That faint hum gives him a small measure of...something. Pleasure? That might be too alien of a concept for the Winter Soldier, but when he hears the hum of his arm vibrating along the wrist to the shoulder socket, where it's connected to bone and nerve, he feels something beyond just the physical sensation. This is promising. This is good that he has an increased use of his armor. It is good, he thinks, that the Captain has repaired it of his own free will. Maybe he can work with that. Maybe ...
Unaware that he's doing the very un-HYDRA sin of "grasping at straws" - that he shouldn't even be indulging in it - the Winter Soldier instead studies his partner, eyes slightly narrowed. The silence is punctuated by the crackle and pop of the fireplace. The jerky hum of his cybernetic fingers as they jerk open and shut as he tests the range of motion available to him. Some of the joints click. Soft but he can hear it. But it's better than before, better than being the amputee he was before HYDRA must have took him in, and he decides it's fine. After all, the alternative was no functioning prosthesis. Or the Captain strangling him while he was unconscious. Easier choices. Neater. The tools click down against the table. The Winter Soldier watches his partner (former partner)? - set down the tools, one by one, as if they're made of glass. An unconscious, soft sigh escapes out of him, betrayed only by his shoulders slipping down from where they'd hunched up. As if he'd been preparing to charge the other super soldier head on. As if he's still surprised by the Captain's newfound softness.
"...Fine."
There's something unspoken here. Something beyond the voiceless comfort that they've received the same intel, the same HYDRA-approved flash training burning into their retinas.
For once in his life, the Winter Soldier can't say for certain if he trusts his old partner. There are invisible orders now. Either the Captain is defective or...or maybe the Winter Soldier is the defective one. He's failed somehow, somewhere. Whatever the case is, he isn't in the know now. He's not on the same page. It happens. But it'd always happened to lesser HYDRA assets: rank and file soldiers, agents, spies. Not him. His mouth flattens into a thin, almost bloodless line that ages him. Did he go wrong somewhere? Did he fail to make the cut?
...Why didn't he get the chance to prove that he was still the soldier HYDRA wanted him to be?
Why does it sound like the Captain will go on without him?
"Okay. I'll rest." There's an open hesitation even as he pulls his repaired arm back to him, cradling it against his chest as if the Captain broke it for no reason. As if he hadn't been, say, defending himself from bleach being poured down his eyes and throat. "Are you going to lock my door? Do you have restraints?"
The Captain should. If he has a shred of HYDRA still alive in him, he would lock him up. Stuff him in a closet and barricade it. It's what they've both done on missions with...uncooperative assets. It would be expected. Maybe a part of him might even appreciate conforming to to the expected standards that he can see aren't set in stone anymore. The Winter Soldier hasn't figured out if he'd be irritated that the Captain couldn't give him that much. Mostly he's staring at the other soldier, still holding his partially-repaired arm hugged close to him with his good hand as if that could stop anyone from taking it away. Now he shifts backward. Shoulders square. But it's defensive, expectant. Almost submissive; as submissive as a genetically engineered asset can get these days.
Following HYDRA's script seems to fill the void. A stop-gap, really: a brief moment to focus on procedure instead of the Captain's inconsistencies.
The way the Soldier pulls his arm back, protects it as if it's still hurt or in danger of being damaged again, makes something deep in the Captain's gut twist. It's the lack of trust - the guarded, wary intent behind the move - that hurts, even though he understands why it's there. It's the only reasonable reaction, he knows, when his own actions are cause for concern. When he's acting off-script, crossing the line, questioning orders and the order of things.
But he has to. He really does worry - doubt - that HYDRA's plan might not be… right.
And yet still, it hurts, to see that betrayal in the line of the Soldier's shoulders, the depths of his eyes. He agrees to the Captain's suggestion, but he doesn't sound happy about it, and that hurts, too.
At the question, he frowns; "I have restraints," he admits, but, "Do you believe they're necessary?"
He isn't sure, suddenly, whether the Soldier is asking because he expects to be restrained, or asking because he doesn't want to be restrained. The Captain is sure, though, that he doesn't want to restrain the Soldier again. He doesn't want to lock him away, he wants to sleep together, in the same location, shoulder to shoulder like they should be able to, because they should be able to trust each other. They should be able to look out for one another. They should have exactly the same goals.
But they don't. That much is clear, because the Soldier threw bleach in the Captain's face, and the Captain has already restrained the Soldier once. That trust is broken - but it doesn't have to be.
Something in the Captain knows that actions speak louder than words. It's why they're punished again and again, why HYDRA is so brutally physical with them, even after the chair and the drugs. It's because the body remembers, even when the mind can't. There's something bone-deep about action that can never, ever be forgotten.
If he wants to rebuild that trust - if he wants to show the soldier it's still there - then he needs to act like it. "I don't believe I need to restrain you. I believe we've come to an understanding," he says, looking right at the Soldier as he says it, eyes searching out their counterpart in the other's face, voice quiet and steady and sure. "We both need to rest. We'll rest together. No restraints. Like before. We're a unit, and we'll act like one."
He gets up, then, to go raid their small stash of supplies. There are blankets, there, and it's not exactly warm in here, no matter the steps they've taken to make it more livable. He knows that the blood loss, his own injured arm, make him more vulnerable to the cold, too. There is not shame in protecting himself from the cold, he thinks - even as some part of him balks like it never has before, at being hurt. This isn't the same feeling, the vague displeasure of a mission gone wrong, of being disabled. This is… different. This is more raw, somehow. This is almost indignance. Anger at himself, at his circumstances, even when that anger is useless. Still, he feels it - just like he feels the pull toward the Soldier, and the need to trust him. To earn his trust in between.
"We'll sleep out here. Together," he finally says, lifting the blankets one-handed and returning to where the Soldier is sitting. "Better sight lines, with the windows." They can adjust the furniture to hide their bodies, if someone looks in from the outside.
had some slight godmoding, lemme know if I should change anything
And that's it. It's clear that the Captain is either cleared far past whatever he could hope for or he's...he's gone rogue. Right now he can't tell the difference. HYDRA, after all, can see further into the future than he ever could.
It's that doubt that stops him from immediately planning on the Captain's murder.
It would be clean if he can manage it. But it could also go against HYDRA's grand scheme and the truth of the matter is that he hasn't been cleared for it. It's always been like that. The Winter Soldier is cleared just enough to complete a mission and nothing more. He'd been weaker; he'd known, in the back of his mind, that he was the backup compared to the Captain. The weak link. If things had progressed as his training said it should, he would've been imprisoned and restrained according to protocol. Not treated like a POW who wasn't regarded as a threat, who wasn't worth the resources, the energy to even shove into a locked cell. It glares before him, distracting. For a split second the Winter Soldier's weakness is plastered on his face, a flash that lights up his dead blue eyes before he drops them stubbornly to the worn carpet at his feet.
"Foolish," he mutters, but it's half-hearted. Unsure in a way he hasn't sounded before.
His eyes come up as the Captain comes back with blankets. As if in a hazy dream, the Winter Soldier automatically stands to shift the furniture around, moving the loveseat just so. He does it with the assumption that he's a prisoner under the watch of a guard - a highly trained guard - but the truth is, it's muscle-memory. He does it because it's familiar, because at least he has control, he understands what he's doing. Because fixing the sight lines is something he can agree on, no matter what has happened to the Captain's new objectives. Because this is a brief break from the questions, from wondering who, exactly, is the defective one.
That doesn't last long. After all, there's only so long a man can drag out fixing sight lines with a limited amount of furniture.
Eventually he has to cave. He lies down, slowly, mindful of his repaired arm. The wrongness of his freedom glares. It gets even worse when he can feel the Captain settling next to him, draping the blankets around them, and it almost - for a split second - feels like all those times they had shared body warmth in the field. Except it isn't the same, it isn't...
And that's where he drifts off to sleep. There's a limit to the stressors a super soldier can take and he falls back into the welcome, thoughtless void of sleep after a point, before he can decide if he should make another pass at incapacitating the man next to him. He sleeps...well, surprisingly. No jolting awake. No choking on bile or blood from missions he can't remember. When the Winter Soldier wakes up, the room is lighter than before, a dim gray to hint at the morning sunlight hitting the resort's dated curtains. His back and limbs ache (clearly he didn't twist in his sleep to relieve blood pressure) and when he lifts his head, he can see that the blankets are rumpled. The Captain beat him to wakefulness.
He also didn't wake him like he used to.
Sitting up, the Winter Soldier clenches the blankets close. He isn't cold, but right now he's aware of grabbing at anything that could be a potential tool, a weapon. His hand unconsciously gropes to his side and oh, yeah: disarmed. Of course he doesn't have that familiar weight of his SMG or his knife at his side. Gone. Confiscated by the SSR. He'll sit up to see the Captain awake and standing a good distance away, hunched over something that looks like a disemboweled radio with its guts spilled all over.
"Any news?" he rasps. His hand comes up to scrub at his eyes, fingers curled into a silver fist. Can't tell if he wants to know where the news comes from, but anything is better than being in the dark.
The Captain lies awake after he hears the other asset fall asleep beside him, aware as the other's posture relaxes into the slackness of sleep and his breathing evens out, slow and deep but still silent, as though even in sleep he knows that to give himself away would be worse than death. He lies awake with his face still tingling as pale new skin grows and his mind races like his brain is a cup being filled by a faucet left running, about to overflow with no way to stop it. He feels keyed up and yet utterly relaxed by the solid weight of the Winter Soldier beside him, and if he spreads his own weight just a little more than necessary, if he takes comfort and clarity from the feel of the Soldier's body pressed all along his side… well, no one will ever know. He holds that feeling tight within himself and swears to anything that matters that even HYDRA won't rip that feeling from him (again?), no matter if they put him in the chair for the next hundred years straight.
Eventually he falls asleep, too — and he dreams. He dreams in strange, sepia tones tainted with blood and watercolor paint. He dreams of fighting a war like he's never fought for HYDRA, not cloaked in black and blood but covered in bright colors, a target — a symbol, a banner waved in front of the troops instead of a shadow behind the scenes. It's utterly foreign and yet intimately familiar. He looks to his right and the Asset is there, only his face is different — determined and serious as always, yes, but… young. Wry. His short hair ruffles in the breeze and his rifle glints in the sun and he is always, always there, they are always together —
Until they're not. And when the Captain sits bolt upright in the thin, early light of dawn, he knows in the core of himself that the thing that pulled them apart was HYDRA. It tore them to pieces and then put them back together, only it was like a puzzle where the pieces are all assembled wrong, so the picture isn't the same and the way each piece interlocks with the next isn't quite right. HYDRA broke them and rebuilt them and tried to wipe out the original picture, to warp the way they're supposed to fit, only now he's remembering. It's being slowly scratched away, like taking a chisel to a piece of marble and revealing the form underneath. There's the shell of what they are… and the core of it. HYDRA is concerned only with the shell, but now he knows there's something more underneath.
He glances at the Soldier, still asleep beside him; without waking the other, he carefully extricates himself from the blankets and stands for a moment, trying to rotate his stiff, aching shoulder, to determine how bad the damage still is, if it's ongoing or static. There's a sharp pain - the bullet digging into bone and muscle - every time he rotates it too far in one direction or the other. It makes him blanche and the worst of it makes him almost nauseous, so he tucks the arm back against himself and silently makes his way through the lodge, checking the fire (dying, so he feeds it several more logs), the perimeter (secure), the weather (still bad), their supplies (decent, if uninspired). It's then that he finds the old radio in a back room, shoved onto a shelf where it's gathering dust. It's just a receiver, meant to pick up the local stations, but he brings it back to the main room, sets it on a table and begins methodically dismantling it, cleaning each piece with a soft cloth he found in the kitchen, setting them out on the table like he's building a three-dimensional schematic of the thing from the inside out.
His mind is still buzzing, but the task, somehow, helps to keep that buzzing just below the surface. It feels like if he tries too hard, that's when the headaches and confusion come. If he lets his mind sort itself out… maybe that's when the picture, still blurry, will become clear.
He glances up at the sound of the the Soldier's voice, lips twitching up into a wry little smile at the sight of him wiping the sleep from his eyes. He never was a morning person, always preferring to sleep in unless he had an early shift at -
At the…
"No," he says, after a beat or two too long. "At least - not yet." He's got all the parts laid out and cleaned, now, and he slowly starts putting each one back, reassembling the radio in the exact reverse order that he took it apart, mind easily supplying the next step to take, the place where each piece fits. He wishes it were that easy when he looked at the Soldier, when he thought about his own past. "But if we can get this to turn on when it's back together, we might be able to tune it to the right frequency." Especially because he's adjusted the receiver and the dial, so it will pick up stations it was never meant to tune into.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, eyes on his work, trying to give nothing about the turmoil still wracking his mind.
maybe I matched you in late tags - had trouble with Bucky's writing voice
The Winter Soldier decides he doesn't approve of how the Captain smiles at him like that.
It's too open of an expression - nothing like the little stolen micro-expressions between them, like a secret language only the two of them know. The smile might be tiny for the average person, but to the Winter Soldier, it's too much. Too human. If a handler could see it, then it's unacceptable. Anyone could see that discrete look on his partner's face and read him. Yet another reminder that this isn't the Captain he had known for years, who he would have without thought thrown his life down to ensure that the superior asset survives. Unease, nameless, clawing, tugs at the Winter Soldier.
His blue eyes avert and fix on the radio's gutted parts spread before the other asset.
It's almost a relief to know that the Captain hasn't made contact. Who might be listening on the other end? What trigger words could be whispered? What did he mean, exactly, when he said right frequency?
"Functional," the Winter Soldier replies, tone curt even for him.
He'll pretend to wander off, as if that radio isn't bothering him. A mistake. Should have realized that thing would be a threat before this, but he'd allowed himself to be distracted by the Captain's injuries, let himself grow soft at the idea of actually executing the other asset before he became the glaring problem he is now. If they get back to HYDRA, the "re-education" will be thorough and, maybe, deserved for once. Never has the Winter Soldier failed like this.
If he had just been quicker with the bleach...
"We have food for a few days - less, as you have another mouth to feed," the Winter Soldier adds.
As the Captain seems determined to keep his fellow asset alive, despite the fact he had tried to poison him, he assumes he wants to make sure he doesn't starve or dehydrate. Their accelerated metabolisms means that food that would've lasted two normal men several weeks will only last days at best. Going off into the ice cold wilderness isn't optimal, but anything is better than allowing the Captain to continue fooling around with that radio, continuing to get ideas. Besides, maybe he might have another chance to incapacitate his partner in the forest, when the temperature drops, when his addled mind makes a grave misstep.
The thought is...promising.
If he was more self-aware, he would've said it even cheered him up.
Now the Winter Soldier settles himself on a chair that is a respectable distances from the Captain, and he'll even allow the other asset to see that his hands are empty. Look, no weapons. Just a blanket draped around faintly shivering shoulders. He hasn't gone for the bleach or dug around in the fireplace for any embers or chunks of wood to use as a weapon. In short, he's behaving. A model prisoner.
"I do," the Captain agrees, calm and steady, eyes on his work as he slowly reassembles the radio, piece by piece. There are two mouths to feed, and that's not going to change. Now that he's made that decision, locked it in as the cornerstone of all further tactical planning — no one will separate them again — it's a fact. Not a factor.
"If you're concerned, we'll go to half-rations." It's not ideal, they both burn a lot of calories, but it won't be the first time they've gone hungry. He's… sure of that, somehow, even though he can't pinpoint when it had last happened. It doesn't matter, really. It could have been any one of hundreds, thousands of reasons. Punishment. Long missions that went sideways. Extended waits for extraction.
Poverty…?
But whatever the reason, they have plentiful water, given all the snow outside. That's most important. The human body can survive for far longer with only water than only food. Or neither.
The Captain finally glances up at the sound of the Soldier settling himself into a chair. There's a weird, tight smile that tugs at the corners of his lips for an eyeblink, and then his attention goes back to the radio. It's coming together, piece by piece, as gears and transistors and wires disappear off the table, go back into the bowels of the little box, fitting back where they're supposed to go. He wonders if the radio he'll get when he's done is the same radio as the one he took apart. The same pieces, put back in the same patterns. But it was disassembled and reassembled in between. Is it different, or the same?
He shakes his head minutely, as if to clear it, and puts his eyes back on his work. "We have two courses of action," he says, trying to narrow things down, go off of what the Soldier said last night: The SSR is looking fo them. The SSR will likely even find them. But the SSR has information they need. "Either we wait for the SSR to come to us, or we go to them."
Neither is ideal — yes, they know exactly where to find the SSR, can backtrack to the base, break in, access their equipment and communications and… and their files. Maybe there's information, there, on this protocol, or someone they can interrogate. Someone who can tell them, exactly, why they think the assets have names. What those names mean.
Rogers and Barnes.
But they're ill-equipped and the Captain is still injured, and the Soldier's arm has been repaired, but it's not at full capacity. They have certainly done more with less, but it feels like walking into a mission poorly prepared. It chafes.
Or, they hole up here, with the knowledge that the SSR is looking for them. They monitor the radio and hope for intel, from either the SSR or from HYDRA. Because HYDRA is still a factor. One that sits uneasily in the Captain's gut, if only because he knows they won't get answers there. HYDRA takes, it doesn't give. HYDRA will put him in the chair and bury this protocol back inside him. HYDRA might even just kill him, or maybe they'll kill the Winter Soldier while he watches, take away the thing he feels this desperate need to keep close. Either seems equally likely. Both are unacceptable.
And somehow, waiting seems worse than walking into a trap. The Captain, who has had patience and calm beaten, burned into him, time and time again, can feel it sloughing off with all the rest of it. He doesn't want to sit here. He doesn't want to wait for the walls to close in.
Next, his nose unconsciously crinkles faintly in distaste.
Yes, half-rations are acceptable on paper. But that is for normal men. They are two super soldier, two theoretically better men with biological needs that match that, and now there is one who is malfunctioning and likely to make foolish mistakes regarding caloric intake. So no, he has doubts about the Captain's rosy estimate that half-rations will tide them over. The longer they wait, the more those half-rations will mean they can put one foot in front of other, keep their eyes open and not much else.
The Winter Soldier settles himself in the chair and finds that the look his partner gives isn't enough. No longer does it turn his core warm with an alien contentment and a feeling of temporary security that HYDRA will rightfully wipe away before cryo. Instead there is unease; wondering, maybe, what the Captain mistakenly thinks he sees in his partner when those blue eyes burn his way. His grip around the blanket draped around his shoulders tightens.
"Go to the SSR?"
The Winter Soldier repeats it and maybe a part of him assumes - hopes - that the Captain will see reason hearing the nonsense spoken aloud. Go to the SSR, he says. The same hostiles that had tried their damnedest to capture and compromise them...yes? Those ones? The only reason he could see this being acceptable is if the Captain knew something he didn't. Perhaps he knew of primary targets. Perhaps HYDRA had cleared him to know of such things. Men and women of high interest to HYDRA; names that he could share with the Winter Soldier, so that he may eliminate them from the equation permanently. And yet...the Winter Solder finds himself doubting this scenario. Too many variables. Too many questions allowed for his uncooperative partner.
Maybe this is as simple as he dreads: maybe this is a case of an asset going rogue after all.
The Winter Soldier shifts on his seat. "When? How? You have no idea if they haven't cleared out."
After all, they had just assaulted that base and then broken out of it in the same day, killing a respectable amount of SSR assets in the process. Surely the SSR would be fools to maintain such a compromised base.
That slight wrinkle of the nose sets off something in the Captain that makes his lips twitch involuntarily, almost like a muscle tic that's there and gone, the fleeting ghost of a smile that only high-speed film might catch. But it's there and gone, the same way there's this inexplicable burst of something in his chest that he doesn't let out, but might have been a laugh, a little surprised huff, if he'd been a normal man.
Neither of them are normal men, and the sound doesn't escape, even compromised as he is. Half-rations are not ideal. But it's that, or make a move, and this time, it's not a twitch of his lips but a tiny, tiny flick of the eyes, as the Captain suppresses the sudden, inexplicable urge to roll them.
The Winter Soldier's voice might be dull, but even with no inflection at all, he doesn't sound impressed.
"I don't," he confirms, when the Soldier goes over everything he doesn't know. Everything they don't know. Because they know very little. They've never been so completely on their own before, and it's as terrifying as it is liberating, and both of those feelings are at the same time foreign in equal measure.
But not knowing what they might meet isn't really a concern. They've been trained to handle myriad situations, as many shitstorms as their handlers and trainers and those people's handlers and trainers could come up with.
Funny, none of those scenarios had ever involved people recognizing the assets. Calling them by names.
Rogers and Barnes.
Why won't the echoes of those syllables leave him alone?
"It's not what they'll be expecting," he says, and there's something in his eyes, some light flashing behind them, some spark that's been dulled, and now it's not. Not anymore. "Whether they're there or not, they won't think we'll walk right back in. And that's why it's a good idea. They're either regrouping and vulnerable, or they left in a hurry and were sloppy. We might find something of value we didn't have time to check for before."
There's a long pause, after which the Captain shrugs his good shoulder and says, some strange lilt to his voice that's never been there before, "If you're worried, then stay here. Maintain this base, and I'll go do recon."
It's almost a challenge: If you're afraid, then stay here and wait for orders that will never come, while I go and find out what we're really up against.
The Winter Soldier cuts in almost as soon as the other asset finishes speaking.
"I must continue monitoring you for further degradation in your unstable state," the Soldier says, and it sounds almost like he's reciting from the HYDRA manual on enhanced assets. "You should know better."
It would have been a different matter if the Captain was his usual self: collected and dependable and there. But he isn't. So no, the Winter Soldier won't be maintaining the base as if nothing as changed. Since he can't trust his partner, he can't assume that "recon" will actually be recon at this point. Eyes locked on the other asset, the Soldier's grip on the blanket draped around his shoulder tightens as if he could squeeze the insubordination out of the other man just by sheer will power. This is more difficult than it has to be. If you just turned yourself in, HYDRA could fix you before it's too late.
He doesn't sigh. Bucky Barnes may have, years ago, but the man he is now only stills, tilts his head slightly to the side and down, the faintest of frowns tugging at his mouth.
This is unorthodox. It is a bad idea and yet he has no choice: HYDRA was very clear on who was the more valuable asset and even if the Captain is compromised, it is the Winter Soldier's responsibility - his duty - to see him brought back into the fold. There is only one of him, and the serum running in his blood is irreplaceable.
"When are we leaving?"
I figure we can skip ahead over the next tag or two if needed?
The Captain doesn't smirk. Not visibly. But it's there, just behind his eyes, in that secret language only the two assets speak. Gotcha.
"Then we go together," he confirms, because that's the preferred plan for so many reasons, even if he would have gone alone, if the other asset had truly balked.
The thing is, he knows what the Winter Soldier wants him to do. It's been trained into him nearly — although clearly not quite — as hard as the other: If the programming breaks down, if the drugs stop working, abort the mission and return to base. Return to HYDRA. Submit to recalibration. You are damaged and need to be repaired.
He'd believed that for so long, believed it like so much of the other training, the other procedures and protocols. He'd just never anticipated that being broken would feel so much better, even if it's in a strange, roundabout, backwards way. He feels like he's in the dark, feeling his way through a maze of spiderwebs and molasses, but he needs to keep going, keep wading through. There are answers, if he can just stay here long enough to look for them. Old protocols that he needs to know.
Just like needs to get back to that SSR base, to find whatever's there for him to find. For them to find.
He squints out the windows, frowns a little at the light, but, "Soon." The longer they stay here, the less stable things become. They've broken the trust between them, he can acknowledge that. But the longer they sit here and stew in it, the worse, he thinks. Action won't fix this, but it might stave off the rot that's seeping between them. Maybe something they find at that base will even repair it, somehow, even if he doesn't know how. He just knows that he thinks — hopes — that might be the case.
That's a foreign feeling. It almost makes him feel sick, the weird sharp stab of it: hope.
"I think we should go soon," he repeats. He picks up the next piece of the radio; there are precious few left on the table in front of him now. It's almost all back together. "Once I finish this, we can scan for communications. Give them a few hours. After that… we should go before it gets dark." The weather could turn again, and while they're both designed to survive much worse, neither is running at optimal capacity. His shoulder aches and grinds, stabs if he rotates it the wrong way. And the Soldier's arm might not get worse, now that it's been repaired, but it certainly won't get better. He doesn't want to waste much more time waiting for orders that, he thinks, will never come.
And even if they do… part of him knows he might not follow them.
"We should get cleaned up. Gather as much gear as is reasonable to carry. We might not come back here."
Never has the Winter Soldier had to bend to such insubordination.
He knows this in his gut, his core; in some part of him that feels right and true. If it wasn't the Captain, if it had been anyone else at all in HYDRA, even a handler, he knows what he would've done: sanction the weakness immediately and with extreme prejudice, an excision that would be quick as it was merciful, and he wouldn't have to think at all about the logistics of following a faulty asset back to the SSR facility. What might happen if they did/didn't find anything of note. The only reason he agrees is because the Captain's life is elevated above his in HYDRA's base protocol. A superior serum; a superior man. What the Winter Soldier is can be eventually replicated; perfected. His partner, however...now that is another thing entirely.
Maiming him was acceptable. Killing him, however? No. This asset is even more rare than he is.
The Captain issues new orders and the Winter Soldier pauses and then averts his eyes, looking at his feet so that he may steel himself for this...unorthodox change in plans.
By dawn they set out with what supplies they scrounged up from the mountain resort.
The supplies are respectable, actually, because even two injured super soldiers can easily carry more than the common man. As they work their way down the snow-covered road and divert into the wall of trees, the Winter Soldier isn't surprised to find that he is placed up front. That isn't out of the ordinary. Given that he is classed as less valuable than the Captain, it would make sense that he take point...under normal circumstances. Now he suspects that he takes point because the Captain wants to keep eyes on him and doesn't trust him to walk behind where he can't see. (A valid point).
The trip back to the SSR facility is mostly silent aside from the occasional crunch of boots against rock, snow and dead branches, the rasping whisper or grunt of two assets communicating. Loose rock here, the Winter Soldier grunts. Yeah, the Captain rumbles from behind him (out of arm's reach, he notices: as if he's keeping out of range of a possible knife or sharp object in the Winter Soldier's hand). Picking their way back takes time, but it is still quicker than their escape not long before. The Captain has had some time to recover from his gunshot, and he sets the pace, calls the shots. A reminder that the Winter Soldier now must be more mindful of that pull of rank, that voice of command, because the other asset is compromised and his usual rock-solid judgment can no longer be trusted. For once, to better HYDRA doesn't mean he has to follow his partner's orders.
Dusk looms as the Winter Soldier crouches down at the ridge, peering at the compound. They'd approached it from a different angle when he had sniped the guards and the Captain went in to get the rest. Somehow it seemed like a lifetime ago, although he knows it was only a day or two at most.
"No visible guards," the Soldier mutters, his eyelashes speckled with frost, his head tucked down as he grips against a hunk of rock and resists the urge to glance at his partner for guidance. "Maybe they cleared out."
The Captain wants to trust his fellow asset — but he knows better. He knows the Winter Soldier's every tic and tell, subtle though they are, and the Soldier is on guard. The Soldier is wary and untrusting, and the Captain doesn't like it, but he understands. And he has to work with what he's got, not what he wishes was the case.
So the Soldier goes first, as they walk. The Captain stays out of arms' reach. the shield carried on his bad arm, no matter the ache. He has to be ready for anything. And he has to hope that whatever they find at the base will bring the other asset around.
He steps silently up beside the Soldier, on his right side, the shield feeling like an impenetrable wall between them. But ahead lies something that feels like a beacon. He nods at the Soldier's assessment; he's correct, there are no guards in sight, no sounds or other signs of life coming from the building. That's good. The Captain doesn't believe in luck (does he?) but it seems to be on their side, nonetheless. An empty base is far better for infiltration and intel gathering than an occupied one. The would have had to clear out in a hurry, if it's truly deserted. That means they'd have had to prioritize what came with, and what didn't. That means they could have made mistakes.
Both bode well for learning more.
"Only one way to find out," the Captain says, after a moment of tense silence between them. He starts forward, footfalls still silent on the snow; whatever's affecting him, his training hasn't suffered for it. He's slow, steady, deliberate, and silent as a ghost, even with the ache and pull and occasional sharp grinding of his damaged shoulder socket. If anything, the pain serves to focus his attention, sharpen his senses, as he makes it up to the exterior wall of the building, slides along it to the closed blast doors, expecting that either the Soldier will follow, or he won't. They've come this far, though. He wants to believe his partner will appear, even if he knows he can't count on the Soldier to watch his back the way he might once have.
He hopes that will change, based on what they find inside.
He could simply smash the controls with the shield, but that would alert anyone left inside. Instead, he reaches for the handle depressed into one of the doors with his right hand and puts his back into it, something in his gut telling him that if power is down, the doors won't be sealed. His recollection of the base blueprints they studied ahead of time tells him these doors are normally electronically sealed. There's a second set of doors inside with a physical lock, but if this one gives, then they can smash the second ones without worrying.
It takes a moment, but the door gives under his strength, even as he feels the strain in his arm, his shoulder, his back. It gives, and slides smoothly, silently open. The compound beyond is silent and dark.
Now he looks over his shoulder to see whether the Soldier will actually follow him inside.
It has to hurt, straining that much to open the door. Unfortunately it doesn't hit that threshold, that moment of visible weakness, that would've had the Winter Soldier trying to jump his partner again just like back at the resort with the bleach. If he'd gone on his knees, if he'd cried out at the jolt of pain then maybe that chance would've been worth taking.
Not yet.
Maybe not for awhile.
The Winter Soldier has made a conscious effort to smooth his face more than usual on the trip here. The Captain is able to read him like no one else can and before that had been a benefit, something that had yielded favorable results. Now it can be turned against him. Suddenly he catches himself missing that mask muzzling him, the same one that had always been hot and muggy. It had, at least, helped to mask the micro-expressions that even a super soldier can't hide. Now with the Captain watching him and searching for clues of his cooperation running its course...well. Suddenly he has begun to wonder if that silent, secret language between them is such a good thing after all. Surely it isn't helping HYDRA.
With the door open, he has no choice but to follow the Captain inside.
They switch positions as their eyes acclimate to dim light filtering through the door that was forced open, the Winter Soldier leading as always. Chairs are overturned or scooted away from desks; filing cabinets with some drawers not entirely shut. There is a faint pull of some latent conditioning that he can feel in the back of his mind. HYDRA could find whatever's left useful, he thinks, and then he has to bodily force that down because the priority is the Captain. Nothing else matters as much as wrangling the other super soldier and getting him and the invaluable serum running through him back to base.
The Winter Soldier does find an abandoned flashlight sitting on one of the desks. Flicking it on, the Winter Soldier holds up his other hand, the silver dull with dust and faint scuff marks as he stiffly spreads his fingers to show that he is, indeed, unarmed. (He didn't grab that screwdriver half-hidden by the typewriter, that the Captain surely saw as well).
Still cooperating, the gesture says.
"Phone's dead," the Winter Soldier says after he stops and tests one, the receiver against his ear as he turns toward his partner's shadow. "Two options: clear the place together or separate."
Normally they would do this separately. But that was before the degradation of the Captain's programming and he assumes (knows) that the other asset won't allow him to wander off and accumulate weapons and resources, to have time to himself to booby-trap the place. If he was, especially in a place like this, it wouldn't be just bleach to the face. Someone like the Captain heals quickly and that's before HYDRA's best medical teams come into play. Still, a shame the phones don't work.
He can't ambush the Captain, yet, but if he can find a way of getting a message out, maybe it'd be possible to call in reinforcements to subdue him.
let me know if finding a body doesn't work for you and I can change that!
It would be so easy to slip back into trusting the Winter Soldier, the Captain thinks. So easy to pretend this is just a normal mission. Then he catches himself, wonders that he'd even had that thought at all. HYDRA's assets aren't prone to wishful thinking.
But they are so much more than HYDRA's assets, he's starting to believe. And that's why they're here at all. To learn what else they are, or were. Or could become.
It's clear the agents here left in a hurry. And that bodes well for finding more, he thinks, scanning the dim rooms slowly as his eyes acclimate, following the beam of the flashlight once the Winter Soldier flicks it on. There's a faint smile that wants to tug at the corners of his lips, at that gesture; he knows whatever truce they have is tenuous, and even calling it a truce might be too generous. The Winter Soldier is observing him, just as closely as they're scouring this base. They're no longer an unshakable team. Now, the Captain is nothing more than an unknown quantity. He knows it must chafe at the Soldier; the widening divide that feels like it's opened between them chafes at the Captain, too. He misses trusting his partner. He misses the rock-solid foundation they'd once had. He believes they can have that again. And maybe it doesn't have to be through HYDRA.
But he needs to know more.
"Together," he says, and his voice is wry as he says it. Of course it would make more sense to move separately. But neither can trust the other. And without orders, they have all the time they need. There's no rush. They're as safe and secure in this abandoned base as they are anywhere. "I want to find the infirmary. Where they kept us." It seems like a good place to start, a place where there might be records on them that are easy to access.
They come across the first body down a long hallway; it's a handler, one of their handlers, dressed in black tac gear and sprawled face-down in a long-congealed pool of her own blood. There's something about seeing a handler, dead, harmless, that feels strangely good. Like a relief. The Captain glances to the Soldier, wondering if he feels the same way. If he'll even be able to read anything off his face. "What a stupid way to die," the Captain mutters, because the whole mission by that point was a mess. He's not sure if he regrets the loss so much as feels disdain for the poor planning. Maybe both. "Do you want to check her for a radio?"
The question is almost a dare; he'd bet anything the answer is yes, but he wonders if the Soldier will actually say it.
all cool! I'm game if Bucky keeps side-eyeing Steve.
The chill seeping into the place means the body hasn't had a head-start on decomposition.
He recognizes the handler. She - it - was one of his, he realizes. A new one with the same last name as previous handler that he was authorized to see the file, to remind him that this man had watched him train against other HYDRA assets years, decades ago: like father like daughter, except this handler died in the field while her dad wasted away in some luxury retirement home. He pauses to stare down at the woman's body with his head cocked to the side, just like an animal seeing something new out in the field that wasn't there yesterday. What happens is the Soldier comes to the conclusion he feels nothing. This changes nothing. A corpse can't issue orders and she definitely can't order him back to the damned chair. She isn't a threat. She isn't anything now, no matter how much the directives pull and tug.
If he's glad to see she's dead, it doesn't register on his face.
After a second the Winter Soldier's chin lifts and his flat blue eyes slide over to his partner.
"Yeah."
It was a stupid way to die (fact) and of course he does want to check for the radio even if he knows he's being watched (fact). He does say it. Because they both know a radio is invaluable and not saying it will only arouse the Captain's suspicion through any silence. His jaw sets, a muscle in his cheek tightening as teeth clamp down and grit against each other.
Bending down, the Winter Soldier searches the dead handler, his hands probing with about as much care as if he was checking any old hostile on the field. A dead handler is just a liability loaded with possible ammunition, other resources. He comes up with whatever he thinks is worth taking. The radio, slightly tacky with blood. A forged ID to go along with the money that the SRR hasn't taken. If he was the SRR, he would've fully stripped all bodies for anything like this, but:
"They might've cleared out in a hurry," the Winter Soldier rasps, still on his knees next to the dead woman. "If she's dead, the others probably are too...but we should confirm."
His good hand grips the radio almost possessively - he'll wonder if the Captain wants to wrestle it from him - but other than that, he looks almost harmless, his tangled hair half in his face, and his blue eyes seem to lose focus, to stare vacantly past the corpse until he remembers where he is, and then his gaze snaps back for a moment, sharp, there.
The Captain stands watch while the Soldier checks the body. The corridors are quiet, cold, there's been no movement and no sign of life since they entered, but they both of them know better than to let down their guard. He knows this can't make up the distance between them, but he stands watch anyway, eyes moving around the hallway, checking back the way they came, the direction they have yet to go.
Then they land back on the Soldier when he speaks again. "Looks like they did," he confirms, because everything they've found so far seems to indicate that. Including the handler, with all her gear apparently still intact. He offers the other a short nod. "We will." He has no doubt there will be more bodies, especially the deeper into the complex they go. He wonders if all their handlers are dead. He wonders what he'll feel if they are. If they aren't.
He watches the Soldier clutch the radio like something precious, and the truth is, he has no real desire to take it away. Not… just to take it. But there is a curl of something in his stomach, at the idea that the Soldier might use it to call for backup. At what will happen, if they reach someone on the other end, if handlers and recovery teams are sent it.
There will be pain and torture and punishment for them both. And there is something in the Captain that balks at ever going back to that again. At ever sending his Soldier back into that again.
Their eyes meet, and the Captain lets out the smallest, barest hints of a sigh. "I won't take it," he says, because he wants to, but he won't. This is… trust. An olive branch. It might be slapped away and stepped on, ground beneath a heel, but it's there. Instead, he reaches out a hand that's tilted not upward, but sideways — a clear sign that he intends to simply help the Soldier to his feet. If he'll take it.
"We should keep going," he says, gaze finally resting in the direction they'd been headed. "The infirmary was in the central regions of the building, based on the schematics." Schematics they both saw. "I think we'll find what we want there." Whether it's information, or more handlers, more agents, he doesn't know. They'll just have to find out.
He waits for the Soldier to take up his position again, point the flashlight, and they keep going, deeper into the building. He can feel the other's eyes on him, skittering there and away, like he doesn't know what to expect. Maybe he doesn't, not anymore. They pass two more bodies in the next hall — SSR agents this time, plainclothes with simple handguns. Not guards or security; they must have been caught unawares. The Captain sinks down to examine the bodies this time, to take the weapons and search them for ammunition. He comes up with an extra clip for one, but the nothing for the second. He checks them, and holds out the one with more ammunition left to the Soldier, planning to keep the second and the clip for himself. A slight advantage in one sense, a disadvantage in another. It will even them out. A bit. If that matters.
The Captain should have taken the radio - wrestled it away by force if needed, broken a finger or two if needed, and then reset it later with the knowledge that the accelerated healing will deal with the worst of the damage.
But he doesn't...even though he makes it damn clear that he knows what the Winter Soldier is thinking.
A lapse in the Captain's judgment, maybe. But he'll take it and the radio will be tucked safely away where it'll be harder to get to: fastened inside a small leather pocket, with a clasp that would slow down the Captain for a critical split second if he changed his mind about this olive branch. After a moment's hesitation that he would've never made before this...incident, the Winter Soldier finally accepts the Captain's hand even if his own grip is tight enough to hurt, as if he's instinctively preparing to face off against another super soldier that he knows, vaguely, that he can't physically match if push came to shove. The other man's deteriorating mental state and his gun shot may tip the scales, though, and he'll come to his feet, assuming his usual position, but he'll be glancing at the Captain more closely than he used to.
Keep going. Investigate the infirmary where they were kept.
That part is acceptable, because whatever was there, he knows he needs to file it away and report it back to HYDRA. To his handlers. A more solid goal than how to deal with the Captain's discrepancies.
"Fine," the Winter Soldier grunts, almost under his breath.
They're going in the same direction and for whatever reason, he has a tool on him that he didn't have before. The radio works. He can use it once he's in a secure location. Given his partner's abilities, that could be awhile to find one, but he only needs a few minutes out of sight.
Now they travel deeper. A few more bodies sprawled in rigor-mortis, glassy eyes starring at nothing. Old, drying blood so dark it's almost blackened by now. Naturally he pauses at this speedbump, watching as the Captain assesses and he'll be surprised to find that he's given more ammunition. Valuable, of course. Not useful if he can't get far enough from the Captain to actually shoot him in his non-vitals, but still. The Winter Soldier takes any possible advantage and he'll feel up the corpse and he'll come up with the ammunition his partner left and a pockmarked, rusted pocket knife that looks so old that it's probably not standard-issue: probably a sentimental item, and he'll wonders if it's dulled. The blade won't even release, and he assumes the Captain must've already found it.
Eventually they find themselves in the infirmary. The lights are flickering on some dying, sputtering generator, casting jittering shadows of overturned trays and needles, on the two gurneys with their straps hanging free. Dark splatters of blood where the SSR agents had been killed by the Captain. The bodies, however, are missing here: removed because this was ground zero, in a way.
The Winter Solder glances around with his eyes narrowed, waiting for his vision to adjust to the dim light, and he can see that more changed here: the partition between the gurneys has been shoved to the side, and each shelf is gaping open, as if someone did a quick grab of anything that wasn't bolted to the floor. The fact the corpses were each removed here is also striking.
"They didn't leave the blood samples," he confirms after a few minutes, locating the case and the slots where HYDRA's asset samples should've been. A silver finger plays across the foam surface as he depresses it slightly, then glances up at the dark glint of a camera lens in the corner. "And they likely took any footage with them too."
The infirmary's flickering lights remind the Captain suddenly, viscerally, of the chair, of the way it makes his mind stutter until he can't connect one thought, one memory, to another. But here, now, he remembers — remembers taking out the agents, spilling their blood, even if the bodies aren't here. Remembers the gurney, remembers freeing the Soldier, remembers how things were and how he wants them to be again. He wants the Soldier's trust and loyalty back, feels that want twist in his stomach in a way that's not familiar. They're not supposed to want, of course. But he does, now, breaking down as he is. He wants so badly he can taste it.
He stands watch in the doorway as the Soldier moves through the room, nods at the unsurprising discovery that the blood is gone.He doesn't care about the blood. He doesn't care about the footage.
His eyes land on a row of filing cabinets, standing against the far wall. They appear, at least, undisturbed, and maybe they contain what he cares about: information. Information about them, about Rogers and Barnes, maybe. About who they used to be. Who they're supposed to be. He makes his way toward the drawers, pulling open the first one while angling his body so as not to put his back to the room (or the Soldier). He wants to trust, but by now he knows better than that.
He starts rifling through the contents, slow and methodical, even as his mouth opens and he finds himself asking, "Why?"
Of course, the question isn't overly clear. He clarifies as he continues to search, eyes skimming the labels: "Why do you want to go back to them so badly? Why do you want to take me back?"
If the Winter Soldier has that same gut reaction to the lights, he doesn't show it - his face is blank, almost too blank for it to be subconscious.
He busies himself with investigating the room, glancing up when he senses movement from his partner and confirms that he's interested in something else: the cabinets he had noted the other day, more as just part of the scenary than anything else. What they contained hadn't been a priority, necessarily. They were supposed to secure the compound of all hostiles. Anything after that was secondary, best left to the handlers and their teams backing them up. That data concerns them, just as threat eradication is supposed to concern the two assets. Frankly, it's never once occurred to the Winter Soldier to glance at something like a cabinet and actually think about opening it without a direct order. The confirmation that the thought's crossed the Captain's mind has him turning, stilling for a second.
"Why" should never, never be a question in their vocabulary. It shouldn't be said. It shouldn't even be thought.
But here it is.
"Protocol," the Winter Soldier says quietly, stiffly. What kind of question is this? "We were supposed to carry out the mission and report back. Even if we didn't hit the time table, we still need to carry it out. You're a high value asset - you need to be back on base."
The specifics are a little more complicated. The main one is because they were ordered to, because the Winter Soldier can hear an order and it seeps into his core, feels urgent, right. You do what you are ordered to, no ifs ands or buts. It makes perfect sense. The Captain is a valuable asset, arguably more valuable than him. Therefore it makes sense to ensure he's returned - willingly or unwillingly - so that HYDRA can continue to utilize his irreplaceable skillset.
The Winter Soldier remembers to turn his face away, although he's watching his partner from his peripheral.
"You know this. So why ask?"
Even with the...discrepancies, the Captain has to know this baseline. Doesn't matter the corruption running through those misfiring neurons. HYDRA"s bottom line: an asset must serve the cause and not all assets are equal. It makes sense that the Captain needs - must - return. The Winter Soldier stills, and he'll take a step closer, aware that his left prosthesis needs maintenance. Not yet within striking distance, but the question the Captain posed is important - a zero sum question, the kind he was asked in the embrace of the chair, listening to the suppression arc humming and read to sear rational thought away.
The Captain knows the protocol, yes. Knows what he's supposed to do, what they're supposed to do, and knows this isn't it. Knows exactly how much it irks the Soldier — and more, how much it grates, how much it, dare he think it, frightens the Soldier — to be questioned, to see his fellow asset go so far off mission, off task, off orders. But the orders are also breaking down, crumbling before his eyes, and there's no foundation beneath them. They're like a hollow wall of stone, that seems impregnable but turns out to have no support at all, once you can chip away at the surface, make the smallest of holes to see that nothing lies inside.
But why is he asking?
"Because —" The Captain pauses, wondering for a second why he is asking. What he wants to know. Why he so desperately wants names for the uncomfortable, tugging feelings inside him, why he wants to keep feeling them when they hurt in this strange, burrowing way, digging deeper like they're carving out the calm, empty spaces of him and lodging themselves there instead.
"If there was no protocol," he says, slowly, gaze apparently on his fingers flicking through the folders, but the Soldier's figure is always at the corner of his eye, never unobserved. Never quite out of his sphere of awareness. "Or if that wasn't the protocol, if you had no orders regarding me. What would you do then?"
He lets out a quiet breath, the closest an asset can come to a sigh, and shuts the drawer again. There's nothing useful here. No records or information that tells him more about who they were. Maybe he was foolish to hope for it, to think anyone would have left anything of use behind; but maybe he's still foolish, because he pulls open the next drawer, lower down, which sticks and squeaks and groans as he forces the hinges to move through age and rust and dust. This drawer hasn't been opened recently. Maybe it will hold something for him.
It shouldn't matter if there is no protocol. If there isn't, then he awaits them and if they don't come, then he assumes there must be protocols he isn't classified to know and act on. As the Captain speaks, his own face becomes increasingly flat, closing off even more, if that's possible. Yes, he can tell he's still being watched and no, that isn't the problem. The questions. All these questions, apparently rattling around in his partner's head when they shouldn't be.
The Winter Soldier's chapped lips purse into that thin, almost disapproving line - an expression that he doesn't seem to be aware he's making sometimes, when he's especially distracted. That small muscle in the corner of his jaw? It's tightened, almost ticking.
"...I don't think about these what-ifs," the Soldier grits between his teeth. There would always be orders if the other asset is involved. "No point getting hung up on it. Wouldn't go rogue if that's what you're asking."
It's the most conversational he's been in a long time, each unwilling word dragged out with a rasp as if he'd prefer to be silent.
He couldn't remember the last time he talked as much as he has the last couple of days.
The Winter Soldier turns away, although not enough that he can't always keep the unstable Captain in his peripheral. What kind of question was that? It doesn't make sense, at the core of it. The Captain has to know the answer: it should have been drilled into him that he is too valuable to allow outside of HYDRA and that he's also too valuable to be simply executed. That it has never mattered why they should return, only that they do and they never, ever give reason for the handlers to second-guess their commitment.
He moves away to check an overturned cart which gives him a better view of the rusted cabinet that's got the Captain's attention. From here he can see some old, yellowed files, their edges curling with age. Some of the handwriting is faded, illegible from here.
The Captain's mouth thins into a like. It's not what he's asking, no. Not necessarily. He wants the Soldier to think for himself, more than the parameters of the given mission allow. He knows it must be a delicate balance for HYDRA — maintaining assets that can adapt quickly, use their unique skillsets, make decisions in the field, but without breaking free of their protocol and orders. Without getting too independent. It's why there are always handlers, he thinks — well. One of many reasons, probably. But, given his regular injections and treatments… it's got to be a major reason.
But there are no handlers now, and the injections didn't work. He's stepped far outside their protocols, and he doesn't know how to pull the Soldier with him, and it's this growing, unhappy ball of distress down in the pit of his stomach, as he thumbs through old, yellowed folders, hard copies of — He pulls one out. They're medical records. Old. This one is dated 1944.
There's something about those numbers, lined up as they are, that gets his attention. That hooks into his brain like a fishing line and tugs. He pulls it out, pages through the folder, so old that the manila is fragile and crackling, the pencil marks on the papers smudged and faded. His eyes skim over the report, but… it's not what he wants. He shoves it back into the drawer and pulls out another, a few files back.
This one is dated a year earlier. He opens it, eyes skimming over the list of names, injuries, treatments, recommendations —
And catch on Barnes, Sergeant J.B. with all the force of running headfirst into a brick wall.
He doesn't answer the Soldier's question, which should probably be answer enough. He's even stopped watching the other asset out of the corner of his eye. His entire focus, just for a moment, is on this sheet of paper, with that name shining like a beacon, stinging like a slap to the face. His eyes skim the columns, note the injury was apparently a bullet graze to the side, barely in and out, with first aid in the field administered by —
By Rogers, Captain S.G.
… his hands were shaking, he remembers. His hands were shaking as they packed the wound with gauze, and there was a voice, low and smooth and calm, for all that it was tight with pain, saying, "It's fine, pal, it's nothing. We both know I've walked away from worse. And besides, you got the bastards, so it's all settled. They ain't walking away from this like we are…"
His hands are shaking now, he realizes; he doesn't know where the Soldier is, doesn't know how long he's been lost in his thoughts (only seconds), and his head snaps up, eyes wide, looking to clock the other asset.
So he found something. Something that actually has dragged his full attention away, something that the Captain has been very, very careful never to do around him - he knows that doing so is a tactical error, that the Winter Soldier has been conditioned to take an inch if it's presented to him. All that matters is finding the right opening, the right weapons and tools to incapacitate his partner and drag him, mostly in one piece, back to HYDRA where they both belong. Now was tempting...but he needed to see what it was that had distracted the Captain like this, taken his focus in a way that all the conditioning and rounds in the chair hadn't.
He doesn't - can't - remember everything. Not if the suppression chair and its techs do their job. Somehow there's this vague feeling he can't shake, this idea that he hasn't seen the other man freeze up like this. Hasn't seen him so open, not even when he was quivering in the chair restraints.
Need to see what he found.
This close he can see the way the other man's hands tremble. When his eyes dart up, he'll find the Winter Soldier has gotten closer and closer, almost within striking range even though his hands are at his side and there don't appear to be anything sharp in them. No, he can't risk stabbing the Captain and getting blood on the delicate folders, the old sheaf of paper. This isn't the window he's looking for. Not yet.
This isn't curiosity, he thinks, but a need to see what was in the file and commit it to memory, so that he can report back to HYDRA what had shocked even the Captain into forgetting his surroundings.
"You found something," the Winter Soldier says flatly. He doesn't demand the folder; he doesn't need to. "If it's classed as critical, then I need eyes on it."
Because you can't be trusted to compile an accurate report hovers between the lines.
He holds out his cybernetic hand, the prosthesis's metal palm glinting dully in what little light they have in the room. They're close enough that if he had wanted to, he could have taken that opportunity to make another pass at the other asset...but he didn't. His eyes, pale and blue and always either focused or glazed over with exhaustion and fear, lock onto the Captain and he barely seems to blink. The air, cold, stale, hangs heavier now as if the room itself is holding its breath.
Once the Captain has torn his gaze away from the file, his blue eyes finally pick up on and follow the Winter Soldier as he approaches. They flick down to the outstretched hand, glinting dully in the sad excuse for lighting down here, then back up to his face. The Captain's hands might still be shaking, minutely, but his expression is calm. Almost slack.
There's a frozen moment where he doesn't move, doesn't speak. Then he closes the file neatly and hands it over without a word. His hands fall to his sides, deceptively calm again, and his body is still and solid, no sign that he's distressed or that he'll make any kind of a move at all. He's waiting, now. He wants to see what happens when the Soldier flips open the file and reads the report for himself. Wants to see whether the same trigger words — they must have been trigger words, the names, maybe something else, something he didn't even comprehend reading — knock something loose inside the Soldier, too.
His own mind feels like this big, empty space with only that one burst of sudden images and sounds and feelings to fill it. He wonders, suddenly, if it's a real memory, or an implanted one. If this is a test. This… can't be a test, can it? It's too big. Too complex, too involved. The Soldier is too on edge, he thinks. Too unhappy. If this were a test, something both of them are familiar with to their bones, then it wouldn't feel so much like diving into uncharted territory.
If this were a test, the Soldier would be passing. The Captain would be failing. He knows that without a doubt, by now. But even if this were a test… he doesn't think he wants to pass any more of HYDRA's tests, anymore.
He can't start second-guessing everything now. He's committed to a path. He won't turn back. Which means, he thinks, that it might be a real memory. From a real life. Of being a real man. Before HYDRA.
They both were real men, before HYDRA. The question is, he supposes, whether they ever could be again.
He takes a silent, sharp breath of cold, dusty air through his nose and turns all his attention to the Winter Soldier. All that matters now is how the other asset reacts to the file. At that thought, there's a tiny sliver of something, shining in the back of his mind. The Captain doesn't — can't — recognize it yet as hope, but that's what it is, nonetheless.
The Winter Soldier's cybernetic fingers curl over it as he takes it, pivots away so it's harder to snatch away if his partner changes his mind, and then he stalks several paces away: enough to be able to read it in the meager lighting, far enough that he can react if he spots any sign of tactically-questionable movement from the Captain. Unfortunately HYDRA hasn't mastered implementing night-vision modifications. Even the Winter Soldier can't see in full darkness, and so there's a limit to how far he can scoot to read the file and also keep his peripheral vision on his former(?) partner.
He reads. Quickly. Eyes flick side to side, down, side to side. Repeat.
Names.
Old photos that he squints at and the Winter Soldier comes to the conclusion that they likely aren't forgeries. The two Assets were men with another life, another rank. Another name. Maybe not proof, but a question, at least, to where they both came from, who they where before HYDRA. He gazes down at the weathered folders contents and goes still, aware that he's being watched by the Captain - by this man who was once called "Rogers". The Winter Soldier's hair hangs in a dark, matted curtain and he's once again faintly glad it hides the bulk of his facial expressions. When his head lifts, he's done his best to mask his face into a neutral expression.
"This doesn't change things. Who we were doesn't matter," the Soldier says quietly. "HYDRA made us productive."
He adds that as if it explains everything. HYDRA gave them purpose whether they wanted it or not. This appears to be obvious. However, for the first time in a long, long while, it occurs to the Winter Soldier that suppression techniques have varying effectiveness between assets: what will turn his own mind and desires into a flatline clearly haven't had the same effect on another man. It should, in theory. It hasn't, in reality.
The Soldier is still holding onto the file with his head tilted toward his partner as he studies him through his tangled hair.
"We had names before," the Winter Soldier says - admits, grudgingly - and he goes on, as if trying to ignore that detail that's inconvenient to HYDRA. "Every asset around us has. You know this."
Maybe not every asset had those names dragged away by the Chair, but still.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Unaware that he's doing the very un-HYDRA sin of "grasping at straws" - that he shouldn't even be indulging in it - the Winter Soldier instead studies his partner, eyes slightly narrowed. The silence is punctuated by the crackle and pop of the fireplace. The jerky hum of his cybernetic fingers as they jerk open and shut as he tests the range of motion available to him. Some of the joints click. Soft but he can hear it. But it's better than before, better than being the amputee he was before HYDRA must have took him in, and he decides it's fine. After all, the alternative was no functioning prosthesis. Or the Captain strangling him while he was unconscious. Easier choices. Neater. The tools click down against the table. The Winter Soldier watches his partner (former partner)? - set down the tools, one by one, as if they're made of glass. An unconscious, soft sigh escapes out of him, betrayed only by his shoulders slipping down from where they'd hunched up. As if he'd been preparing to charge the other super soldier head on. As if he's still surprised by the Captain's newfound softness.
"...Fine."
There's something unspoken here. Something beyond the voiceless comfort that they've received the same intel, the same HYDRA-approved flash training burning into their retinas.
For once in his life, the Winter Soldier can't say for certain if he trusts his old partner. There are invisible orders now. Either the Captain is defective or...or maybe the Winter Soldier is the defective one. He's failed somehow, somewhere. Whatever the case is, he isn't in the know now. He's not on the same page. It happens. But it'd always happened to lesser HYDRA assets: rank and file soldiers, agents, spies. Not him. His mouth flattens into a thin, almost bloodless line that ages him. Did he go wrong somewhere? Did he fail to make the cut?
...Why didn't he get the chance to prove that he was still the soldier HYDRA wanted him to be?
Why does it sound like the Captain will go on without him?
"Okay. I'll rest." There's an open hesitation even as he pulls his repaired arm back to him, cradling it against his chest as if the Captain broke it for no reason. As if he hadn't been, say, defending himself from bleach being poured down his eyes and throat. "Are you going to lock my door? Do you have restraints?"
The Captain should. If he has a shred of HYDRA still alive in him, he would lock him up. Stuff him in a closet and barricade it. It's what they've both done on missions with...uncooperative assets. It would be expected. Maybe a part of him might even appreciate conforming to to the expected standards that he can see aren't set in stone anymore. The Winter Soldier hasn't figured out if he'd be irritated that the Captain couldn't give him that much. Mostly he's staring at the other soldier, still holding his partially-repaired arm hugged close to him with his good hand as if that could stop anyone from taking it away. Now he shifts backward. Shoulders square. But it's defensive, expectant. Almost submissive; as submissive as a genetically engineered asset can get these days.
Following HYDRA's script seems to fill the void. A stop-gap, really: a brief moment to focus on procedure instead of the Captain's inconsistencies.
no subject
But he has to. He really does worry - doubt - that HYDRA's plan might not be… right.
And yet still, it hurts, to see that betrayal in the line of the Soldier's shoulders, the depths of his eyes. He agrees to the Captain's suggestion, but he doesn't sound happy about it, and that hurts, too.
At the question, he frowns; "I have restraints," he admits, but, "Do you believe they're necessary?"
He isn't sure, suddenly, whether the Soldier is asking because he expects to be restrained, or asking because he doesn't want to be restrained. The Captain is sure, though, that he doesn't want to restrain the Soldier again. He doesn't want to lock him away, he wants to sleep together, in the same location, shoulder to shoulder like they should be able to, because they should be able to trust each other. They should be able to look out for one another. They should have exactly the same goals.
But they don't. That much is clear, because the Soldier threw bleach in the Captain's face, and the Captain has already restrained the Soldier once. That trust is broken - but it doesn't have to be.
Something in the Captain knows that actions speak louder than words. It's why they're punished again and again, why HYDRA is so brutally physical with them, even after the chair and the drugs. It's because the body remembers, even when the mind can't. There's something bone-deep about action that can never, ever be forgotten.
If he wants to rebuild that trust - if he wants to show the soldier it's still there - then he needs to act like it. "I don't believe I need to restrain you. I believe we've come to an understanding," he says, looking right at the Soldier as he says it, eyes searching out their counterpart in the other's face, voice quiet and steady and sure. "We both need to rest. We'll rest together. No restraints. Like before. We're a unit, and we'll act like one."
He gets up, then, to go raid their small stash of supplies. There are blankets, there, and it's not exactly warm in here, no matter the steps they've taken to make it more livable. He knows that the blood loss, his own injured arm, make him more vulnerable to the cold, too. There is not shame in protecting himself from the cold, he thinks - even as some part of him balks like it never has before, at being hurt. This isn't the same feeling, the vague displeasure of a mission gone wrong, of being disabled. This is… different. This is more raw, somehow. This is almost indignance. Anger at himself, at his circumstances, even when that anger is useless. Still, he feels it - just like he feels the pull toward the Soldier, and the need to trust him. To earn his trust in between.
"We'll sleep out here. Together," he finally says, lifting the blankets one-handed and returning to where the Soldier is sitting. "Better sight lines, with the windows." They can adjust the furniture to hide their bodies, if someone looks in from the outside.
had some slight godmoding, lemme know if I should change anything
It's that doubt that stops him from immediately planning on the Captain's murder.
It would be clean if he can manage it. But it could also go against HYDRA's grand scheme and the truth of the matter is that he hasn't been cleared for it. It's always been like that. The Winter Soldier is cleared just enough to complete a mission and nothing more. He'd been weaker; he'd known, in the back of his mind, that he was the backup compared to the Captain. The weak link. If things had progressed as his training said it should, he would've been imprisoned and restrained according to protocol. Not treated like a POW who wasn't regarded as a threat, who wasn't worth the resources, the energy to even shove into a locked cell. It glares before him, distracting. For a split second the Winter Soldier's weakness is plastered on his face, a flash that lights up his dead blue eyes before he drops them stubbornly to the worn carpet at his feet.
"Foolish," he mutters, but it's half-hearted. Unsure in a way he hasn't sounded before.
His eyes come up as the Captain comes back with blankets. As if in a hazy dream, the Winter Soldier automatically stands to shift the furniture around, moving the loveseat just so. He does it with the assumption that he's a prisoner under the watch of a guard - a highly trained guard - but the truth is, it's muscle-memory. He does it because it's familiar, because at least he has control, he understands what he's doing. Because fixing the sight lines is something he can agree on, no matter what has happened to the Captain's new objectives. Because this is a brief break from the questions, from wondering who, exactly, is the defective one.
That doesn't last long. After all, there's only so long a man can drag out fixing sight lines with a limited amount of furniture.
Eventually he has to cave. He lies down, slowly, mindful of his repaired arm. The wrongness of his freedom glares. It gets even worse when he can feel the Captain settling next to him, draping the blankets around them, and it almost - for a split second - feels like all those times they had shared body warmth in the field. Except it isn't the same, it isn't...
And that's where he drifts off to sleep. There's a limit to the stressors a super soldier can take and he falls back into the welcome, thoughtless void of sleep after a point, before he can decide if he should make another pass at incapacitating the man next to him. He sleeps...well, surprisingly. No jolting awake. No choking on bile or blood from missions he can't remember. When the Winter Soldier wakes up, the room is lighter than before, a dim gray to hint at the morning sunlight hitting the resort's dated curtains. His back and limbs ache (clearly he didn't twist in his sleep to relieve blood pressure) and when he lifts his head, he can see that the blankets are rumpled. The Captain beat him to wakefulness.
He also didn't wake him like he used to.
Sitting up, the Winter Soldier clenches the blankets close. He isn't cold, but right now he's aware of grabbing at anything that could be a potential tool, a weapon. His hand unconsciously gropes to his side and oh, yeah: disarmed. Of course he doesn't have that familiar weight of his SMG or his knife at his side. Gone. Confiscated by the SSR. He'll sit up to see the Captain awake and standing a good distance away, hunched over something that looks like a disemboweled radio with its guts spilled all over.
"Any news?" he rasps. His hand comes up to scrub at his eyes, fingers curled into a silver fist. Can't tell if he wants to know where the news comes from, but anything is better than being in the dark.
THE LATEST TAG holy crap /o\
Eventually he falls asleep, too — and he dreams. He dreams in strange, sepia tones tainted with blood and watercolor paint. He dreams of fighting a war like he's never fought for HYDRA, not cloaked in black and blood but covered in bright colors, a target — a symbol, a banner waved in front of the troops instead of a shadow behind the scenes. It's utterly foreign and yet intimately familiar. He looks to his right and the Asset is there, only his face is different — determined and serious as always, yes, but… young. Wry. His short hair ruffles in the breeze and his rifle glints in the sun and he is always, always there, they are always together —
Until they're not. And when the Captain sits bolt upright in the thin, early light of dawn, he knows in the core of himself that the thing that pulled them apart was HYDRA. It tore them to pieces and then put them back together, only it was like a puzzle where the pieces are all assembled wrong, so the picture isn't the same and the way each piece interlocks with the next isn't quite right. HYDRA broke them and rebuilt them and tried to wipe out the original picture, to warp the way they're supposed to fit, only now he's remembering. It's being slowly scratched away, like taking a chisel to a piece of marble and revealing the form underneath. There's the shell of what they are… and the core of it. HYDRA is concerned only with the shell, but now he knows there's something more underneath.
He glances at the Soldier, still asleep beside him; without waking the other, he carefully extricates himself from the blankets and stands for a moment, trying to rotate his stiff, aching shoulder, to determine how bad the damage still is, if it's ongoing or static. There's a sharp pain - the bullet digging into bone and muscle - every time he rotates it too far in one direction or the other. It makes him blanche and the worst of it makes him almost nauseous, so he tucks the arm back against himself and silently makes his way through the lodge, checking the fire (dying, so he feeds it several more logs), the perimeter (secure), the weather (still bad), their supplies (decent, if uninspired). It's then that he finds the old radio in a back room, shoved onto a shelf where it's gathering dust. It's just a receiver, meant to pick up the local stations, but he brings it back to the main room, sets it on a table and begins methodically dismantling it, cleaning each piece with a soft cloth he found in the kitchen, setting them out on the table like he's building a three-dimensional schematic of the thing from the inside out.
His mind is still buzzing, but the task, somehow, helps to keep that buzzing just below the surface. It feels like if he tries too hard, that's when the headaches and confusion come. If he lets his mind sort itself out… maybe that's when the picture, still blurry, will become clear.
He glances up at the sound of the the Soldier's voice, lips twitching up into a wry little smile at the sight of him wiping the sleep from his eyes. He never was a morning person, always preferring to sleep in unless he had an early shift at -
At the…
"No," he says, after a beat or two too long. "At least - not yet." He's got all the parts laid out and cleaned, now, and he slowly starts putting each one back, reassembling the radio in the exact reverse order that he took it apart, mind easily supplying the next step to take, the place where each piece fits. He wishes it were that easy when he looked at the Soldier, when he thought about his own past. "But if we can get this to turn on when it's back together, we might be able to tune it to the right frequency." Especially because he's adjusted the receiver and the dial, so it will pick up stations it was never meant to tune into.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, eyes on his work, trying to give nothing about the turmoil still wracking his mind.
maybe I matched you in late tags - had trouble with Bucky's writing voice
It's too open of an expression - nothing like the little stolen micro-expressions between them, like a secret language only the two of them know. The smile might be tiny for the average person, but to the Winter Soldier, it's too much. Too human. If a handler could see it, then it's unacceptable. Anyone could see that discrete look on his partner's face and read him. Yet another reminder that this isn't the Captain he had known for years, who he would have without thought thrown his life down to ensure that the superior asset survives. Unease, nameless, clawing, tugs at the Winter Soldier.
His blue eyes avert and fix on the radio's gutted parts spread before the other asset.
It's almost a relief to know that the Captain hasn't made contact. Who might be listening on the other end? What trigger words could be whispered? What did he mean, exactly, when he said right frequency?
"Functional," the Winter Soldier replies, tone curt even for him.
He'll pretend to wander off, as if that radio isn't bothering him. A mistake. Should have realized that thing would be a threat before this, but he'd allowed himself to be distracted by the Captain's injuries, let himself grow soft at the idea of actually executing the other asset before he became the glaring problem he is now. If they get back to HYDRA, the "re-education" will be thorough and, maybe, deserved for once. Never has the Winter Soldier failed like this.
If he had just been quicker with the bleach...
"We have food for a few days - less, as you have another mouth to feed," the Winter Soldier adds.
As the Captain seems determined to keep his fellow asset alive, despite the fact he had tried to poison him, he assumes he wants to make sure he doesn't starve or dehydrate. Their accelerated metabolisms means that food that would've lasted two normal men several weeks will only last days at best. Going off into the ice cold wilderness isn't optimal, but anything is better than allowing the Captain to continue fooling around with that radio, continuing to get ideas. Besides, maybe he might have another chance to incapacitate his partner in the forest, when the temperature drops, when his addled mind makes a grave misstep.
The thought is...promising.
If he was more self-aware, he would've said it even cheered him up.
Now the Winter Soldier settles himself on a chair that is a respectable distances from the Captain, and he'll even allow the other asset to see that his hands are empty. Look, no weapons. Just a blanket draped around faintly shivering shoulders. He hasn't gone for the bleach or dug around in the fireplace for any embers or chunks of wood to use as a weapon. In short, he's behaving. A model prisoner.
No worries at alllll
"If you're concerned, we'll go to half-rations." It's not ideal, they both burn a lot of calories, but it won't be the first time they've gone hungry. He's… sure of that, somehow, even though he can't pinpoint when it had last happened. It doesn't matter, really. It could have been any one of hundreds, thousands of reasons. Punishment. Long missions that went sideways. Extended waits for extraction.
Poverty…?
But whatever the reason, they have plentiful water, given all the snow outside. That's most important. The human body can survive for far longer with only water than only food. Or neither.
The Captain finally glances up at the sound of the Soldier settling himself into a chair. There's a weird, tight smile that tugs at the corners of his lips for an eyeblink, and then his attention goes back to the radio. It's coming together, piece by piece, as gears and transistors and wires disappear off the table, go back into the bowels of the little box, fitting back where they're supposed to go. He wonders if the radio he'll get when he's done is the same radio as the one he took apart. The same pieces, put back in the same patterns. But it was disassembled and reassembled in between. Is it different, or the same?
He shakes his head minutely, as if to clear it, and puts his eyes back on his work. "We have two courses of action," he says, trying to narrow things down, go off of what the Soldier said last night: The SSR is looking fo them. The SSR will likely even find them. But the SSR has information they need. "Either we wait for the SSR to come to us, or we go to them."
Neither is ideal — yes, they know exactly where to find the SSR, can backtrack to the base, break in, access their equipment and communications and… and their files. Maybe there's information, there, on this protocol, or someone they can interrogate. Someone who can tell them, exactly, why they think the assets have names. What those names mean.
Rogers and Barnes.
But they're ill-equipped and the Captain is still injured, and the Soldier's arm has been repaired, but it's not at full capacity. They have certainly done more with less, but it feels like walking into a mission poorly prepared. It chafes.
Or, they hole up here, with the knowledge that the SSR is looking for them. They monitor the radio and hope for intel, from either the SSR or from HYDRA. Because HYDRA is still a factor. One that sits uneasily in the Captain's gut, if only because he knows they won't get answers there. HYDRA takes, it doesn't give. HYDRA will put him in the chair and bury this protocol back inside him. HYDRA might even just kill him, or maybe they'll kill the Winter Soldier while he watches, take away the thing he feels this desperate need to keep close. Either seems equally likely. Both are unacceptable.
And somehow, waiting seems worse than walking into a trap. The Captain, who has had patience and calm beaten, burned into him, time and time again, can feel it sloughing off with all the rest of it. He doesn't want to sit here. He doesn't want to wait for the walls to close in.
"I think we should go to them."
apologies, shorter post
The Winter Soldier's face pinches again.
Next, his nose unconsciously crinkles faintly in distaste.
Yes, half-rations are acceptable on paper. But that is for normal men. They are two super soldier, two theoretically better men with biological needs that match that, and now there is one who is malfunctioning and likely to make foolish mistakes regarding caloric intake. So no, he has doubts about the Captain's rosy estimate that half-rations will tide them over. The longer they wait, the more those half-rations will mean they can put one foot in front of other, keep their eyes open and not much else.
The Winter Soldier settles himself in the chair and finds that the look his partner gives isn't enough. No longer does it turn his core warm with an alien contentment and a feeling of temporary security that HYDRA will rightfully wipe away before cryo. Instead there is unease; wondering, maybe, what the Captain mistakenly thinks he sees in his partner when those blue eyes burn his way. His grip around the blanket draped around his shoulders tightens.
"Go to the SSR?"
The Winter Soldier repeats it and maybe a part of him assumes - hopes - that the Captain will see reason hearing the nonsense spoken aloud. Go to the SSR, he says. The same hostiles that had tried their damnedest to capture and compromise them...yes? Those ones? The only reason he could see this being acceptable is if the Captain knew something he didn't. Perhaps he knew of primary targets. Perhaps HYDRA had cleared him to know of such things. Men and women of high interest to HYDRA; names that he could share with the Winter Soldier, so that he may eliminate them from the equation permanently. And yet...the Winter Solder finds himself doubting this scenario. Too many variables. Too many questions allowed for his uncooperative partner.
Maybe this is as simple as he dreads: maybe this is a case of an asset going rogue after all.
The Winter Soldier shifts on his seat. "When? How? You have no idea if they haven't cleared out."
After all, they had just assaulted that base and then broken out of it in the same day, killing a respectable amount of SSR assets in the process. Surely the SSR would be fools to maintain such a compromised base.
Not at all!
Neither of them are normal men, and the sound doesn't escape, even compromised as he is. Half-rations are not ideal. But it's that, or make a move, and this time, it's not a twitch of his lips but a tiny, tiny flick of the eyes, as the Captain suppresses the sudden, inexplicable urge to roll them.
The Winter Soldier's voice might be dull, but even with no inflection at all, he doesn't sound impressed.
"I don't," he confirms, when the Soldier goes over everything he doesn't know. Everything they don't know. Because they know very little. They've never been so completely on their own before, and it's as terrifying as it is liberating, and both of those feelings are at the same time foreign in equal measure.
But not knowing what they might meet isn't really a concern. They've been trained to handle myriad situations, as many shitstorms as their handlers and trainers and those people's handlers and trainers could come up with.
Funny, none of those scenarios had ever involved people recognizing the assets. Calling them by names.
Rogers and Barnes.
Why won't the echoes of those syllables leave him alone?
"It's not what they'll be expecting," he says, and there's something in his eyes, some light flashing behind them, some spark that's been dulled, and now it's not. Not anymore. "Whether they're there or not, they won't think we'll walk right back in. And that's why it's a good idea. They're either regrouping and vulnerable, or they left in a hurry and were sloppy. We might find something of value we didn't have time to check for before."
There's a long pause, after which the Captain shrugs his good shoulder and says, some strange lilt to his voice that's never been there before, "If you're worried, then stay here. Maintain this base, and I'll go do recon."
It's almost a challenge: If you're afraid, then stay here and wait for orders that will never come, while I go and find out what we're really up against.
no subject
The Winter Soldier cuts in almost as soon as the other asset finishes speaking.
"I must continue monitoring you for further degradation in your unstable state," the Soldier says, and it sounds almost like he's reciting from the HYDRA manual on enhanced assets. "You should know better."
It would have been a different matter if the Captain was his usual self: collected and dependable and there. But he isn't. So no, the Winter Soldier won't be maintaining the base as if nothing as changed. Since he can't trust his partner, he can't assume that "recon" will actually be recon at this point. Eyes locked on the other asset, the Soldier's grip on the blanket draped around his shoulder tightens as if he could squeeze the insubordination out of the other man just by sheer will power. This is more difficult than it has to be. If you just turned yourself in, HYDRA could fix you before it's too late.
He doesn't sigh. Bucky Barnes may have, years ago, but the man he is now only stills, tilts his head slightly to the side and down, the faintest of frowns tugging at his mouth.
This is unorthodox. It is a bad idea and yet he has no choice: HYDRA was very clear on who was the more valuable asset and even if the Captain is compromised, it is the Winter Soldier's responsibility - his duty - to see him brought back into the fold. There is only one of him, and the serum running in his blood is irreplaceable.
"When are we leaving?"
I figure we can skip ahead over the next tag or two if needed?
"Then we go together," he confirms, because that's the preferred plan for so many reasons, even if he would have gone alone, if the other asset had truly balked.
The thing is, he knows what the Winter Soldier wants him to do. It's been trained into him nearly — although clearly not quite — as hard as the other: If the programming breaks down, if the drugs stop working, abort the mission and return to base. Return to HYDRA. Submit to recalibration. You are damaged and need to be repaired.
He'd believed that for so long, believed it like so much of the other training, the other procedures and protocols. He'd just never anticipated that being broken would feel so much better, even if it's in a strange, roundabout, backwards way. He feels like he's in the dark, feeling his way through a maze of spiderwebs and molasses, but he needs to keep going, keep wading through. There are answers, if he can just stay here long enough to look for them. Old protocols that he needs to know.
Just like needs to get back to that SSR base, to find whatever's there for him to find. For them to find.
He squints out the windows, frowns a little at the light, but, "Soon." The longer they stay here, the less stable things become. They've broken the trust between them, he can acknowledge that. But the longer they sit here and stew in it, the worse, he thinks. Action won't fix this, but it might stave off the rot that's seeping between them. Maybe something they find at that base will even repair it, somehow, even if he doesn't know how. He just knows that he thinks — hopes — that might be the case.
That's a foreign feeling. It almost makes him feel sick, the weird sharp stab of it: hope.
"I think we should go soon," he repeats. He picks up the next piece of the radio; there are precious few left on the table in front of him now. It's almost all back together. "Once I finish this, we can scan for communications. Give them a few hours. After that… we should go before it gets dark." The weather could turn again, and while they're both designed to survive much worse, neither is running at optimal capacity. His shoulder aches and grinds, stabs if he rotates it the wrong way. And the Soldier's arm might not get worse, now that it's been repaired, but it certainly won't get better. He doesn't want to waste much more time waiting for orders that, he thinks, will never come.
And even if they do… part of him knows he might not follow them.
"We should get cleaned up. Gather as much gear as is reasonable to carry. We might not come back here."
light timeskip
He knows this in his gut, his core; in some part of him that feels right and true. If it wasn't the Captain, if it had been anyone else at all in HYDRA, even a handler, he knows what he would've done: sanction the weakness immediately and with extreme prejudice, an excision that would be quick as it was merciful, and he wouldn't have to think at all about the logistics of following a faulty asset back to the SSR facility. What might happen if they did/didn't find anything of note. The only reason he agrees is because the Captain's life is elevated above his in HYDRA's base protocol. A superior serum; a superior man. What the Winter Soldier is can be eventually replicated; perfected. His partner, however...now that is another thing entirely.
Maiming him was acceptable. Killing him, however? No. This asset is even more rare than he is.
The Captain issues new orders and the Winter Soldier pauses and then averts his eyes, looking at his feet so that he may steel himself for this...unorthodox change in plans.
By dawn they set out with what supplies they scrounged up from the mountain resort.
The supplies are respectable, actually, because even two injured super soldiers can easily carry more than the common man. As they work their way down the snow-covered road and divert into the wall of trees, the Winter Soldier isn't surprised to find that he is placed up front. That isn't out of the ordinary. Given that he is classed as less valuable than the Captain, it would make sense that he take point...under normal circumstances. Now he suspects that he takes point because the Captain wants to keep eyes on him and doesn't trust him to walk behind where he can't see. (A valid point).
The trip back to the SSR facility is mostly silent aside from the occasional crunch of boots against rock, snow and dead branches, the rasping whisper or grunt of two assets communicating. Loose rock here, the Winter Soldier grunts. Yeah, the Captain rumbles from behind him (out of arm's reach, he notices: as if he's keeping out of range of a possible knife or sharp object in the Winter Soldier's hand). Picking their way back takes time, but it is still quicker than their escape not long before. The Captain has had some time to recover from his gunshot, and he sets the pace, calls the shots. A reminder that the Winter Soldier now must be more mindful of that pull of rank, that voice of command, because the other asset is compromised and his usual rock-solid judgment can no longer be trusted. For once, to better HYDRA doesn't mean he has to follow his partner's orders.
Dusk looms as the Winter Soldier crouches down at the ridge, peering at the compound. They'd approached it from a different angle when he had sniped the guards and the Captain went in to get the rest. Somehow it seemed like a lifetime ago, although he knows it was only a day or two at most.
"No visible guards," the Soldier mutters, his eyelashes speckled with frost, his head tucked down as he grips against a hunk of rock and resists the urge to glance at his partner for guidance. "Maybe they cleared out."
no subject
So the Soldier goes first, as they walk. The Captain stays out of arms' reach. the shield carried on his bad arm, no matter the ache. He has to be ready for anything. And he has to hope that whatever they find at the base will bring the other asset around.
He steps silently up beside the Soldier, on his right side, the shield feeling like an impenetrable wall between them. But ahead lies something that feels like a beacon. He nods at the Soldier's assessment; he's correct, there are no guards in sight, no sounds or other signs of life coming from the building. That's good. The Captain doesn't believe in luck (does he?) but it seems to be on their side, nonetheless. An empty base is far better for infiltration and intel gathering than an occupied one. The would have had to clear out in a hurry, if it's truly deserted. That means they'd have had to prioritize what came with, and what didn't. That means they could have made mistakes.
Both bode well for learning more.
"Only one way to find out," the Captain says, after a moment of tense silence between them. He starts forward, footfalls still silent on the snow; whatever's affecting him, his training hasn't suffered for it. He's slow, steady, deliberate, and silent as a ghost, even with the ache and pull and occasional sharp grinding of his damaged shoulder socket. If anything, the pain serves to focus his attention, sharpen his senses, as he makes it up to the exterior wall of the building, slides along it to the closed blast doors, expecting that either the Soldier will follow, or he won't. They've come this far, though. He wants to believe his partner will appear, even if he knows he can't count on the Soldier to watch his back the way he might once have.
He hopes that will change, based on what they find inside.
He could simply smash the controls with the shield, but that would alert anyone left inside. Instead, he reaches for the handle depressed into one of the doors with his right hand and puts his back into it, something in his gut telling him that if power is down, the doors won't be sealed. His recollection of the base blueprints they studied ahead of time tells him these doors are normally electronically sealed. There's a second set of doors inside with a physical lock, but if this one gives, then they can smash the second ones without worrying.
It takes a moment, but the door gives under his strength, even as he feels the strain in his arm, his shoulder, his back. It gives, and slides smoothly, silently open. The compound beyond is silent and dark.
Now he looks over his shoulder to see whether the Soldier will actually follow him inside.
no subject
Not yet.
Maybe not for awhile.
The Winter Soldier has made a conscious effort to smooth his face more than usual on the trip here. The Captain is able to read him like no one else can and before that had been a benefit, something that had yielded favorable results. Now it can be turned against him. Suddenly he catches himself missing that mask muzzling him, the same one that had always been hot and muggy. It had, at least, helped to mask the micro-expressions that even a super soldier can't hide. Now with the Captain watching him and searching for clues of his cooperation running its course...well. Suddenly he has begun to wonder if that silent, secret language between them is such a good thing after all. Surely it isn't helping HYDRA.
With the door open, he has no choice but to follow the Captain inside.
They switch positions as their eyes acclimate to dim light filtering through the door that was forced open, the Winter Soldier leading as always. Chairs are overturned or scooted away from desks; filing cabinets with some drawers not entirely shut. There is a faint pull of some latent conditioning that he can feel in the back of his mind. HYDRA could find whatever's left useful, he thinks, and then he has to bodily force that down because the priority is the Captain. Nothing else matters as much as wrangling the other super soldier and getting him and the invaluable serum running through him back to base.
The Winter Soldier does find an abandoned flashlight sitting on one of the desks. Flicking it on, the Winter Soldier holds up his other hand, the silver dull with dust and faint scuff marks as he stiffly spreads his fingers to show that he is, indeed, unarmed. (He didn't grab that screwdriver half-hidden by the typewriter, that the Captain surely saw as well).
Still cooperating, the gesture says.
"Phone's dead," the Winter Soldier says after he stops and tests one, the receiver against his ear as he turns toward his partner's shadow. "Two options: clear the place together or separate."
Normally they would do this separately. But that was before the degradation of the Captain's programming and he assumes (knows) that the other asset won't allow him to wander off and accumulate weapons and resources, to have time to himself to booby-trap the place. If he was, especially in a place like this, it wouldn't be just bleach to the face. Someone like the Captain heals quickly and that's before HYDRA's best medical teams come into play. Still, a shame the phones don't work.
He can't ambush the Captain, yet, but if he can find a way of getting a message out, maybe it'd be possible to call in reinforcements to subdue him.
let me know if finding a body doesn't work for you and I can change that!
But they are so much more than HYDRA's assets, he's starting to believe. And that's why they're here at all. To learn what else they are, or were. Or could become.
It's clear the agents here left in a hurry. And that bodes well for finding more, he thinks, scanning the dim rooms slowly as his eyes acclimate, following the beam of the flashlight once the Winter Soldier flicks it on. There's a faint smile that wants to tug at the corners of his lips, at that gesture; he knows whatever truce they have is tenuous, and even calling it a truce might be too generous. The Winter Soldier is observing him, just as closely as they're scouring this base. They're no longer an unshakable team. Now, the Captain is nothing more than an unknown quantity. He knows it must chafe at the Soldier; the widening divide that feels like it's opened between them chafes at the Captain, too. He misses trusting his partner. He misses the rock-solid foundation they'd once had. He believes they can have that again. And maybe it doesn't have to be through HYDRA.
But he needs to know more.
"Together," he says, and his voice is wry as he says it. Of course it would make more sense to move separately. But neither can trust the other. And without orders, they have all the time they need. There's no rush. They're as safe and secure in this abandoned base as they are anywhere. "I want to find the infirmary. Where they kept us." It seems like a good place to start, a place where there might be records on them that are easy to access.
They come across the first body down a long hallway; it's a handler, one of their handlers, dressed in black tac gear and sprawled face-down in a long-congealed pool of her own blood. There's something about seeing a handler, dead, harmless, that feels strangely good. Like a relief. The Captain glances to the Soldier, wondering if he feels the same way. If he'll even be able to read anything off his face. "What a stupid way to die," the Captain mutters, because the whole mission by that point was a mess. He's not sure if he regrets the loss so much as feels disdain for the poor planning. Maybe both. "Do you want to check her for a radio?"
The question is almost a dare; he'd bet anything the answer is yes, but he wonders if the Soldier will actually say it.
all cool! I'm game if Bucky keeps side-eyeing Steve.
He recognizes the handler. She - it - was one of his, he realizes. A new one with the same last name as previous handler that he was authorized to see the file, to remind him that this man had watched him train against other HYDRA assets years, decades ago: like father like daughter, except this handler died in the field while her dad wasted away in some luxury retirement home. He pauses to stare down at the woman's body with his head cocked to the side, just like an animal seeing something new out in the field that wasn't there yesterday. What happens is the Soldier comes to the conclusion he feels nothing. This changes nothing. A corpse can't issue orders and she definitely can't order him back to the damned chair. She isn't a threat. She isn't anything now, no matter how much the directives pull and tug.
If he's glad to see she's dead, it doesn't register on his face.
After a second the Winter Soldier's chin lifts and his flat blue eyes slide over to his partner.
"Yeah."
It was a stupid way to die (fact) and of course he does want to check for the radio even if he knows he's being watched (fact). He does say it. Because they both know a radio is invaluable and not saying it will only arouse the Captain's suspicion through any silence. His jaw sets, a muscle in his cheek tightening as teeth clamp down and grit against each other.
Bending down, the Winter Soldier searches the dead handler, his hands probing with about as much care as if he was checking any old hostile on the field. A dead handler is just a liability loaded with possible ammunition, other resources. He comes up with whatever he thinks is worth taking. The radio, slightly tacky with blood. A forged ID to go along with the money that the SRR hasn't taken. If he was the SRR, he would've fully stripped all bodies for anything like this, but:
"They might've cleared out in a hurry," the Winter Soldier rasps, still on his knees next to the dead woman. "If she's dead, the others probably are too...but we should confirm."
His good hand grips the radio almost possessively - he'll wonder if the Captain wants to wrestle it from him - but other than that, he looks almost harmless, his tangled hair half in his face, and his blue eyes seem to lose focus, to stare vacantly past the corpse until he remembers where he is, and then his gaze snaps back for a moment, sharp, there.
o7 I figure they can get to the infirmary shortly
Then they land back on the Soldier when he speaks again. "Looks like they did," he confirms, because everything they've found so far seems to indicate that. Including the handler, with all her gear apparently still intact. He offers the other a short nod. "We will." He has no doubt there will be more bodies, especially the deeper into the complex they go. He wonders if all their handlers are dead. He wonders what he'll feel if they are. If they aren't.
He watches the Soldier clutch the radio like something precious, and the truth is, he has no real desire to take it away. Not… just to take it. But there is a curl of something in his stomach, at the idea that the Soldier might use it to call for backup. At what will happen, if they reach someone on the other end, if handlers and recovery teams are sent it.
There will be pain and torture and punishment for them both. And there is something in the Captain that balks at ever going back to that again. At ever sending his Soldier back into that again.
Their eyes meet, and the Captain lets out the smallest, barest hints of a sigh. "I won't take it," he says, because he wants to, but he won't. This is… trust. An olive branch. It might be slapped away and stepped on, ground beneath a heel, but it's there. Instead, he reaches out a hand that's tilted not upward, but sideways — a clear sign that he intends to simply help the Soldier to his feet. If he'll take it.
"We should keep going," he says, gaze finally resting in the direction they'd been headed. "The infirmary was in the central regions of the building, based on the schematics." Schematics they both saw. "I think we'll find what we want there." Whether it's information, or more handlers, more agents, he doesn't know. They'll just have to find out.
He waits for the Soldier to take up his position again, point the flashlight, and they keep going, deeper into the building. He can feel the other's eyes on him, skittering there and away, like he doesn't know what to expect. Maybe he doesn't, not anymore. They pass two more bodies in the next hall — SSR agents this time, plainclothes with simple handguns. Not guards or security; they must have been caught unawares. The Captain sinks down to examine the bodies this time, to take the weapons and search them for ammunition. He comes up with an extra clip for one, but the nothing for the second. He checks them, and holds out the one with more ammunition left to the Soldier, planning to keep the second and the clip for himself. A slight advantage in one sense, a disadvantage in another. It will even them out. A bit. If that matters.
no subject
But he doesn't...even though he makes it damn clear that he knows what the Winter Soldier is thinking.
A lapse in the Captain's judgment, maybe. But he'll take it and the radio will be tucked safely away where it'll be harder to get to: fastened inside a small leather pocket, with a clasp that would slow down the Captain for a critical split second if he changed his mind about this olive branch. After a moment's hesitation that he would've never made before this...incident, the Winter Soldier finally accepts the Captain's hand even if his own grip is tight enough to hurt, as if he's instinctively preparing to face off against another super soldier that he knows, vaguely, that he can't physically match if push came to shove. The other man's deteriorating mental state and his gun shot may tip the scales, though, and he'll come to his feet, assuming his usual position, but he'll be glancing at the Captain more closely than he used to.
Keep going. Investigate the infirmary where they were kept.
That part is acceptable, because whatever was there, he knows he needs to file it away and report it back to HYDRA. To his handlers. A more solid goal than how to deal with the Captain's discrepancies.
"Fine," the Winter Soldier grunts, almost under his breath.
They're going in the same direction and for whatever reason, he has a tool on him that he didn't have before. The radio works. He can use it once he's in a secure location. Given his partner's abilities, that could be awhile to find one, but he only needs a few minutes out of sight.
Now they travel deeper. A few more bodies sprawled in rigor-mortis, glassy eyes starring at nothing. Old, drying blood so dark it's almost blackened by now. Naturally he pauses at this speedbump, watching as the Captain assesses and he'll be surprised to find that he's given more ammunition. Valuable, of course. Not useful if he can't get far enough from the Captain to actually shoot him in his non-vitals, but still. The Winter Soldier takes any possible advantage and he'll feel up the corpse and he'll come up with the ammunition his partner left and a pockmarked, rusted pocket knife that looks so old that it's probably not standard-issue: probably a sentimental item, and he'll wonders if it's dulled. The blade won't even release, and he assumes the Captain must've already found it.
Eventually they find themselves in the infirmary. The lights are flickering on some dying, sputtering generator, casting jittering shadows of overturned trays and needles, on the two gurneys with their straps hanging free. Dark splatters of blood where the SSR agents had been killed by the Captain. The bodies, however, are missing here: removed because this was ground zero, in a way.
The Winter Solder glances around with his eyes narrowed, waiting for his vision to adjust to the dim light, and he can see that more changed here: the partition between the gurneys has been shoved to the side, and each shelf is gaping open, as if someone did a quick grab of anything that wasn't bolted to the floor. The fact the corpses were each removed here is also striking.
"They didn't leave the blood samples," he confirms after a few minutes, locating the case and the slots where HYDRA's asset samples should've been. A silver finger plays across the foam surface as he depresses it slightly, then glances up at the dark glint of a camera lens in the corner. "And they likely took any footage with them too."
no subject
He stands watch in the doorway as the Soldier moves through the room, nods at the unsurprising discovery that the blood is gone.He doesn't care about the blood. He doesn't care about the footage.
His eyes land on a row of filing cabinets, standing against the far wall. They appear, at least, undisturbed, and maybe they contain what he cares about: information. Information about them, about Rogers and Barnes, maybe. About who they used to be. Who they're supposed to be. He makes his way toward the drawers, pulling open the first one while angling his body so as not to put his back to the room (or the Soldier). He wants to trust, but by now he knows better than that.
He starts rifling through the contents, slow and methodical, even as his mouth opens and he finds himself asking, "Why?"
Of course, the question isn't overly clear. He clarifies as he continues to search, eyes skimming the labels: "Why do you want to go back to them so badly? Why do you want to take me back?"
no subject
He busies himself with investigating the room, glancing up when he senses movement from his partner and confirms that he's interested in something else: the cabinets he had noted the other day, more as just part of the scenary than anything else. What they contained hadn't been a priority, necessarily. They were supposed to secure the compound of all hostiles. Anything after that was secondary, best left to the handlers and their teams backing them up. That data concerns them, just as threat eradication is supposed to concern the two assets. Frankly, it's never once occurred to the Winter Soldier to glance at something like a cabinet and actually think about opening it without a direct order. The confirmation that the thought's crossed the Captain's mind has him turning, stilling for a second.
"Why" should never, never be a question in their vocabulary. It shouldn't be said. It shouldn't even be thought.
But here it is.
"Protocol," the Winter Soldier says quietly, stiffly. What kind of question is this? "We were supposed to carry out the mission and report back. Even if we didn't hit the time table, we still need to carry it out. You're a high value asset - you need to be back on base."
The specifics are a little more complicated. The main one is because they were ordered to, because the Winter Soldier can hear an order and it seeps into his core, feels urgent, right. You do what you are ordered to, no ifs ands or buts. It makes perfect sense. The Captain is a valuable asset, arguably more valuable than him. Therefore it makes sense to ensure he's returned - willingly or unwillingly - so that HYDRA can continue to utilize his irreplaceable skillset.
The Winter Soldier remembers to turn his face away, although he's watching his partner from his peripheral.
"You know this. So why ask?"
Even with the...discrepancies, the Captain has to know this baseline. Doesn't matter the corruption running through those misfiring neurons. HYDRA"s bottom line: an asset must serve the cause and not all assets are equal. It makes sense that the Captain needs - must - return. The Winter Soldier stills, and he'll take a step closer, aware that his left prosthesis needs maintenance. Not yet within striking distance, but the question the Captain posed is important - a zero sum question, the kind he was asked in the embrace of the chair, listening to the suppression arc humming and read to sear rational thought away.
no subject
But why is he asking?
"Because —" The Captain pauses, wondering for a second why he is asking. What he wants to know. Why he so desperately wants names for the uncomfortable, tugging feelings inside him, why he wants to keep feeling them when they hurt in this strange, burrowing way, digging deeper like they're carving out the calm, empty spaces of him and lodging themselves there instead.
"If there was no protocol," he says, slowly, gaze apparently on his fingers flicking through the folders, but the Soldier's figure is always at the corner of his eye, never unobserved. Never quite out of his sphere of awareness. "Or if that wasn't the protocol, if you had no orders regarding me. What would you do then?"
He lets out a quiet breath, the closest an asset can come to a sigh, and shuts the drawer again. There's nothing useful here. No records or information that tells him more about who they were. Maybe he was foolish to hope for it, to think anyone would have left anything of use behind; but maybe he's still foolish, because he pulls open the next drawer, lower down, which sticks and squeaks and groans as he forces the hinges to move through age and rust and dust. This drawer hasn't been opened recently. Maybe it will hold something for him.
no subject
It shouldn't matter if there is no protocol. If there isn't, then he awaits them and if they don't come, then he assumes there must be protocols he isn't classified to know and act on. As the Captain speaks, his own face becomes increasingly flat, closing off even more, if that's possible. Yes, he can tell he's still being watched and no, that isn't the problem. The questions. All these questions, apparently rattling around in his partner's head when they shouldn't be.
The Winter Soldier's chapped lips purse into that thin, almost disapproving line - an expression that he doesn't seem to be aware he's making sometimes, when he's especially distracted. That small muscle in the corner of his jaw? It's tightened, almost ticking.
"...I don't think about these what-ifs," the Soldier grits between his teeth. There would always be orders if the other asset is involved. "No point getting hung up on it. Wouldn't go rogue if that's what you're asking."
It's the most conversational he's been in a long time, each unwilling word dragged out with a rasp as if he'd prefer to be silent.
He couldn't remember the last time he talked as much as he has the last couple of days.
The Winter Soldier turns away, although not enough that he can't always keep the unstable Captain in his peripheral. What kind of question was that? It doesn't make sense, at the core of it. The Captain has to know the answer: it should have been drilled into him that he is too valuable to allow outside of HYDRA and that he's also too valuable to be simply executed. That it has never mattered why they should return, only that they do and they never, ever give reason for the handlers to second-guess their commitment.
He moves away to check an overturned cart which gives him a better view of the rusted cabinet that's got the Captain's attention. From here he can see some old, yellowed files, their edges curling with age. Some of the handwriting is faded, illegible from here.
"Anything?"
Lemme know if any of this isn't okay!
But there are no handlers now, and the injections didn't work. He's stepped far outside their protocols, and he doesn't know how to pull the Soldier with him, and it's this growing, unhappy ball of distress down in the pit of his stomach, as he thumbs through old, yellowed folders, hard copies of — He pulls one out. They're medical records. Old. This one is dated 1944.
There's something about those numbers, lined up as they are, that gets his attention. That hooks into his brain like a fishing line and tugs. He pulls it out, pages through the folder, so old that the manila is fragile and crackling, the pencil marks on the papers smudged and faded. His eyes skim over the report, but… it's not what he wants. He shoves it back into the drawer and pulls out another, a few files back.
This one is dated a year earlier. He opens it, eyes skimming over the list of names, injuries, treatments, recommendations —
And catch on Barnes, Sergeant J.B. with all the force of running headfirst into a brick wall.
He doesn't answer the Soldier's question, which should probably be answer enough. He's even stopped watching the other asset out of the corner of his eye. His entire focus, just for a moment, is on this sheet of paper, with that name shining like a beacon, stinging like a slap to the face. His eyes skim the columns, note the injury was apparently a bullet graze to the side, barely in and out, with first aid in the field administered by —
By Rogers, Captain S.G.
… his hands were shaking, he remembers. His hands were shaking as they packed the wound with gauze, and there was a voice, low and smooth and calm, for all that it was tight with pain, saying, "It's fine, pal, it's nothing. We both know I've walked away from worse. And besides, you got the bastards, so it's all settled. They ain't walking away from this like we are…"
His hands are shaking now, he realizes; he doesn't know where the Soldier is, doesn't know how long he's been lost in his thoughts (only seconds), and his head snaps up, eyes wide, looking to clock the other asset.
no subject
He doesn't - can't - remember everything. Not if the suppression chair and its techs do their job. Somehow there's this vague feeling he can't shake, this idea that he hasn't seen the other man freeze up like this. Hasn't seen him so open, not even when he was quivering in the chair restraints.
Need to see what he found.
This close he can see the way the other man's hands tremble. When his eyes dart up, he'll find the Winter Soldier has gotten closer and closer, almost within striking range even though his hands are at his side and there don't appear to be anything sharp in them. No, he can't risk stabbing the Captain and getting blood on the delicate folders, the old sheaf of paper. This isn't the window he's looking for. Not yet.
This isn't curiosity, he thinks, but a need to see what was in the file and commit it to memory, so that he can report back to HYDRA what had shocked even the Captain into forgetting his surroundings.
"You found something," the Winter Soldier says flatly. He doesn't demand the folder; he doesn't need to. "If it's classed as critical, then I need eyes on it."
Because you can't be trusted to compile an accurate report hovers between the lines.
He holds out his cybernetic hand, the prosthesis's metal palm glinting dully in what little light they have in the room. They're close enough that if he had wanted to, he could have taken that opportunity to make another pass at the other asset...but he didn't. His eyes, pale and blue and always either focused or glazed over with exhaustion and fear, lock onto the Captain and he barely seems to blink. The air, cold, stale, hangs heavier now as if the room itself is holding its breath.
no subject
There's a frozen moment where he doesn't move, doesn't speak. Then he closes the file neatly and hands it over without a word. His hands fall to his sides, deceptively calm again, and his body is still and solid, no sign that he's distressed or that he'll make any kind of a move at all. He's waiting, now. He wants to see what happens when the Soldier flips open the file and reads the report for himself. Wants to see whether the same trigger words — they must have been trigger words, the names, maybe something else, something he didn't even comprehend reading — knock something loose inside the Soldier, too.
His own mind feels like this big, empty space with only that one burst of sudden images and sounds and feelings to fill it. He wonders, suddenly, if it's a real memory, or an implanted one. If this is a test. This… can't be a test, can it? It's too big. Too complex, too involved. The Soldier is too on edge, he thinks. Too unhappy. If this were a test, something both of them are familiar with to their bones, then it wouldn't feel so much like diving into uncharted territory.
If this were a test, the Soldier would be passing. The Captain would be failing. He knows that without a doubt, by now. But even if this were a test… he doesn't think he wants to pass any more of HYDRA's tests, anymore.
He can't start second-guessing everything now. He's committed to a path. He won't turn back. Which means, he thinks, that it might be a real memory. From a real life. Of being a real man. Before HYDRA.
They both were real men, before HYDRA. The question is, he supposes, whether they ever could be again.
He takes a silent, sharp breath of cold, dusty air through his nose and turns all his attention to the Winter Soldier. All that matters now is how the other asset reacts to the file. At that thought, there's a tiny sliver of something, shining in the back of his mind. The Captain doesn't — can't — recognize it yet as hope, but that's what it is, nonetheless.
no subject
Good.
The Winter Soldier's cybernetic fingers curl over it as he takes it, pivots away so it's harder to snatch away if his partner changes his mind, and then he stalks several paces away: enough to be able to read it in the meager lighting, far enough that he can react if he spots any sign of tactically-questionable movement from the Captain. Unfortunately HYDRA hasn't mastered implementing night-vision modifications. Even the Winter Soldier can't see in full darkness, and so there's a limit to how far he can scoot to read the file and also keep his peripheral vision on his former(?) partner.
He reads. Quickly. Eyes flick side to side, down, side to side. Repeat.
Names.
Old photos that he squints at and the Winter Soldier comes to the conclusion that they likely aren't forgeries. The two Assets were men with another life, another rank. Another name. Maybe not proof, but a question, at least, to where they both came from, who they where before HYDRA. He gazes down at the weathered folders contents and goes still, aware that he's being watched by the Captain - by this man who was once called "Rogers". The Winter Soldier's hair hangs in a dark, matted curtain and he's once again faintly glad it hides the bulk of his facial expressions. When his head lifts, he's done his best to mask his face into a neutral expression.
"This doesn't change things. Who we were doesn't matter," the Soldier says quietly. "HYDRA made us productive."
He adds that as if it explains everything. HYDRA gave them purpose whether they wanted it or not. This appears to be obvious. However, for the first time in a long, long while, it occurs to the Winter Soldier that suppression techniques have varying effectiveness between assets: what will turn his own mind and desires into a flatline clearly haven't had the same effect on another man. It should, in theory. It hasn't, in reality.
The Soldier is still holding onto the file with his head tilted toward his partner as he studies him through his tangled hair.
"We had names before," the Winter Soldier says - admits, grudgingly - and he goes on, as if trying to ignore that detail that's inconvenient to HYDRA. "Every asset around us has. You know this."
Maybe not every asset had those names dragged away by the Chair, but still.