d been lonely in DC. Whenever Steve didn’t think anyone was looking, the publicity smile would melt into the kind of hollow expression he saw in soldiers fresh off the battlefield. It should be a federal crime for Cap to look that f*cking sad.

Sam let himself imagine how stupid he would be if he could have Riley back, even if he was warped almost beyond recognition. Yeah. Pretty damn stupid. He indulgently returned the smile, trying to picture an optimistic future in which Barnes was a real boy again.

“Man, I can’t wait til he starts tellin’ stories on you. I’m gonna record it for YouTube. Captain America Revealed.” He brushed the fuzz off Steve’s neck and flicked the clippers back on. “Turn around, I gotta line you up in back.”

“Oh god,” Steve said. His skin was turning pink under the blade, and it wasn’t just from friction. “I didn’t even think about that. No one’s gonna be able to look me in the face if he gets goin’.”

Given the hints at their past relationship, Sam wasn’t sure he even wanted to know. With his luck, even if Barnes recovered enough to tell tales out of class, he’d probably end up lacking any and all concept of socially appropriate conversation, and Sam would learn things about Cap that would make him regret all of his life choices even more. The things he did for a misplaced sense of justice. His or Steve’s, he really wasn’t sure anymore.

“Well at least if they try they’ll just be cringing from secondhand embarrassment now.” He turned the clippers off and pulled out his phone. “Take a look.”

“Huh.” Steve tilted his head side to side, checking himself out in the front-facing camera. “Where’d you learn to cut hair like that? Figured you’d gimme a high and tight.”

“Used to do Riley’s,” Sam shrugged.

The phone was lowered, and Steve gave him a devastatingly heartfelt look, baby blues standing out way too bright against his ridiculously long eyelashes. Sam raised his eyebrows. They were not getting into this subject. He didn’t have the emotional capacity for anything else right now. The significant eye contact continued for a couple seconds, then Steve just nodded. “I appreciate it. Really.”

“Believe me, it was as much a favor for me as it was for you. Have fun cleaning up all that mess.” Sam waved at the hayfield currently covering half the bathroom floor. “Unless your assassin-maid is gonna get it for you. Be honest. You put him up to it, didn’t you? Finally found someone who won’t talk smack about you being a slob.”

“I did not,” Steve said in mock defense, herding the furballs towards the trash. “It makes him feel better. Been a lot less nervous since he started it.”

“Uh-huh. Didn’t figure the Winter Soldier for a neat freak.”

Maybe it was just stress cleaning. Hopefully not some kind of compulsion or germ phobia. Sam couldn’t blame anyone for getting pissy about Steve’s housekeeping. Living in hotel rooms with him for a month had tarnished Sam’s childhood icon almost worse than the bloodthirsty vengeance. Captain America left his stinky socks everywhere.

Steve turned from his sweeping to fix Sam with a grin that was far too sharp. “There’s a reason they never found any evidence.”

Sam definitely did not shudder.“Man, you gotta get out more. His creepy is rubbing off on you.” He lowered his voice, hoping he wasn’t about to get his head bit off again. “You really think it’s good for him, bein’ out in the field right now? Wouldn’t he rather just curl up with a blanket and a nice hot protein shake?”

“He wants to be out there,” Steve insisted. “I told him he could sit it out, but he wasn’t hearing it. Should’ve seen the look he gave me when I suggested he stay behind.”

It was extremely questionable if Barnes knew how to want anything else. But Sam couldn’t argue much more when the man in question was sitting out in the living room with his super ears. He’d probably earned himself a few more glares with this conversation already.

“Nice try, Rogers. You can’t convince me he actually has facial expressions besides the murder glare.”

“I’m serious,” Steve said. ”You’re welcome to try and talk him out of it. I’d love to watch that argument.”

Sam cringed as Steve’s weak attempt at cleaning was undone with a shake of his towel over the bathroom floor. Barnes was gonna lose it. Sam might lose it, too.

“Sure,” he retorted. “You had a nice little chuckle at me just trying to say hi to the man. You’re a freakin’ sad*st.”

The face Steve made at that was unreadable. Sam shrugged it off and swung the door open. He thought about asking Barnes if he wanted a real haircut, then decided he’d prefer to keep his spine where it was. He was about to pester Steve about what was on the menu for lunch, when, for the second time that day, he took one look at the living room and froze in his tracks.

“Steve,” he said, all humor gone from his voice. “Get out here.”

Barnes was shaking like a leaf, eyes wide and breath coming in short, silent gasps. His hands hovered over the laptop keyboard, the right one trembling violently, the left frozen in a rictus of grinding metal. The blanket had fallen off his shoulders, and his back was rigid, so tense it looked like… sh*t. It looked like he was being electrocuted.

“What’s–” Steve bullied up behind Sam in the doorway, raring for a fight, but he eased up as soon as he saw what was going on. “It’s okay, I got him.”

He shoved past and hurried over to the rug. Sam prayed he knew what to do, because he really didn’t want to witness the Winter Soldier lose his sh*t again.

Kneeling down in front of Barnes, Steve gently moved the laptop away, and, to Sam’s utter astonishment, took Barnes’ right hand in both of his. Touching him while he was fully aware was one thing, but during a flashback? That was just asking for a busted jaw.

Chafing at Barnes’ knuckles, Steve spoke in slow, careful Russian. There were a few phrases repeated, Steve saying his own name, but Sam had no idea what most of it meant. The only Russian he’d ever picked up were four cusses and a toast from some of the guys in Afghanistan. It made a f*cked up kind of sense that that language would get through to Barnes better.

Sam wanted to ask if there was anything he could do to help, but he didn’t know if a strange voice would make things worse. He slowly crossed the room and sat down on the floor, out of the way but still within Barnes’ eyeline.

“C’mon, Buck. You’re safe. C’mon back to me.”

He couldn’t see Steve’s face from here, but Barnes’ was clear. It was a picture of pure terror. His eyes wavered, tears almost spilling over, and his lips were trembling like he was trying to speak, the shape of the words foreign and hesitant. Barnes was begging, pleading with someone who wasn’t there. He looked f*cking raw, the blank stare replaced by heart-rending vulnerability.

Sam’s stomach turned. He’d let the emotionless veneer get to him, falling for HYDRA’s ingrained intimidation tactics instead of remembering the victim beneath.

The comforting words continued as Steve reached up and tucked Barnes’ hair behind his ear. It took a couple of minutes, but then Barnes blinked and started tracking Steve’s face. Sam worried the new haircut might throw him off, but when he came into focus, he let out a shaky breath, almost sounding relieved.

“There you go, baby,” Steve said. “You’re alright. Keep breathing for me, eight in, eight out.”

Barnes did, his quaking exhales audible. That wasn’t exactly a standard count, but maybe enhanced lungs needed to slow down more than usual. Had Rogers sat down and monitored his own heart rate to figure that out? Sam intentionally relaxed his face, put his hands flat on his knees, and took a deep breath himself, just in case Barnes could hear his nervous pulse.

“Good job, Buck. Eto khorosho. You with me?”

Barnes nodded and muttered, “Da, ser,” then another string of stammered Russian.

“I know, honey. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think. We won’t do that again, okay?”

Something specific set him off, then, and it wasn’t the half-spoken suggestion of a therapist. Sam cataloged everything that had gone down between then and now, and he realized almost immediately what’d happened. They didn’t have clippers here before. And Sam’s kit was old school, with a loud motor. The noise must’ve triggered a flashback.

He didn’t even wanna think about how many mechanized tools HYDRA had used on Barnes over the years. It was a miracle he hadn’t busted into the bathroom to defend Steve from the threat. Unthinkingly, Sam’s eyes flicked to Barnes’ left shoulder, just in time to see Steve tug him into the most awkward hug he’d ever witnessed. Barnes let himself be moved, but he didn’t reciprocate, leaning up against Steve like a crooked fencepost.

“You’re okay. It’s over.”

Another nod, and Barnes turned his head just enough to stick his nose into Steve’s neck, the first independent movement in the whole tableau. Steve’s hand dug into his hair, and Barnes’ eyes fell closed, his whole body relaxing as he shuddered another sigh. Maybe he really didn’t mind. It was a lot, especially for someone who’d been hurt by his CO’s before, but all the touching did seem to be helping him.

This was almost too intimate. Sam felt like he should give them some privacy, but he didn’t want to freak Barnes out by moving now. He fixed his gaze to the floor, keeping them in his peripherals in case something went wrong.

But nothing did. A few more minutes of petting and gentle words, and they parted. Barnes was present, eyes clear and hands no longer shaking, but he was a bit dazed. He whispered something far too quiet for Sam to hear. Steve ran a hand over his head again.

“You’re fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He gave a short, commiserating laugh. “I made a mess of you. How about we go outside and get all this hair off before you get itchy?”

Barnes thought about it, then assented. Steve guided him up, acknowledging Sam with a brief nod as they passed. For a second, Barnes looked every bit the exhausted vet he was, fatigue lining his face. Sam was ready to offer an apology, but when Barnes’ eyes landed on him, his expression shuttered immediately, back to the surly blankness. Sam tried for an understanding smile, but it didn’t thaw the ice. Damn.

He felt awful that they’d been in there talking about Barnes while he was locked in a bad memory, possibly for the whole time it took to cut Steve’s hair. He didn’t regret starting the conversation – Steve was asking a lot for him to just accept all this – but it probably would’ve been better to hold his tongue until he and Steve were actually alone.

They seemed to have a system worked out, anyway. Aside from the touching, Steve’s response was by the book. Physical grounding. Check. Affirmation of safety. Check. Breathing. Check. Now fresh air and a change of scenery.

Barnes had reacted way differently than Sam expected to the sudden touch. Either Steve was just foolhardy enough to risk setting off a dissociated supersoldier, or he himself was what helped bring Barnes back to the present. Anyone else probably would’ve gotten their face ripped off if they pulled something like that. Steve was one of the only positive things about Barnes’ past that was still around, even if Barnes had their friendship all tangled up with his strange understanding of hierarchy. What a damn mess.

Sam levered himself off the floor and went to finish cleaning up the bathroom.

Chapter 60

Chapter Text

It stood, unmoving, as the commander brusquely wiped at the shoulders in an attempt to remove the evidence of his aesthetic maintenance. He pulled the shirt away from the body, fluffing the fabric to shake off stray hairs. The cold air that flew underneath offered a welcome distraction from the strange sensation burning in the chest. It was not just a reaction to the malfunction-memory. There was a tightness, as if the lungs were failing, bringing with it the impulse to hide the face from view.

Wilson’s inquiries had been irregular, but potentially excusable for an operative unfamiliar with protocol. But he remarked on the commander’s touch as if it was something negative, as if he was opposed to how frequent the rewards were given. He was not a secondary handler. He was not authorized to alter handling protocol, to determine if it had earned rewards. His insistence on the Soldier’s prerogative was strange. It did not– The Asset does not– But that was what the current protocol, that it should report negative sensation.

Still, it was not Wilson’s place. It thought perhaps he was simply confused, like the commander said. Then he told the Soldier that it should speak to him behind the commander’s back. That was absolutely unacceptable. It did not understand what he might want. The commander had said to ignore him, and he shrugged off Wilson’s prodding with ease. Once again, his tolerance for insubordination exceeded all known parameters. The only thing it could do was make the relevant protocol clear.

But when it heard him speaking in the cleansing facility, his questions took on a more insidious light. He did not complete the sentence, but it knew what he was going to say. He believed it required therapy. That was just another word for reconditioning. He sought to alter protocol, perhaps even to remove the Soldier from the Captain’s authority entirely. He disapproved of the commander’s methods, and he had previously threatened to leave negative feedback on the commander’s performance. To whom, it did not know. He might still have connections with SHIELD, or the military. The commander had given a mild verbal reprimand, but then…

Then the noise had come, the droning whirr of the machine, and, and it was on the medical table, rough hands moving the body and cold steel under the back and “Stillhalten!"and cold on the scalp and pain and the scalpel and the drill and–

Then the commander was there, pulling it into his arms, but the comfort of his voice was polluted when it looked up to find Agent Wilson sitting behind him, watching from the corner of his eye. He had witnessed the malfunction. He might have even caused it. He brought that device here with him, and had insisted on using it.

It knew the response was irrational. It knew what hair clippers were for. It had seen them used… At some point. Not recently. Wilson had not meant to harm the commander, just to attend to his hygiene. It was fortunate Wilson had not attempted to subvert the Soldier’s maintenance protocols. That was the handler’s duty, and he took pleasure in the hair. It might have had to resort to extreme measures to prevent that sort of interference.

But the sound… Did Wilson know that the Soldier would react in this manner, or was it simply a coincidence? In either case, now there was an obvious weakness he could exploit. [“What’s wrong? S’just a bottle ‘a beer. C’mon, Soldier, play nice.”] Wilson was still resentful of the damage from the previous mission, the commander had said as much. With this information, he could disable it, incite further issues and lower the commander’s assessment of it. Perhaps even throw doubt on its field readiness and prevent it from performing the primary function.

The Widow had never once questioned its functionality. She knew it was a flawed machine. She had heard the surveillance, had seen it disoriented and uneasy, had even been present when it erred and was insubordinate. Still, she trusted it to complete the mission, to guard the commander in the field. She had challenged the commander on his strategy, and it had heard her, the day she left, inquiring as to the altered cleansing routine. But that was different. Even if she questioned his methods, she had not urged the Soldier to undermine his authority, had not threatened to report him. When she touched it, it was within full view of the commander, and with clear intentions. She understood protocol.

Had it been in error recommending Wilson’s presence here? It thought he was loyal to the Captain, but if he interfered…

This was more than ignorance. It might even be intentional sabotage. There was little the Soldier could do to stop him. It was permitted to act in self defense, but he had not presented a physical threat. It could not harm allied operatives. Especially not Wilson. The commander was fond of him. He would be very angry if it were to–

“ –ky. Buck. You with me?”

It snapped back into focus. The commander was holding it by the shoulders, examining the face intently.

“Yes, sir. Apologies, sir. This asset exhibited inattention. It submits for disciplinary action.”

He massaged down the biceps, hands moving equally over flesh and artifice. “There’s no disciplinary action. You’re alright. Just a little shaken up, huh?”

It was unsure how to respond. The eyes slid from his chin to the door, measuring the distance between the commander and Wilson’s last known position.

As if he could discern its thoughts, the commander said, “Sam’s not gonna judge. He works with veterans, and he sees this kinda stuff all the time. There’s no shame in it.”

Shame. Was that the response, the sick churning of the innards, the heat in the face? It was so much like the sensation that would come during the secondary function. But the commander had not authorized it. And Wilson had not– But he had asked about physical contact, and he– Would he attempt to make use of it without the commander’s approval? It did not know if it was appropriate to report on Wilson’s behavior. If he found out that it spoke against him he might seek recompense. [“f*cking snitch!”] But if it did not, and Wilson continued this pattern…

“Hey. Focus on me.”

It set the eyes firmly on the commander’s face, tracing over the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the angle of his oft-broken nose.

“Breathe.”

It nodded understanding and inhaled slowly, filling the lungs with icy air. Eight. Control the exhale. Eight. Again.

“Good. Keep going. Up on your toes.”

It rose into demi-pointe, making it disconcertingly of a height with the commander. With only the wool socks between its feet and the floorboards, the sensation of flexing muscle against the cool surface provided another point of focus. Inhale. His hands followed the movement, sliding down the arms until they reached the Soldier’s. He raised them in front of it, simply holding them there at waist height. Exhale.

“What’s got you so nervous, honey?”

“Sir. Agent Wilson said… There was a review. He suggested altering asset handling protocols. He encouraged insubordination.”

Inconceivably, the commander laughed. It was short and strained, but he did not seem to be mocking it. Though he laughed constantly with Wilson, the Soldier could not identify a pattern in what made him respond with amusem*nt when it spoke. His thumbs moved across the knuckles, bumping over metal and bone. Inhale.

“There’s no review. That was just a joke. Sam’s not gonna report back to anyone. Hell, there’s no one to report back to. It’s just me and you, Buck. Tony and Nat know what we’re doing, but they don’t have any authority over us. Neither does Sam.”

That was all that should matter, then. The Captain was the superior operative. Exhale. It felt the tension between the ribs unspool. He was the handler and mission control and the field commander, and what he said was final. But human operatives were not nearly as loyal as the Soldier. They could still collude against him. It had witnessed many coups and usurpations, had been an instrument for some.

“Sam’s my friend,” the commander continued, “and I trust him. I take his advice into consideration, same as I do yours, or Tony’s, or Nat’s. But he’s not gonna change our protocols. You can accept or reject any suggestion he makes as you see fit. I heard what he told you, though, and he’s right. You can always say ‘no.’ To Sam. Or me. To touch, or tactics, or a mission. Anything or anyone at all. ”

[The Asset complies with all orders immediately.]

The face moved, brows twitching and lips pressing tightly together. It should not argue with the handler, but–

“You’ve already done it, you know,” he said lightly. The breath caught, and it forced the lungs into compliance. Inhale. “You told Sam ‘no,’ just now. You fussed about me going to the store. You argued against me being in the field. Just because I disagreed doesn’t mean you were doing something wrong.”

It was true, that it had spoken out of turn, had been forceful in its suggestions, and there had been no punishment. Exhale. It was unsure how to rectify this with the protocol battering against the cognition. But it was what the commander wanted. New protocol, he said.

“And you signaled, when I was talking about the soup. You told me it hurt, and I stopped. It’s a good thing. I want you to say ‘no.’ I want you to tell me what you like and don’t like. What you want.”

[The Asset does not want.]

He squeezed the fingers, compressing the knuckles against one another. The Soldier adjusted the feet minutely in order to maintain position. Inhale.

“It’s helpful to me, to know what you need to function at optimal performance. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” it said, the voice weak. “Understood.”

“Good,” he smiled, and the reward softened its buzzing thoughts. Exhale. “Right leg up.”

This was what he said when he desired a retiré. It adjusted its balance, rotating the hips in order to lift the leg into position without dislodging the hands from his grasp.

“So what are you gonna do if Sam says something you disagree with?”

It swallowed, the mouth and the mind working around the appropriate answer. The Soldier… it had given negative responses when they related to the mission. In the field. During strategy. That was acceptable, necessary, to minimize damage and complete the objectives efficiently. But outside of the mission, on base, with the other operatives… [knuckles across the face, batons crackling, pain in the skull, pain–]

A hand on the hip, directing it back into proper form. Inhale.

“D-deny.”

“That’s right, baby. And what’re you gonna do if I do something that makes you feel bad?”

The answer came more readily, drilled into the Soldier by repetition.

“Signal, sir.”

“You got it. Hold there for me.”

He released its hands. It compensated, flexing the toes and shifting its weight. The muscles had begun to burn, the contrast with the air temperature causing the flesh to prickle. Exhale. The Soldier held position for two point five minutes further, monitoring the respiration, eyes fixed to the commander’s sternum as his chest heaved softly up and down under his crossed arms. He had held it there, after every mission, after every malfunction. Tucked into the warmth of his body, the beating of his heart clear and strong as he spoke praise to the Soldier. Reward after reward after reward.

The commander was pleased with it, and his word was final. Whatever Wilson was angling towards was irrelevant. Still, it would have to be vigilant, to keep the malfunctions at bay and ensure that Wilson did not use his influence to sway the commander toward altered handing protocols. Or worse, involve others in his insolence and plot against the commander.

“At ease.”

It smoothly returned to attention. The commander approached, his fingertips a pleasant shock against the chilled skin of the cheek.

“Good job, Buck. You feelin’ better?”

“Yes, sir. Functional.”

“C’mon, then.” He wrapped his hand around the jaw, and the Soldier tilted toward the contact, firm and warm and good. “We better get back inside before Sam sends out a search party.”

__________________________________________

Despite Steve’s attempts to reassure him, Buck was still edgy. He tried to give everyone time to unwind after the unexpected panic. They went out for the afternoon perimeter check a little early, leaving Sam to himself. Steve laid a guiding hand on Bucky’s back as they circled the house, speaking every so often, but mostly letting him have some quiet.

When they came in for lunch, he shot Tony a text, using his vantage from the kitchen to keep an eye on Bucky. He was sitting in the usual spot finishing up his shake, but he kept eyeing Sam with naked suspicion. Sam’s attention stayed on his phone as he politely pretended not to notice the staring. He was keeping a cool head, all things considered.

Steve knew how it looked. He knew he should’ve tried to explain better. But what the hell was he supposed to say? ‘Oh yeah, he might have been brainwashed and tortured, but trust me, he really enjoys being ordered around. Used to get him off, but we don’t do that part anymore, y’know, because of all the rape. Anyway, let’s go commit s’more felonies.’

As if Sam wasn’t suspending enough of his own ethical objections already. There was no way to phrase it that didn’t make Steve sound like an abusive piece of sh*t. Even thinking about trying to put words to it made him want to hide his face in his hands. It was just… How they were. He’d never had to talk about it before.

Steve wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking. He’d hoped that Bucky would be able to trust him, and that Sam would be able to roll with the punches. And he'd been looking forward to having Sam here, seeing a friendly face, joking and laughing without worrying about every little thing being overanalyzed. Except now, thanks to Steve’s bumbling, both Sam and Bucky were picking apart every word and action, trying to figure out how exactly the three of them fit together. Something had better give, because Steve was ill-suited to being a go-between.

This wasn’t like Buck. Used to, he’d be the first person to welcome someone new to the team. He didn’t have any reason to mistrust Sam. Hell, he was the one who’d finally convinced Steve to accept the help, but now he was acting like Sam was a threat. Bucky had been nervous around Natasha, but he’d adjusted to her presence pretty quickly. But Sam’s genuine concern had thrown him, even worse than Nat’s constant double meanings.

Buck suspected some sort of backstabbing or malicious intent, like everyone was constantly out for more power, or trying to manipulate him to their own ends. Steve thought he’d done enough to prove that things weren’t like that anymore, but some lessons were hard to unlearn, and Sam was even more a stranger to him than Nat, even if it was subconscious.

The phone chimed with an okay and a location. Time to move before the satellite shifted again and Tony had to recalibrate the blackout area. Hopefully getting out of the house for a bit would help ease the tension.

“Buck. Come here, please.”

Bucky went rigid, answering with a brusque, “Sir.”

He hadn’t been so formal in months. With another sharp glance toward the couch, Bucky stood and crossed the short distance to the counter. His posture would’ve looked prideful, but right now it just seemed defensive, an attempt to cover up his nerves.

“Sam and I are gonna take a ride over to the quarry so he can test out the new wing pack. You’re welcome to come along, but you can also stay here and work on finishing up the plans for Medford.”

Bucky stiffly replied, “Your discretion, sir.”

“Okay, well either option is fine with me. We’ll be gone for about four hours. It’s your choice how you spend the time.”

Steve poured a cup of coffee while he waited for Bucky’s response, letting the silence sit between them. Steve figured he might want to observe Sam in action so he could take his fighting style into account for mission planning. But he also thought Buck might appreciate some time away from the pressure of observation, especially with all the heightened emotions this morning. Part of him was hoping Bucky would come along just to save him from Sam’s lecture. So far there’d been a few half-joking questions and some odd looks, but Steve knew more was coming.

Bucky followed the movements of his hands as he took another sip of coffee, but when he came to a decision, he fixed his eyes on the countertop.

“It will accompany you, sir.”

“Civilian clothes, then. Bring what weapons you can conceal. Tony’s fixing it so no one will pick up Sam’s flying, but if something does happen, you take the car and go where JARVIS tells you, okay?”

Bucky said, “Yes, sir,” but there was a hint of displeasure at the corners of his mouth. Steve couldn’t tell if that was just disapproval at the idea of them being separated during an attack, or if Buck was still skeptical about Stark in general. He didn’t really blame him. Tony was kind of a pill, even on a good day. Steve put his mug down, running his hand down Buck’s back. Still way too tense.

“You sure you don’t wanna stay here and rest?” he asked, low enough that Sam wouldn’t hear.

Bucky frowned, almost indignant. He took the cue, though, pitching his voice quieter. “Yes, sir. It is functional.”

“I don’t doubt that, honey. But you still seem upset. If you need me to stay with you, Sam can take care of himself.”

Buck didn’t quite shake his head, but he was resolute. “It is necessary to observe the performance of new operatives, sir, for optimal strategic placement. The device is untested, and…” His eyes shifted, and the next part came out grudgingly. “If there is malfunction, Wilson’s safety is at risk.”

A crooked smile snuck across Steve’s face. Whatever was going on, even if Bucky resented Sam’s presence here, he had enough empathy to care a bit about his wellbeing. Or maybe just the tactical sense to preserve their manpower. Either way, it wasn’t total antipathy. Steve held back a quip about Sam actually using a parachute. If he opened that can of worms, he’d never hear the end of it from either of them.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’ll be good to have someone else there. But you tell me if you need to come back and rest. This isn’t a mission, it’s not critical, and we’ll only be forty-five minutes away.”

Buck’s, “Yes, sir,” was less reluctant this time.

Steve glanced at the clock. If they were gonna go today, they had to be outta here in about ten minutes. “Alright then, let’s get a move on. I think you’re gonna get a kick outta seeing the new wings in action. Tony’s tech is even better than the old stuff.”

“Yes, sir. Air support will be advantageous.”

The unspoken ‘someone’s gotta cover your dumb ass’ was loud and clear.

__________________________________________________

Sam was really hoping to get some one-on-one time with Steve, to talk about the Barnes situation without having to look over his shoulder, but Steve’s shadow followed them out to the car, slipping into the back seat. Whatever they got up to thumping around on the porch and whispering in the kitchen (rude) seemed to have calmed him down somewhat, but he was still acting pretty chilly.

Having Barnes glaring at the back of his head for the entire drive wasn’t ideal, but now that Sam suspected his prickly attitude was at least partially self-defense, the murder face lost some of its menace. He was suspicious of Sam for good reason – an unknown agent coming into his safe space, bringing difficult questions and bad noises.

Sam regretted being inadvertently responsible for triggering the flashback, but it was an honest mistake. He thought again about apologizing, but he couldn’t imagine it would go over well right now. Maybe once Barnes had warmed up to him a bit more. His response to the question about touch made it obvious that Sam’s prying was definitely not welcome. He might have been a victim in all this, but he wasn’t helpless, and that arm packed a punch. Sam resolved to give him a wide berth. At least for a while, until he understood what was going on here a bit better. Ugh, use your words, Steven.

Thankfully, the ride was relatively short. The majority of it was just getting out of the forest, winding around logging roads and stopping to move fallen branches. Sam got out to help, even though Steve’s super biceps did most of the work. Rather be useless out here than sit there in awkward silence with Barnes. At least he had the Falcon suit on now, the thermal material keeping him warm.

Sam couldn’t dwell on the tension too long. His excitement about flying soon outweighed everything else. He knew it would be in service of Steve’s barrage of brutality, but he’d gotten the taste back in DC, and he could hardly wait to get in the air again. As much of a dick as Stark could be, he’d designed a whole new kit, free of charge, and free of any of the strings that came with military programs. It was Sam’s, straight up, and he could jet off to Florida right now if he wanted to. A decent enough apology, though he was still gonna hold Stark to that new car.

There was a tangle of caution tape and barricades at the entrance to the quarry, but they drove right through as if they owned the place. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if Stark had just bought it outright. He went to set up, using his thumbprint to open the futuristic briefcase, and took a moment to appreciate the sleek, lightweight backpack and the matching control wristband. They were molded from red (not Stark's hotrod red, but a deeper, more subtle color) and silver carbon fiber. It was damn sexy. He pulled on the included goggles, clicking through the HUD options: wind speed and atmospheric conditions, thermal, night vision, and an adaptive mapping system. Nice.

Sam laid the pack on the ground, slipped on the wristband, and stepped back to deploy the wings. He needed a visual inspection before he entrusted his life to them. When he shoved the goggles up on his forehead to get a better look, he caught Barnes staring again. This time, it wasn’t directed at Sam.

He was studying the wings, scanning every piece of them inch by inch like he was taking them apart in his mind. There was a glimmer of something that might have been curiosity in those shadowed eyes. Sam saw the opportunity to get under the armor and try to connect with him. He put on his most approachable smile and waved Barnes over.

“Pretty cool, huh? Wanna check ‘em out?”

Barnes shot him a wary glare, then, of course, looked to Steve for permission. Steve smiled and nodded, and Barnes stepped closer, until he was crouching over the open wings. For a few long seconds he just looked. Then he zeroed in on something, and there was an aborted movement, Barnes’ right hand lifting from where it rested on his knee.

“You can touch,” Sam said graciously. “Just don’t go pullin’ ‘em apart. Stark bitched up a storm about making me a new kit. Though, between you and me, I think he’s full of it. You know he had way too much fun showing up the original design.”

He got only silence in return, but that wasn’t surprising. After a few seconds’ hesitation, Barnes reached out to trace the articulated plates of the left wing. To Sam’s relief, he used his natural hand, following the seams up and down each segment all the way back to where they attached to the pack. Then he stopped, oddly still.

Sam couldn’t figure out what he was doing until he saw the tips of Barnes’ fingers go from pink to white. He was putting pressure on the joint, right in the same place he’d busted the EXO-7. A wriggling discomfort crawled through Sam’s chest. Maybe Barnes was just testing the strength of the material, making sure the new kit didn’t have the same weak points, but the gesture could easily be read as a threat. Sam cleared his throat.

“It’s even better when I’m wearin’ it. Lemme suit up and I’ll give y’all a good show.”

Barnes immediately backed up, returning to perfect attention at Steve’s side. Sam met Steve’s weird little smile with a raised eyebrow, then put both of the superfreaks out of his mind as he went through pre-flight checks. He closed the wings and made sure the parachutes were in working order before he slung the pack on and buckled in.

This tech was probably a hundred times more reliable than military prototypes, but Stark had been a hot goddamn mess, and Sam wouldn’t put it past him to forget basic safety measures in his manic state. He hadn’t come through on the cloaking tech, which was a shame. But everything looked good. The pack was about half the weight of the old one, and the wings much more flexible. It’d be a goddamn delight to fly.

Sam lowered his goggles and jogged a few yards from Steve and Barnes, then took a deep, elated breath and hit the thrusters.

All the weirdness and stress fell away as he soared high into the clouded afternoon sky. He had to adjust his thrust almost immediately, the lighter kit and more powerful engine sending him speeding upwards faster than he’d expected. It only took a few minutes to get the hang of it. The controls were similar to the EXO-7, just a bit more intuitive. The wings were ice-proofed, though he’d have to take it easy to avoid getting his nose frostbit.

But the frigid weather couldn’t deter him. He was free again, back in his element and swooping high above all the mundane bullsh*t. This almost made up for losing his car, having his life upended, nearly dying, and chasing after Steve Stupidass Rogers for months. Okay, it definitely made up for it. Sam spread his wings wide, laughing as the wind caught him, and turned back toward the quarry.

___________________________________________

As soon as the flight test began, it became clear why Wilson had such camaraderie with the commander: he, too, appeared to place bodily integrity in lower priority than mission performance. It was yet to be seen if this would affect his ability to defend the commander. He had provided acceptable backup during Insight.

His skill was impressive, though. The Soldier had not had time for much observation during the previous mission. Now, it could see how he deftly made use of updrafts and subtle currents, swooping from one side of the artificial gorge to the other. He flew high into the air, performing loops and rolls, banking sharply in every direction, pushing Stark’s technology to its limits.

At one point, Wilson retracted the wings and fell into a spiraling dive, plummeting towards the earth at a high velocity like a falling satellite. From that height, a parachute would do nothing to slow his descent. [Designated ally: defer and protect.]The Soldier readied itself to attempt rescue, but, ten meters away from fatal impact, Wilson opened the wings and fired the thrusters, sweeping overhead with an echoing whoop and a gust of wind.

His codename was apt. It had never witnessed such precise movement by a human-piloted aircraft. And, it recalled from the previous mission, he was capable of using firearms while in flight. Regardless of his intentions toward the Soldier – and his questionable risk assessment abilities – Wilson would be a valuable asset to the mission.

The unease born from ignorance of his motivations still lingered, but the commander’s obvious pleasure obscured it for a moment. He laughed as he pushed disturbed hair away from the Soldier’s face, then turned to follow Wilson’s flight.

After nearly two hours of the exuberant aerial acrobatics, the commander signaled, and Wilson swept into another dramatic descent. The wings flared open as he fought his own momentum, slowing enough to get his feet on the ground without damaging himself. He jogged to a stop, wings retracting behind him and a cloud of dust billowing in his wake. His face was flushed, cheeks wind-chapped and brow dripping with condensation, but he wore a wide smile, just as enthused as the commander about his performance.

“Damn,” Wilson exclaimed. “Maybe putting up with Stark’s bullsh*t is worth it.”

Unfortunately accurate. The flight suit had none of the weak points of the previous model. Stark was useful, despite his babbling.

“Yeah, that’s usually my conclusion,” the commander chuckled. “You looked great out there, Sam. Everything handle okay?”

Wilson bumped his fists together, then shook out his hands. Despite all of his exertion, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet as if he could barely contain his energy.

“Oh, yeah. Let’s go kick some Nazi ass.”

Chapter 61

Chapter Text

Sam really wasn’t sure why he was even here. Aerial surveillance was redundant; Stark took care of that with his satellites. He was doing a pretty good job at keeping the motion-sensing machine guns distracted, but after five minutes they all stopped firing at once and drooped like someone had cut power to the entire array.

Steve had reminded Barnes to speak freakin’ English while Sam was in the field with them, but it was a moot point. There was no report from either of the jerks inside. The comms were all clanging metal and gunfire until Stark busted on, gloating about how nice the new Falcon kit was. Cap cut him off with a barked order before Sam could snark back that he still wasn’t invisible.

He watched through the HUD as two blobs of superhuman heat (one minus a left arm, which showed up as soft blue rather than alive yellow) speedran the entire base. Barnes bounced from target to target, pinballing down hallways and up stairs almost faster than Sam could track. But he always stayed within orbit of Rogers, sometimes veering from his course to take out a threat Steve missed while he was busy imitating a wrecking ball.

They reached the far end of the base, something else exploded, and Rogers announced exfil.

Sam was on cleanup duty then, sweeping the perimeter and taking out whatever HYDRA goons tried to escape the melee. The base was entirely isolated, separated from the rest of the valley by trees and bluffs, because Nazis were all stupid and predictable. They thought they were hiding, but they were really just shooting themselves in the foot, putting the compound down in a hole like that.

Rogers had presented him with a truly staggering array of firearms, including a heavy handgun that shot explosive rounds. He had to use both hands to steady it, but Sam had some fun blowing the axles off of a couple humvees, then engaged his thrusters to flip one upside down when a couple of dumbassess tried to drive up the side of the mountain. The thermal imaging showed several more agents hidden in the dense evergreen canopy. He disabled the fleeing fascists with flying kicks or shots to the kneecaps, but his merciful methods were in vain.

When Rogers and Barnes strode dramatically out of the base six minutes later, soaked in gore and leaving a burning ruin behind them, every single agent writhing in pain on the ground got a bullet in the skull. Rogers was just as ruthless as the Soldier, ending lives without a second thought. Even from thirty feet in the air, Sam could see the hate in his eyes. It wasn’t any less chilling now, though he should’ve been expecting it. A stupid, naive part of him had hoped that once Steve got his ball back he’d tone down the rage a little bit. But there was no such luck.

The scene below was scarily reminiscent of the battle on the airfield in DC, except now there were two ‘roided out supersoldiers in black kevlar shredding through their targets. Even Cap’s iconic shield had been painted matte black. It was probably a nod towards stealth, but Sam couldn’t help thinking it was a damn good metaphor. He reminded himself of the sh*t he’d read in Barnes’ file, the horror he’d seen on Barnes’ face, the plot to kill millions of innocents, and tried to find room in his moral code to justify all this. It was a tricky fit.

He covered their retreat, though there weren’t any hostiles left alive. When he swooped back down to the extraction point, Steve was leaned up against the beefed-up Tahoe with his arm wrapped around his stomach. His face was pale and his breathing ragged. He’d been moving just fine when he was slaughtering bad guys, but whatever injuries he’d sustained must’ve finally caught up with him. Sam put his objections aside and jogged over, automatically going into triage mode.

But before he could even get within five feet of Steve, the Winter Soldier was in front of him, an ominous wall of bloodied leather. Most of his face was obscured by the Vader mask and wild hair, only his eyes visible. He stared Sam down, that glacial gaze cutting right through him, and actually f*cking growled.

Sam put his hands up, taking a step back. “Woah, man. I’m just tryna help.”

Barnes didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He didn’t even breathe. Behind his guard dog, Sam could still see Steve struggling to stand upright. He did not chase these idiots across the country for months to lose a man now.

“Barnes,” he said, as calm as he could manage. “I’m a medic. Let me look at him.”

After two more ridiculously tense seconds of staring, Barnes huffed and stepped aside. Sam thought he was gonna have some space to work when Barnes went around the side of the car, but then he was back, silently shoving a hefty med kit into Sam’s hands.

“Thanks,” Sam allowed. He turned to Steve. “Whatta we got?”

“f*ckin’ grenade,” he hissed. “Something in my ribs.”

Sam sucked his teeth and bullied Steve into sitting down on the bumper. Barnes was hovering so close he was basically plastered to Steve’s uninjured side, his pissy glare replaced by blatant worry, the first real emotion Sam had seen from him outside of the flashback. It was like a momma bear had been strapped with enough machine guns and grenades to invade Latveria. Sam tried to ignore him. Really not conducive to an effective medical environment, but he’d dealt with worse. He opened up the kit to find scissors and cut through Steve’s shredded tac suit. Yep. Lots of nice shrapnel damage, exacerbated by all the dramatic punching.

“You know,” Sam said. “You’re supposed to use the shield to, like, shield yourself.”

Barnes grunted in what Sam prayed was agreement. Grabbing the forceps, he started pulling chunks of metal out of Steve’s torso, blinking when Barnes reached over and passed him a plastic bag. His face, at least what Sam could see of it, was set in disapproval. Guess he really was devoted to removing evidence. Not that it’d make much difference. They just blasted a huge complex to kingdom come. It was gonna get noticed. Sam went along with it, dropping the debris into the baggie. He was just about done when he found the culprit. What looked like a little piece of glass sticking out of Steve’s side gave more resistance than expected when Sam tried to pull it out. He’d already started healing around it.

“You’re gonna wanna hold on to something. I don’t know how deep this goes.”

Steve flailed around until he found Barnes’ metal hand. He took a deep breath and, on the exhale, Sam tugged. There was a pained hiss and the sound of creaking titanium as a solid four inches of bulletproof window emerged from between Steve’s bottom ribs.

Sam let out his own held breath. Goddamn. That would have anyone else in the hospital. As it was, he could already hear Steve breathing easier. Sam wiped down the area, checking for any stragglers. A few more chunks fell away under the gauze, pushed out by knitting skin. He pressed a bandage over the wound, assuming Steve’s super-liver would take care of itself.

“Alright, I think that’s it. Anything else?”

“Buck took a shot to the leg,” Steve said, still a little breathless. “Might be healed already.”

Against his screaming sense of self-preservation, Sam addressed the assassin currently fussing over Captain America. “You gonna take my head off if I have a look?”

“It is functional,” Barnes intoned.

Sam raised an eyebrow in the expression of beleaguered medics dealing with macho morons everywhere. Then he reminded himself that this was less macho bullsh*t and more abject terror of medical treatment, or inability to express any sign of weakness. Barnes probably would’ve insisted on walking out of there with a compound fracture.

Sam scanned both of his legs, unsure if the disgust he felt was directed at HYDRA, or at the remnants of their operatives spattered across Barnes’ suit. It was impossible to tell how much of the blood was his.

“Just let me look. I won’t touch unless you say it’s okay. Can’t have you bleeding out on the ride home.”

It took a few nudges from Steve, but Barnes assented. His tac pants fell with a clatter of knives and grenades, and he stared blankly into the distance as Sam bent down to inspect the injury. Barnes’ pasty thigh was just as bloody as his clothes. Had he been this skinny in DC? No, that’s probably what all the protein shakes were about. Sam grabbed the saline bottle.

“I gotta wash this off, I can’t see anything. It’s gonna be cold, but it’s just water.” There was no response, not even a nod. He looked up, trying to determine how close to murder Barnes was, but he couldn’t see much beyond the mask and the hair. “Barnes?”

“Go on, Sam,” Steve cut in. “We gotta move.”

Above him, Steve took both Barnes’ hands in his, muttering something inaudible to normal humans. That still wasn’t permission, but they were sitting at the remnants of a crime scene and Sam really didn’t feel like dealing with the feds right now. He rinsed the worst of the blood off, exposing a puckered entrance wound. It looked like it was a day old already. Sam kept his hands in his lap as he leaned over, trying to find the exit, but the other side of Barnes’ leg was unblemished.

“I think the bullet’s still in there. Bleeding’s stopped, though. Might be able to make it back like this.”

Steve shook his head. “He’ll heal up around it, then we’ll have to cut it out.” So the serum had its downsides then. It seemed like a special kind of hell, just healing up good as new and being tossed back into the fray, over and over again. Sam hung his head as he envisioned his death at Barnes’ hands when he tried coming at him with a scalpel, but Steve knelt down and pulled the med kit towards himself. “I’ll do it. Just keep a lookout for incoming.”

“Steve–”

“It’s fine. Done it before.”

Steve gave him a severe look, which Sam chose to interpret as do you really wanna be the one in arm’s reach for this? Sam backed off, leaving the enhanced weirdos to their own medical devices. He drew his gun and turned to keep an eye on the smoldering base. There was no movement, and he couldn’t hear anything besides Steve’s shuffling feet and the clinking of forceps. Barnes didn’t make a single sound as Steve dug around in his leg, which was quite possibly the most disturbing thing about this entire scene.

A bandage opened, the kit was zipped up, and Steve called, “Done. You up for driving?”

“Sure.” Sam turned around just in time to see Barnes fixing his belt and stowing his guns.

Steve gestured to the car. “Go on and get in, Buck. I’ll be right there.” As the back passenger door closed, he motioned Sam over. “Look. Whatever you think about what’s going on, just don’t say anything in front of Bucky.”

Oh, great. Time for more weirdness and evasion.

“Steve. What are you talking about?”

The defiant jaw clench only lasted a second this time. Steve pursed his lips and took a breath, clearly reminding himself not to be an asshole to the guy who just covered his ass and patched him up. “Sometimes it’s tough for him to settle down. I gotta talk him through it. So just… Just please drive and we can discuss it later, okay?”

“What? This is exactly what I meant when I asked–”

“Later, Sam.”

With great reluctance and the stinkiest stink eye he could muster, Sam packed up his kit and got in the car. He jumped when JARVIS came on to deliver an after-action report and medical update (nothing he hadn’t already guessed at) but quickly re-focused on getting the hell out of dodge before the police helicopters showed up.

Everything was fine for the first half hour or so. Sam went to adjust the stereo, desperate to find anything that wasn’t Vivaldi, then stopped himself. The music was probably part of Barnes’ no-friendly-fire routine. He let it play.

Once the road straightened out, Sam tried to sneak a peek at the rearview, deeply curious about what kind of nonsense these two could possibly get up to in a moving car. Barnes had taken off the creepy muzzle and was wiping his guns down. In between each weapon, he’d look up, studying Sam with some undefinable intensity. Not much out of the ordinary, then. After a few minutes, Sam gave it up and just drove. Maybe Rogers was getting tetchy over nothing.

Then the Russian started.

Steve’s voice was low and soothing, just like after the flashback. He might’ve been sprinkling some English in there, but it was hard to tell over the music and rattling tires. Another glance at the mirror revealed a pile of muscles and black kevlar, the two of them so tangled up in each other Sam couldn’t tell whose arms were whose, except for one of them being metal.

Okay then. The Winter Soldier needed hugs after his murder spree. It wasn’t the worst thing Sam had seen in the back of a transport, and after three days of their cuddly codependent bullsh*t it definitely wasn’t as shocking as Steve had made sound. At least they weren’t making out.

_________________________________________

Sam continued practicing his non-judgemental acceptance when the gory grampas went into the bathroom together and closed the door behind them. He kept his trap shut when the shower turned on, and zipped his lips when they came out equally wet and wearing matching sweatpants. He might have rolled his eyes when Barnes assumed the position for hair touching time, but thankfully he had the distraction of his own shower to attend to.

Those two… sweet tiny baby Jesus. There was really no other way to phrase it: they were a mess.

Literally. Blood was still pooled around the drain, caked into the grout in some places. Sam tried to think about anything else, but he couldn’t stop perseverating. It was weird as hell. No matter his state of mind, Barnes was a grown ass man, capable of committing his own war crimes complex fieldwork. He could definitely clean himself up.

Maybe it was an old Army habit. Between barracks showers and college parties, Sam had seen it all. And he understood how quickly those kinds of boundaries were erased when someone got sick, or when you saw combat together. Living in a sh*tty tent for weeks on end, he'd learned things about Riley’s balls he wished he could forget. But they weren’t in a sh*tty tent now.

Sam had to believe that it was somehow necessary. Maybe there was something triggering about the bathroom, and Steve was just sitting on the toilet to keep Barnes company and prevent further property damage. He’d heard Steve talking the whole time, though he couldn’t make out the words, and they had stayed in there long enough to be taking turns. Or maybe Barnes didn’t want to get his hair caught in his robot fingers. Or maybe… Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He dried off and stationed himself in the kitchen, shooing away Steve’s offer of help. There’d been enough explosions already today, and he needed some space to think. Stark had sent out most of the necessities, but there still weren’t any good spices. One of these days he was gonna make some real grits, with fresh-caught shrimp, and blow Rogers’ old-timey little mind.

Pancakes. He could make pancakes. It didn’t matter that it was four in the morning and he really should get some sleep. The superfreaks would be hungry, and if Sam had to suffer through Steve’s soggy scrambled eggs right now he might shoot something. Probably Steve. He’d heal fast enough, anyway. The asshole edged in behind him with a guilty smile to grab Barnes’ protein stuff, then obediently scrammed.

Sam set to work making the batter, turning everything over in his head. Barnes was good at what he did. Obviously. Despite the flashbacks and nerves when he was home, he didn’t falter on the op. Pretty common. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug. Sam wasn’t fluent enough in Buckybot to know for sure, but apparently he wanted to be out there, taking down the people who hurt him. Understandable. Questionably ethical, but Sam couldn’t really argue that point without being a hypocrite. But, by god, the man did not need to be seeing action right now.

Sam knew this pattern. Vet comes home, can’t settle down without a gun in their hand. So they get a job in security or go to cop school. Everything’s fine until one day, they go too far. sh*t gets out of hand, the wrong person gets hurt, maybe they get fired. Then what? Fight club? Illegal security gigs?

It was unsustainable. This whole situation was unsustainable. At some point they were gonna get caught, whether it was by HYDRA or SHIELD or the freakin’ park rangers. Then Steve’s worst nightmares would come true. Barnes would be locked up with some slimy CIA f*cker who pretended to be a therapist but really just wanted to manipulate him into confessing to all his crimes-under-duress. Then he would lose his sh*t and maybe take out a few dozen guards. Steve would bust out of wherever he was holed up, come rescue Barnes, and the cycle would start all over until one or both of them got put down by a SWAT team.

Sam sighed and flipped the final flapjack. He had no idea how to talk Steve into putting his rampage on hold. They had good reason to want to stop HYDRA before the bastards pulled another coup or attempted genocide. But there was a better way to go about this. There were resources. There was, Lord help him for even thinking it, Stark. Money and lawyers and enough firepower to wipe out every base in a few hours once they got the okay from the higher ups. He had no idea why Stark had been gunning for Steve before, but his jets had cooled. Why not go camp out in the fancy tower? For a guy who claimed to be a master strategist, Steve was really letting his heart get in the way right now.

Sam switched off the stove and called out, “Food’s ready.”

Predictably, Steve was there in a heartbeat, salivating across the countertop. He grinned at Sam like the sun shone out of his ass (appropriate, it did), said a hearty thanks, and piled a good dozen pancakes onto his plate. Sam had made about thirty of them, planning for this eventuality.

As ridiculous as Rogers' food habits were, it was always nice to have someone appreciate his cooking. Even if that someone had terrible taste and would eat a two-day-old sandwich with no compunction. Sam took four for himself, as well as some of the artisan grass-fed butter and small-batch organic hand-pollinated maple-birch syrup Stark had provided.

Steve fixed up a little sample platter for Barnes: half a pancake, the tiniest possible sliver of butter, a dollop of syrup, and a big scoop of blackberry jam. If they’d had whipped cream or fresh berries, he probably would have made an artful presentation truly worthy of a quaint B&B.

Meanwhile, Steve’s own stack looked like an overzealous five-year-old put it together, a mess of syrup and butter nearly running off the plate. Typical. He passed Barnes – who was sitting on the floor, as usual – the lone pancake and the protein shake, belatedly handing over a fork and a glass of water before he started digging into his own meal.

Barnes stared at the food like it was radioactive, fork hovering awkwardly over the plate. He looked from Sam, to Steve, then back to the pancake, hopelessly lost. Sam had to choose to find this funny, otherwise it would’ve been heartbreaking. He held himself back from making a joke about the food not being poisoned. That would throw Barnes into a paranoia spiral for sure.

“Go on, sweetheart,” Steve said in a tone more sugary than his breakfast. “Give it a try. You don’t gotta eat the whole thing. You know you can stop if it upsets your stomach.”

There was a vague nod and a quiet, “Thank you, sir.”

Still weird and concerning, but Sam didn’t have long to dwell on it. He was immediately distracted by Barnes’ face as he took the first hesitant bite. The guy was clearly trying to hold it together, but there were hints of actual human pleasure in his expression. As he chewed, his eyes fell closed, and he let out a soft sigh.

It was trippy, like watching Cass discover the joy of chocolate PopTarts for the first time, if Cass had been two hundred pounds of death in a shiny metal package. But Barnes was… Damn it. He was overwhelmed because he’d been living on protein shakes, and the flavor of real food had been burnt out of his memory.

Steve smiled at Sam, so genuine it hurt. Sam was ready to break the tension with another jibe about the Waffle House incident, when suddenly Barnes went even more stiff than normal. It was hard to quantify, but he knew it when he saw it. Something was wrong. Barnes’ breathing didn’t speed up, but there was rapid movement beneath his eyelids, his fingers twitching around the fork. It almost looked like an absence seizure.

“Steve,” Sam said urgently.

“It’s okay.” Steve held one hand out to keep him from jumping back into medic mode. “Just give him a minute.”

It sure as hell didn’t look okay, but Sam wasn’t the one with three months’ experience in Berserker Bucky wrangling. Barnes’ jaw worked again, and he swallowed. At least he wasn’t gonna choke to death and make Sam infamous for killing the assassin’s assassin (and Cap’s bestie) with a pancake.

When Barnes opened his eyes, he seemed to be present, but he looked confused, almost wounded. Sam briefly wondered who had taught whom the puppy dog eyes, or if it was natural, and if the two of them had ever gotten locked into some kind of sad white boy staring contest trying to determine who was the most heartsick blue-eyed American wet dream. Lord.