He decides that the red shirt he'd gotten with his new clothes is his new favourite shirt, and he's wearing it a few days later when his handler places a small capsule next to his usual morning smoothie.

"Swallow this without chewing," he says, sitting back to take a bite of his eggs. "Bruce said it should help dull the pain in your arm."

The Asset nods mutely and swallows it down quickly (his handler tells him afterwards that he can drink something to help swallow it easier next time) and they soon head to the common room, the living space more lively than usual.

The Avengers are heading on their first Hydra-hunting mission with everyone since he's arrived in the tower and he shadows his handler carefully, not wanting to get in the way as they rush through their last-minute checks.

"Clint, I swear if I find another stray arrow laying around I will lose my mind," he hears Romanoff snap, her utility belt spread out on the counter top as she organises her supplies, the offending arrow leaning against the foot of her stool.

Barton ducks in and sweeps it up, gracefully side-stepping Banner as the doctor works on repacking a first-aid kit. A little ways away, the door to the landing pad is permanently open as Stark and various other Avengers truck supplies out to the waiting quinjet. His eyes follow them as they dart in and out and he can't help marveling at the organised chaos around him. Back at the Vault this kind of disorder would never have been acceptable, but his handler doesn't seem to mind.

(The Asset shrugs his shoulder slightly as he watches, almost an unconscious movement, the expected flash of pain strangely absent.)

Eventually everything is in order and the Avengers pack off, leaving him and his handler alone in the tower. The resulting silence feels almost physical and even though he hasn't spent much time with the other Avengers, the place still feels strangely empty without them. Handler-Rogers seems to feel the same, his face shuttered and quiet over lunch.

After lunch, his handler seems to deem it finally time to start his retraining, and he takes them down to the gym. (The Asset rolls his shoulder again and part of him is glad that his handler had seen fit to wait until his painkiller was ready before starting the training process.)

"You can use whatever you want in here," his handler says vaguely as he wraps his hands, his eyes distracted. "I'll be working on the punching bags. Tony's modified them so that they're strong enough for super soldiers."

He turns away without another word and the Asset stares after him, completely at a loss. When his handler had started wrapping his hands, he'd thought that they would be starting his training with hand-to-hand combat, but apparently not.

…Maybe he wants me to show initiative in my training, he decides finally after watching his handler pound on the bags for a few minutes.

If that is the case, then choosing to use the punching bags too would probably be too much like copying, meaning he needs to figure something else out. He sweeps his eyes over the rest of the equipment before pausing over the collection of treadmills lining the one wall.

He has a vague memory of being tested on those before and he figures they're safe enough to start with. He squares his shoulders and heads over, thankful that the buttons are easy enough to figure out. Since he doesn't know how long they will be here, and since his handler hasn't given him any direction, he sets the machine at a jogging pace and gets on, the sound of his footfalls soon blending in with his handler's punches.

He runs for a long time.

He doesn't know how long exactly because after the first ten minutes he begins to zone out, slipping into a quiet calm place where the strain from running can't touch him. He's done this before, when Hydra had wanted to test his resilience and stamina. He can run for a long time, and he's not about to stop his training when his handler is still training himself.

No, he can keep going. He can keep going for however long is needed. Banner's painkiller keeps his arm bearable and he can easily ignore the growing soreness in his muscles as long as he just focuses on nothing and Keeps. Going.

Reality filters back in a while later as he becomes aware of silence from his handler's side of the gym. He looks up and his handler is staring at him, his hair slicked back with sweat and his hands slack by his side. Seeing his handler waiting, he stops immediately and steps off the treadmill to stand at attention, hoping that he isn't breathing too heavily and that he'd fulfilled his handler's expectations properly.

His handler continues to stare at him, and he grows a little uneasy as the silence stretches between them. Finally, his handler jerks his head away, his mouth pressing together in a thin line as he shakily begins to unwrap his hands.

(The Asset can't help but notice the slight red discoloration on the bandages and a spark of anger shoots up into his chest before he smothers it down again, clasping his hands tighter behind his back and focusing intently on the wall behind his handler.)

"Come on," his handler orders, not quite looking at him. "Let's go."

They exit the gym and take the elevator back up to his handler's room. The silence somehow heavier than before.


Once they get back to the room, his handler makes them food even though it isn't mealtime, to make up for the calories they had lost while training. The concept is a little unusual, but the Asset finds himself too focused on the fresh scabs on his handler's fingers to really bother about anything else.

He has to practically anchor himself to the table with his left hand to keep from standing up and trying to find a first-aid kit. He knows his handler heals fast, he knows the scabs are basically nothing, that in a few hours they will be gone, but he also really really wants to do something about them.

He doesn't, and he finds himself still focused on them after lunch, his handler sitting next to him on the couch, a notebook in hand.

It wasn't my fault!" The boy protests, flinching away from him as he dabs a bloody bruise on his forehead.

"It never is," he replies distractedly, rinsing out the cloth and going in to dab again, much to the protest of the blond in front of him. "Hold still."—

He blinks and stares blankly ahead of himself, the sound of his handler's journaling filling his ears as he turns over the latest malfunction in his brain. That boy… he… knew him, from somewhere. He did, he knew him—

He remembers himself and mentally pulls back, silently cursing himself for almost worsening his malfunction. That isn't allowed.

He clenches his jaw and stares determinedly at the wall in front of him until his handler gets up again.

oOo

He can't get the blond boy out of his head. He tries, but flashes of him keep popping up. Micro-expressions on his handler's face will set off brief little images of the same types of expressions on the other boy's face, and he doesn't know why.

He doesn't really know who, or what, or why, the other boy is, and he can't exactly ask anyone. Even if JARVIS has refrained from reporting him before, he's pretty sure that the computer will have to report a malfunction of this size, so that's out, and there's no way he's asking his handler.

His handler may be patient and benevolent, but he doubts that even he will allow this sort of thing.

So, he's left with confusing half-impressions of a small, thin, blond, determined boy. And he doesn't know why. The flashes he gets of the boy are so brief – and he shies away from them anyways because they're dangerous – that he really doesn't know much about him except that sometimes he gets a sudden overwhelming urge to protect.

(Except he can't because he's gone and he doesn't know where he is)

Thankfully, his handler doesn't seem to notice his dilemma and he works on keeping his malfunctions as secret as possible. Sometimes even risking less sleep, just to avoid waking his handler up with his dreams.

He has to sleep eventually though, and he dreams anyway.


Handler-Karpov orders him to help train the new Winter Soldiers, and he keeps his face blank as he eyes the five soldiers in front of him.

They chose this. He's not sure why that's important, but he knows it is. They wanted this. They were already master assassins before this and Hydra had just made them worse –

The first one steps up to fight and he readies himself, sweeping his eyes over her to assess her skills. She strikes first and he pulls back, mentally recalculating as he realises just how fast she is. His arm whirls as he aims a punch at her face and she blocks it, throwing him back slightly and retaliating with another punch, her eyes glinting as she snarls at him.

He wins the fight but only just.

As the days and training matches continue, and the other Winter Soldiers get better and better with their newfound strength, he very quickly realises that he is becoming obsolete. At this point his value as an asset is mainly to act as a whetstone for these new soldiers, sharpening their skills until one day he can't fight back—

He gasps and grits his teeth as in the latest fight, Josef [these soldiers have names but he does not] successfully lands a blow to one of his kidneys. He stumbles and twists away, just barely blocking a knee to the face and stepping out of range. He pants and his arm whines unhappily, a few of the plates dented from when Josef had almost trapped him in an arm lock.

Josef's eyes are hard as he stares him down, the audience of handlers and technicians a blur behind him as the Asset tries not to think too hard about failing in front of them.

He shakes his head, trying to get the sweat-damp strands of hair out of his face. Bitter acid crawls up his throat and he swallows heavily, lifting his fists and eying the soldier in front of him warily.

Josef's face twists and that's his only warning before the next fury of blows. He blocks them the best he can, grunting as he's forced back. A sharp pain explodes on the side of his head and his vision spins, his ears ringing as Josef manages to land a blow to his temple. He doesn't have time to block the next punch to his nose and his vision blurs as it breaks.

He doesn't even have time to process the pain as the next second, his world tilts and he finds himself flying through the air. He gasps raggedly as the air gets knocked out of him, fire dancing up and down his back as he collides with the back wall.

He collapses, his muscles burning, and his breath laboured, blood dripping down his chin from his nose. In front of him, Josef drops his hands, a disgusted look on his face. He tosses his head with a defiant smirk before lazily starting to make his way over to him.

The Asset closes his eyes, blocking out Josef's approaching form and the judging handlers in the distance. He's so tired and everything hurts and he knows he should get up – he should continue the fight because his handler hasn't called if off yet but he doesn't want to.

Time seems to slow as Josef walks towards him, and he waits, wondering if maybe this time the new super soldier will finally take him out of commission. That's what is waiting for him anyway, once he's outlived the rest of his usefulness. Hydra will have five new super soldiers and he can finally—

"Bucky!" His eyes snap open, and Josef is still coming, but in front of him, kneeling on the floor with an intent and desperate look on his face, is a small blond boy.

He stares uncomprehendingly, his vision still blurry and his breathing laboured as he scans the thin frame in front of him. Who…? What…? Why…?

"Bucky!" The boy – Stev- says again, his breath hitching dangerously as he leans towards him, his hand reaching forward. "Get up," he says pleadingly, his voice strained. "You have to get up."

He cringes away and turns his face to the concrete, his nose pulsing painfully and the sound of Josef's approaching footsteps growing louder in his ears. He doesn't want to, he's too tired, he doesn't want—

"Bucky." The boy sounds even more desperate than before. "Bucky, please. Get up. You have to get up."

He looks back and Josef is almost on top of him, his leg pulling back in cruel slow-motion, angled for his ribs.

"Get up Bucky!" Steve screams.

He moves.

Metal whines and groans in protest and surprise flashes over Josef's face as at the last second, his left hand snaps up, catching Josef's foot inches before it connects with his exposed side.

He glares. Blood dripping down his face as he sits up and yanks Josef's foot towards him. The soldier overbalances with a cry and tumbles to the ground and the Asset is on top of him before he can react, his left hand pulled back aiming for his face—

"Стоп!" Handler-Karpov barks and he freezes, his fist inches away from Josef's unguarded face.

He pulls back wearily, breathing harshly and internally wincing as he wipes his mouth and accidentally jostles his broken nose. (They'd stopped the fight when he was winning, why did they stop it when he was winning—)

Technicians come to look over Josef and the Asset stands up shakily, stumbling a little as his eyes sweep the room, looking for the—

His breath stalls in his lungs and he scans the room desperately, looking for—

Who is he looking for? He stumbles backwards and his shoulder twinges as it hits the wall behind him and he tries to pull up the image of the— of—. Who, is he looking for? He's looking for someone, he is looking for—

Nothing comes to mind except for blurry yellow and he lets out a low keen because he can't remember. He can't remember, it's Important and he can't remember.


He wakes shaking, and for half-a-second he expects it to hurt when he breathes in through his nose, the memory of the blood and pain from his dream still far too close for comfort. He runs a hand over his face, breathing thinly as he confirms that none of his nightmare injuries have actually translated into real life.

He sits up slowly and scans the familiar surroundings, trying to ground himself. He breathes in quietly and flicks his eyes over to his handler's half-open door, checking to make sure he hasn't woken him. The doorway remains dark and he doesn't hear anything, so he's probably safe.

He runs a shaky hand through his tangled hair and hunches his shoulders, his eyes fixed on his feet as he thinks over his dream. The boy had been there, he can remember now, the boy had been there with his baggy clothes and his skinny shoulders and his narrow face (he always needed to eat more, he was so small, but between money and his constant illnesses he was always just slightly too thin—)

He blinks and breathes in, swallowing uneasily as he presses his hands firmly against his knees. The boy had been named Steve.

He breathes out. The boy had been named Steve. He remembers that. It's Important, the boy had been named Steve and— and— his handler is also named Steve.

He knows his handler is named Steve. He's heard the other Avengers call him by it (and also Cap and Captain and Capsicle, although the last one is mostly Stark) and he can vaguely remember having read a debriefing packet on Handler-Rogers when he had been with Hydra.

Steven Rogers. Steven Grant Rogers (he can't… he can't remember if the middle name had been in the file or not). His handler is named Steve and the boy is (was?) named Steve too and they seem connected somehow, but…

But that doesn't make sense.

He grits his teeth and hunches further over his knees, trying to drag up the memory of Hydra's file on his handler. Bits and pieces come to mind, but nothing useful and he fights to keep from growling in frustration. Anything but the basics of his hander's file has probably been wiped away a long time ago, and now, despite all his malfunctioning, he has no idea if there is a reason to connect his six-foot-two handler with the five-foot-four boy in his brain.

(How he knows how tall the boy is, he does not know.)

oOo

He doesn't sleep much the rest of the night. He's not quite certain if he's slept the required three hours (but his handler had said that he wouldn't be punished for sleeping the wrong amount so…) Once his handler gets up for the morning, he finds himself staring after him, trying to connect him with the small boy in his dream.

Handler-Rogers gives him his pain medication and he can't help wondering if he really deserves it. Doctor Banner had said that the pain meds were supposed to help him function better, but he's malfunctioning so much it's almost pointless – he can't possibly be a good asset like this and as soon as his handler finds out how much he's failing then he'll probably take the pills away

His hand clenches under the table and he keeps his head dutifully bowed as he waits for his handler to finish with breakfast. He can be a good asset, he can, he can, he can—


After breakfast, his handler doesn't take him back to the gym for more training (and the Asset can't help worrying that he'd somehow done something wrong last time and that his handler is finally realising how defective he actually is.) Instead, his handler lets him sit quietly while he listens to a progress update from the Avengers and continues to write in his journal.

For lunch His handler makes him a vegetable smoothie. "I figured that you were tired of the fruit ones," he explains as he hands it over, and the Asset has no idea how to respond. His handler's smoothies are a million times better than the rations he'd gotten from Hydra, and he's pretty sure he will never get tired of eating them. But trying a whole new set of flavours is also good, so he isn't complaining with the change of menu.

After lunch is when things go a little bit sideways.

"I have to go to a… to a doctor's appointment," his handler says, not quite looking at him as they stand face to face in the common room. "I should be gone for about an hour and a half."

The Asset stands carefully at attention and tries not to react. He's acutely aware that he will be left alone once his handler leaves and the foreign idea is a little intimidating. (Another part of him sits up and quietly worries because his handler had said he needed to go to the doctor and he's always getting sick all the time—)

he tries to swallow back the knot of nerves in his stomach as he unlocks the door and ducks into the apartment, his ears straining for the quiet sounds of Steve's breathing. He always feels bad leaving Steve when he's sick like this, a part of him certain that one day he will just come home and find him pale and stone cold – but they need the money if they want to pay for medicine and food – so inevitably he always leaves, praying to God that Steve will at least feel well enough to drink the water he left for him—

"—'re free to do whatever you want in the tower as long as you don't get hurt," his handler says, and he fights down a wave of panic because his malfunction had almost made him miss an order. "If you need anything, ask JARVIS," his handler finishes, and he nods, his eyes darting around the room before he can stop them.

"Confirmed," he says stiffly, his hands tightening behind his back as he watches his handler back away and leave, the sudden silence of the empty tower almost deafening.

He swallows and tries not to think too hard about the fact that he's pretty sure his latest malfunction had been about the small boy again, but also somehow connected to his handler. Which doesn't make any sense because his handler is big and the boy is small

"I thought you were dead."

"I thought you were smaller."—

He winces and squeezes his eyes shut, dragging a hand up to press against his temple. His malfunctions seem to be getting worse the more he thinks about it and he doesn't know what to do. If this continues then he will be compromised for sure and that is not acceptable.

"Sergeant Barnes?" He flinches and darts his eyes up to the ceiling. "Are you quite alright?" JARVIS asks.

"Affirmative," he grits out, clenching his teeth and fisting his hands by his side. It's not entirely a lie, he feels dizzy and his chest hurts but he's fine because he has to be. He's the asset.

He drags in a shaky breath and tugs restlessly at his shirt while he darts his eyes around the room, trying desperately not to think of the small boy. Something about him is important, he knows it is, but he doesn't know why and he can't seem to stop malfunctioning

He stills, his eyes focused blankly on the middle distance in front of him as he thinks. He needs to deal with this, he realises, he needs to deal with whoever this boy is, if he wants to stop malfunctioning and be a good asset. His jaw tightens in resolution and he nods slowly to himself. He can be a good asset, once he figures this out, he will be better and maybe his handler will keep training him.

Of course, he still has to figure out how to fix this. He doesn't know much about the small boy, he doesn't even know if he's real –

(He knows that he's skin and bones on a good day and always sick and his mom's name is—)

He sucks in a breath and flicks his eyes up to the ceiling before immediately discarding the idea of asking JARVIS. The thought of asking if there is 'a smaller Steve' somewhere seems ridiculous and he isn't quite sure if it would even be acceptable in the first place.

(If you need anything, ask JARVIS, his handler had said.)

Well, if he isn't asking JARVIS, then he needs another plan, because he needs to figure this out and he only has an hour and a half until his handler gets back. He blinks. His handler and the boy are connected (or at least he thinks they are, they might be) so… so his handler – if they are connected – then his handler probably has some sort of evidence for that.

He nods slowly. Yes, that makes sense. His handler probably has something on it, and all he has to do is look—

He finds himself moving and in the elevator before he can catch up with the rest of his train of thought and he pushes the button for his handler's room with only a vague idea of what his plan is. He figures it out though when he finds himself standing several feet back from the door to his handler's room. He stares, his stomach churning.

If his handler and the boy are connected, then his handler probably has some sort of information on it, and that information is most likely to be found in his room. But… his chest constricts, and he swallows nervously.

But… going into his handler's room is…

A tremor runs through him and he stumbles back a step. He's not supposed to do that, he's not supposed to— if he gets caught then that will be bad.

"You're free to do whatever you want in the tower as long as you don't get hurt," his handler had said. "You can go anywhere in these rooms freely," his handler had said once, when he was first being orientated to the tower.

Somehow, he doesn't think that those liberal orders include this.

But…

But.

Technically. Technically, he does have permission. And, and, if he is fast enough, then he can be in and out before his handler even comes back – his handler doesn't even have to know

Of course, JARVIS can always tell him – and he probably will, and then the Asset will be punished but— but wouldn't it… be… worth it? If he could figure out if the boy is actually related to his handler in some way? That way he would know and— and punishments don't last forever, he could handle whatever it is, as long as—

As long as he learns about the boy, it will be fine. And, if he doesn't find anything in his handler's room, then he will know for sure that he and the boy are not connected, so it will still be worth it. And if he does find something…

If he does…

He swallows and grits his teeth determinedly, taking a step forward. He lifts his hand and it shakes slightly as he slowly, slowly, pushes the door open.


AN: In the companion story to this, I was very careful with the way that Steve gave Bucky his orders so that Bucky would be able to interpret them in the way he needed to justify his venture.

I also like writing the scenes with Bucky's nightmare and him reacting to Steve's training. I thought they were pretty important :)