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
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.