The asset didn't know where he was. He'd been injured on a mission, lost too much blood, and then moved on autopilot through the shadows of the city to this tiny apartment somewhere in Brooklyn. Somewhere. He had-

Everything was in its place, even the messy parts. (How did he know that?) All of it was exactly where it was supposed to be, but it seemed – too new. Too modern. (Why did he think that?)

Footsteps and the rattle of plastic had him pointing the gun at the blond teen – almost a young adult – who emerged from the lone bedroom. He was wearing shorts and a Howling Commandos shirt, large enough that it sagged off one creamy shoulder, and he was yawning, rubbing one eye, an enormous first aid kit tucked under one arm. "Mornin', Bucky," he said sleepily, heaving the kit onto the table and popping it open.

"Who the hell is Bucky?" The words were out of his mouth before he stopped to consider them.

The boy just blinked, then smiled sadly. "You are," he said, "You're Bucky – James Buchanan Barnes. Although I guess that answers the question of whether or not they wiped you again. I'm Steve, Steve Rogers. Now, where are you injured?"

The asset unbuckled his back holster and dropped it into one of the chairs, then removed the tac-vest and wicking shirt underneath. The shot through his side had found a narrow join in the Kevlar and punched through, but it was lucky in other ways – no vital organs hit, no veins or arteries nicked. But it happened early on in the mission, and he had lost a lot of blood since then. Steve seemed to agree, and whipped out the disinfectant.

The asset noticed the kit had anesthetics, and also noticed that he wasn't offered any. That was how he preferred it – nothing to compromise his body, blur his senses – but that begged the question. "How many times have I come here?"

"This makes eleven," said Steve (still small but nowhere near as sickly – why did he think that), just plugging the entry would before circling around him to check on the exit.

The asset would have protested having the teen behind him, even though he was just a teen, if he hadn't noticed a narrow but full length mirror that had been hung on the wall to let him see Steve as he worked out of direct view. It wasn't the only one; there were other mirrors on every wall and in strategic corners – small ones, but enough.

He had been here before.

Steve finished with his back in short order and moved back around to his front. The asset felt like instead of holding it up above the boy's head as he worked, he should be lowering his right arm, wrapping it around Steve's shoulders in a show of camaraderie. (Why? Why is that? He knew this boy better than ten visits should warrant.)

He didn't. He lifted both arms, and let Steve walk circles around him, gauze wrapping around his torso to hold the sterile dressings in place. When he was done, Steve packed up the first aid kit, set it on the floor, and then headed into the tiny kitchenette, making them both sandwiches from the bread on the counter and the meat and cheese in the refrigerator, triple for the asset.

He didn't check for poison – sloppy, incredibly sloppy, but he had watched Steve make the meal and the teen didn't seem keen on poisoning himself, too. So the asset ate. When they were done, Steve put the plates in the sink, picked up the kit, and said, "Come on. I'll set up the bed for you. Even with the greasepaint, you look like you could use at least a few hours of sleep."

The asset picked up his gear and followed in silence.

His bed was a couch that unfolded into a bunk bed. When he toed off his shoes and laid out on the bottom bunk, he saw that the underside of the top bunk and the support that held it up were reinforced steel, and there was a narrow gap between the support and the wall, a gap that let him see out into the rest of the apartment through the open bedroom door – a gap just wide enough for the muzzle of a gun.

He really had been here before.

Steve stowed the first aid kit under his own bed, then passed the asset a blanket and a pillow. Both were familiar. So was the "Good night, Bucky," from the other bed.

So was the "Good night, Stevie," that left him.

So was the smile in the dark.