In the aftermath of any action, there is always a great deal of activity. Personnel are called in to deal with the fire and structural damage to the sixty-eighth and sixty-ninth floors. Bodies are disposed of. James Rhodes and Tony Stark return power to the base. Doctor Santini and the medical team arrive to take over Sam Wilson's repair process and remove the asset from the room, despite his protests to remain. The female technician who had first seen him treats the asset's wounds, cleaning the abrasions and applying ointment to the burns on his right side, chest, and face. She applied a localized anesthetic before she cut away the parts of him that could not be salvaged, and the saline she used to flush out the ashes trapped beneath his damaged skin was cold. Halfway through the procedure, the anesthesia faded, but it wasn't so painful that he could not sit still through it, so he didn't say anything. He was not supposed to speak during maintenance, after all.

Now, it itches beneath the pristine white of the bandages where his accelerated healing is stitching him back together, cell by cell and inch by inch.

("Do you know who I am?")

The asset blinks up to meet a stranger's gaze in the mirror of the captain's master bathroom. Unlike the main room, this section of the floor remained intact and was almost untouched from the morning's assault, marred only by a few holes where stray shots from the machine gun puckered the walls in the hallway and the captain's bedroom.

He washes his hands, noting that it is, indeed, much easier to do with two instead of just the one. It feels different being here alone, though. These are the same tiles and the same sink, the same soap next to the same basin, now oddly clinical without the captain behind him.

"No," he tells the stranger in the mirror, because he doesn't know him. The reflection is familiar in the same way that everything both is and is not with this new team, details fading into one another until it is all hazy and indistinct, an endless blur of experiences that are only superficially unique and cannot be pulled from the sum of their parts. "I don't."

He thinks there was a time before he became accustomed to the cadence of the mission cycle, the soothing repetition of repair, resupply, redeploy. A time before ice and resets and cryo-tanks. His mismatched hands are splayed on the countertop, supporting his weight as he peers closer in the flickering overhead light. This isn't like in the Smithsonian, where there had been a man who looked like him but hadn't really been a man at all, because that had been the asset. And the asset, he has to remind himself, was never a man.

The asset is a complex weapon system, and weapons are supposed to get cleaned after each use. Rifles don't get put away dirty, so he should. . . he should finish getting cleaned up. The captain would like that, he thinks. It's probably part of his new self-care maintenance procedure, anyway. There is something like that in an old Army regulation somewhere, and he can remember shorter hair slickly styled with pomade, has a vague memory of a knife edge on his face leaving him looking oddly young and too human for a battlefield.

"Who are you?" he asks the stranger. The man on the other side of the glass mimics him silently.

Between one blink and the next, the mirror cracks.

The asset doesn't remember punching the glass, but it is a reasonable conclusion given the available evidence. The fracture point is located at eye level, just to the left of where the reflection is now, and the impact is circular with cracks webbing outward. The articulated plates of his metal hand are resettling with a soft mechanic whirr and electric hum at his side. His ears are ringing with the sound of the blow, louder than the howling wind and the rattling train, than the splintering of wood under his fists a lifetime ago. A record skips, flashing blue and red and blond, as he stares up the mountain from the end of a long long fall he can never escape. His heart beats white noise and radio static in his skull, like the murmur of men stepping onto the station platform to ship out and die. He can taste sea salt in the air, popcorn and lingering smoke. His tongue aches with spent rage.

It takes a moment longer to register that he isn't alone anymore, and someone is breathing out of sync with him. His gaze flicks from his own tired eyes in a face that doesn't belong to him, wide and pale and just a little scared above bandages that could be hiding anything or nothing at all, to the doorway and the whole world seems to grind to a halt as he turns to —

"There you are," the captain says, relief flooding his voice the way warmth floods the asset's veins at the sight of him and his colors in the opening. Blue across his chest and all down his legs. A white star over his heart like a target. Red accents and outlines and stripes on the kevlar protecting the rest of his vital organs. His helmet is matte and blue and fitted, formed to cover the top half of his face, the letter 'A' centered in stark white paint on his forehead above the holes for his eyes. He smiles, making something hungry twist low in the asset's gut, leans against the door frame for a few seconds, and crosses his arms over his chest. "Thank God. Are you okay?"

The asset doesn't know how to answer that, can't focus on the question because the captain is fumbling with the chinstrap of his helmet as he steps into the bathroom. He works the snap free and ducks his head as he pulls it off; the asset's eyes catch on the captain's gloves, fingerless just past the second knuckle, and his hair, short and messy and blond, damp with sweat. The asset wants to bury his metal fingers in it and push the captain's head back, wants to cut his teeth on the man's sharp jawline.

"I. . ." he starts, stops. Swallows hard with emotion rising in his throat and threatening to choke him. He can't remember what he needs to say, how he is supposed to respond. His knees feel very weak. "Sir?"

The captain stops in front of him. "What's wrong?" he asks, and the asset knows what he is about to say before it ever passes his lips. He knows that painful, punishing look and the way the captain's back straightens, the way the weight of worry settles tensely throughout his body. He knows every line that appears along the captain's pale skin, and the way his brows climb and his mouth purses a little before the words come out. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

A desperate, needy sound he can't help escapes him at the order, and he tries to answer as best he can. He gives his post-action report: "I. . . Sir, I received minor burn damage to my face, hands, and respiratory system during the attack. The doctors saw me and treated those injuries. I had a broken nose and a cracked rib, and they are healing according to the usual parameters." He pauses, uncertain. The captain is watching him with that wet, awful look again, like the asset is doing something wrong. Like he is disappointed the asset is botching an inspection. "I-I am no longer malfunctioning, and I was told that Sergeant Wilson is out of surgery. I. . . Is he. . .?"

"Yeah," the captain says, but his voice has gone tight and strained. It tears into the asset like a wound, gaping and raw, when he agrees, "Yeah, Bucky, Sam's gonna be fine."

The captain sets his helmet on the counter. The asset hits his knees.

He feels his hands come up, lifted as though of their own accord to rest on the captain's waist and belt, fingers curling around the brown leather. His boot gaiters and harness straps are the same color, same material. The inside of the shield on his back is a silver arch where it peeks up over the strong, broad expanse of his shoulders. It reminds the asset of the saintly haloes in a church he has never been to and refuses to leave. He closes his eyes and lets himself lean forward to rest his forehead against the patterned armor over the captain's stomach. The captain inhales sharply and stills, then lets it out in a deep, controlled exhale as he puts a hand in the asset's hair, strokes through the dirty strands slow and careful. He never seems to get caught in the tangles. It feels good, so good, and the asset had almost forgotten how good the captain makes him feel. He's not sure what he did to deserve it.

"Are you hurt?" the captain asks. A hand rests at the back of the asset's head and holds him there, cupping his skull like it is something fragile when they both know that it is not. The captain is warm and safe and no one is screaming and nothing hurts except all the dark places inside that do.

The asset chokes on a breath that feels like punishment, presses his face into the captain's stomach and pulls him closer. The kevlar is rough against his nose and cheek when he turns his head, nuzzling at the stitching on top and the contours he knows are hidden underneath. There is a bullet wound here, beneath the armor, low on the captain's waist just a little to the right of his navel. The asset knows this; he remembers shooting him on the helicarrier and letting him get shot in Lyon, and gut wounds have always shown up so well on this stupid, flashy uniform. He forgets how to breathe for a moment, his lungs and heart and that awful sickness in his code trying to claw their way out of his chest.

"You told me not to hurt anyone," he whispers, hoarse, tries to explain. His voice breaks when he says, "But I did," wavers and goes weak on, "I had to, sir, I had to."

"You. . . you think I'm going to hurt you," the captain says with dawning horror, more to himself than to the asset. He withdraws one of his gloved hands to place over his mouth like he's going to be sick. It muffles his next words. "No. Oh, God no. I'm not gonna. . . Bucky." The asset can feel himself trembling, tightens his grip as the captain's fingers slide to his chin, forcing his face up so that he cannot hide against the uniform any longer. "I'm not going to punish you for protecting —"

"But I didn't," he says, and isn't quite sure why he's arguing except that the captain is wrong when he should be right. He stares over the captain's shoulder at the doorframe behind him. "Sergeant Wilson got shot and Miss Potts got upset, and you told me not to."

"Look at me," the captain orders, and the asset complies. "I'm not your handler, remember? And I am not going to punish you. Not for this, and not for what they made you do as the Winter Soldier. Okay?"

That is —

Specific. Very specific. Too specific.

"What about. . ." the asset begins haltingly, licks his lips and meets the captain's gaze. "Sir? What about when I'm not the Winter Soldier? What about what I do when I'm just Bucky Barnes?"

The captain's eyes are dark and his jaw is set with righteous fury. His fingers tighten on the asset's face, a momentary, involuntary squeeze like he is considering splintering bones, and then consciously relaxes. Everything is measured and even and so very careful when he asks, "When did I hurt you, Bucky? What did I do?"

"You. . ." And that's the part that doesn't make sense. Because Captain America is his favorite, and he is the captain's favorite, and Captain America didn't beat him. Didn't shoot him or pour acid on him or make him swallow poison. Didn't burn him or whip him or stab him. He has never crawled through barbed wire or shattered glass for him, never dragged himself across the floor with broken bones on his orders. Captain America never forced a taser between his teeth. His captain has never enjoyed punishing him the way other commanders did. "You used to —"

(he's sitting on something low with fingers in his hair and Steve Rogers' voice in his ear from behind, something sharp in one hand as he pushes Bucky's head forward with the other)

(and the water is cold, the officer's hand in his hair gripping tight to hold him under, the garrote around the asset's neck biting into skin and)

". . . You used to cut me?" It's a question, because it's all jumbled up in his memory now. Steve Rogers leaning in, close enough for the asset to feel the warmth radiating off a narrow chest but not quite making contact and the captain squeezing his shoulder, grounding him, trying to bring him back from getting lost out in the snow while strapped to a table. Both mouths moving but the asset doesn't hear what either says, just the soft whisper from memory —

("I thought you were dead")

("Don't squirm, Buck, you're gonna make it worse")

"No," the captain answers emphatically, shaking his head. "I used to cut your hair, in the field, when it got too long. And, and back in Brooklyn, because we were cheap and I had steady hands. Do you remember?"

He doesn't, not really, but it makes more sense than the idea that his captain wants to hurt him. The asset nods anyway, says it to agree in the hopes that it will help cement the surrounding circumstances in his memory for next time. "You used to cut my hair."

"That's right."

"But you didn't cut me."

"No, Bucky, I would never." The captain pauses, stroking gently over the asset's bandages with gentle thumbs. The pressure is soft, a kindness he can't possibly deserve and doesn't know how to earn. Like the asset is good. Important. Like he matters at all. "Come on, you know me. I wouldn't do that."

And the strangest thing is that he does. He has always known. He knows this man like he knows so much; out of context, out of place, out of time.

If the asset is a rifle, then Captain America must be a mountain, he thinks, because the captain is steady and strong and present, always. He is key terrain, high ground to be taken and defended. He is breathtaking and beautiful and larger than life or death or even fear. So many of the asset's memories are here, smashed against the captain's topography, the dizzying elevation lines of his body's landscape. His legs are cliff sides, and he has ridges and saddles for ribs, abdominals like draws running downslope, hip bones jutting like spurs beneath his skin. The wounds the asset leaves in his wake are cuts and depressions, scarred ruins on an otherwise perfect region.

The asset leans forward again, his mouth ghosting over an injury's memory, his lips sticking to the new material. It is dry and unmarked, no bullet holes or blood stains. He can't feel the captain through the uniform, can't smell or taste the smooth skin on his tongue when his mouth opens and his teeth scrape the red and white with a strangled whimper. One of his hands drops from the captain's belt, slides along the heavy fabric of his pants and past his holster to the back of his thigh, just under the swell of his ass. The asset shot him here, too, he thinks, fingers curling inward toward the seam. It must surprise the captain, because he startles, jumping just a little before he catches himself from jerking forward.

"Bucky?" he says, and it is an azimuth. The asset has been lost in the cold and the snow, in the river that refuses to freeze at the bottom of this ravine, for a long time. Ever since he fell, and it was such a long drop off the mountain, but this, he thinks, is all he needs. These are features that he knows, drawn here on the captain as hills and valleys and plateaus of muscle and bone, his not-name and the captain's voice known points that intersect. Without the armor, the unfamiliar uniform that is trying so hard to be what it is not, he could find his way home again.

The captain's body is a map, and its legend is carved so deep inside the asset that even Hydra cannot tear it out.

"I do. I-I know. . . I know you," he says, tilts his head back up. When the asset falls, he will look up and see these blue eyes in a grey sky, will hear the train rattle along tracks that curve around and through the memory of this man. His own eyes are wet and hungry as he drinks in the captain's soft, pained smile. "I've known you my whole life."

Someone told him that. It feels like it might be true, might be real in ways that he is not, but he knows that it isn't, because even though the Smithsonian exhibit said they made Captain America in a laboratory in 1943, he knows that men are not made. They are not metal, not built as part of a project. Men are not dissembled for their components, not supplanted piece by piece until they are shiny and new and pretending to be whole again. The asset is a tool, just another resource in Hydra's vast arsenal to build order out of chaos, to shape the glory of a nation, to bring peace to a world perpetuated by war, but Captain America is so much more than that.

The captain looks at him with desperate hope, with something fragile and easily broken held out between them like a hand just out of reach as the metal gives way. "You remember?" he asks, and the asset knows that he has to find something that will suffice as an answer, because he will hurt the captain otherwise. He always does, even when he doesn't mean to. He is wrapped in barbed wire, rusted and concealed beneath the layers of lies and corrupted programming.

"You. . . You used to be. . ." It's there on the tip of his tongue, clumsy recognition flickering in black and white, frame by frame, like the picture shows he used to go to. There is a theater, and a back lot, and too many bloody alleyways to count. He grabs at it, guessing wildly, and says, begging for it to be correct, "Smaller?"

The captain makes an awful, heartrending sound, exhales like it has been beaten from him. His shoulders shake. His eyes squeeze shut, teeth clenched together to hold in another punishment. The asset tightens his grip on his belt and thigh.

"What happened?" the asset asks, because that's what comes next, he's sure of it. He's said this before, at some point. The captain's body curls over him, fingers in the asset's hair, skating over his temple and one ear as he pulls the asset's head in close again. He doesn't understand what he did wrong. This isn't fair. The captain's belt is a painful pressure against his throat. His voice trembles, breaks on the next question, "Did it hurt?"

As soon as he says it, he knows what happened. Captain America joined the Army. He was promoted. There was an upgrade. That's how these things work. The asset received an upgrade, too; he got on a train and the Army promoted him to sergeant and gave him a rifle, and then they strapped him to a table and gave him a metal arm. Of course it hurt, he thinks. It always hurts.

"Is it —?"

"Permanent?" the captain interrupts, supplies the rest with that aching, unending grief of his. It wasn't the word the asset had been going to use, not the question he cares about getting answered. He had been going to ask if it was his fault, which it probably was, because the captain is good and good men don't need to be sent away. It feels like dying but so much worse when he says, "Yeah. Yeah, so far, Buck."