In all honesty he expects JARVIS to call him out before he even gets two steps into his handler's room. There's no way this is allowed, even with his handler's vague orders, and surely JARVIS will say something. JARVIS does nothing though, staying silent as he edges his way into the room, his heart pounding as he very carefully pushes the door back into its original half-open position. His eyes scan the room in front of him and he has no idea where to even begin. He's never even been in his handler's room before, the space in front of him as foreign as uncharted waters.

The layout is simple enough though, a desk and window on the side, a bed in the middle and a closet door on the far side of the room. He sweeps his eyes over the few features of the room, trying to decide where to start and cataloguing their original state so that he can be sure to leave the room exactly how he found it.

His breath stutters in his chest as he takes a hesitant step towards the desk by the window, his shoulders tense and his heart pounding as he waits for JARVIS to speak up. He doesn't, and a second later he finds himself standing at his handler's desk with no idea what he's even actually looking for.

What would proof of the small boy even look like?

He doesn't know, but he's already gotten this far and it's too late to go back – he's already in the room, he's bound to get punished anyways – he might as well continue.

He reaches with his metal hand and pulls open the first drawer of the desk. Inside he finds a few loose pencils and pen, a packet of drawing pencils and, underneath it all, a black sketchbook. His eyes are drawn to the sketchbook and he reaches for it, sliding it out carefully, wincing a little when the pencils on top rattle as they roll to the side. He darts his eyes up in a quick perimeter check before focusing back on the book in hand.

The cover is hard, and he brings his right hand up to rub his thumb over the textured surface for a moment before cautiously flipping it open to the first page. There's a half-finished sketch of what might be the view from the bedroom window, but it's hard to tell, the lines faint and messy.

The next page holds a similar half-finished image of someone's face, the next, a drawing that seemed to have been almost finished before suddenly being half-erased. His brow furls at the lack of art in the sketchbook. For some reason he feels there should be more, sketches squeezed into the margins and corners because every bit of space needs to count—

they lay sprawled on their stomachs on the floor, shoulder to shoulder as they flip through the newest Sears catalogue, playing the 'if I had a million dollars' game. Steve points at a typewriter and they dissolve into giggles at the mere thought of spending a whole forty-four dollars for fun.

They flip to the next page and Steve's eyes go soft as they catch sight of a leather-bound notebook. He stares at it too and wishes that he really did have a million dollars, then he could buy the whole catalogue probably and then—

The Asset blinks, his hands tightening unconsciously on the sketchbook as he grounds himself back to his handler's room. That malfunction had been about the small boy again. (He had been smaller too— and he'd had short hair again.) He breathes in and glances down at the book in his hands before carefully putting it back, doing his best to arrange the pencils on top like they had been before.

He's not sure if the sketchbook had been what he is looking for, but it certainly had been something, making him feel a little better about the risks he's taking. He cycles in a shaky breath and scans the room again, half expecting his handler or JARVIS to suddenly appear and reprimand him. Nothing happens and he swallows before moving on to the next drawer of the desk.

The rest of the desk isn't very helpful. The bottom two drawers contain mostly files of Avengers reports and he somehow knows that the small boy won't be mentioned in any of those. With a sigh he shuts the last drawer and looks around the room, trying to figure out where to go next. His handler's room doesn't actually have… a lot of… stuff. His brow furls at that for some reason (if he had a room then he would fill it with everything he wanted in it) and he scowls slightly at the blank walls before focusing on the bedside cabinet near the middle of the room.

There is very little actually on the cabinet besides a lamp, a clock and phone charger, but there is a drawer, so he goes over to investigate. Inside is a sleek black laptop, and for a moment he considers hacking it, wondering if perhaps there might be some files on the boy inside.

Hacking his handler's laptop feels like too much of an overstep though (JARVIS would most definitely not stand idly by if he did that) and he doesn't have a lot of time, so ultimately he just puts the thing back, his eyes coming up to rest on the only other thing in the room that could possibly yield what he's looking for; the closet.

He edges up to it and pulls the door open as silently as possible. Inside are rows of carefully hung shirts and pants and a basket sits on the floor, filled with rolls of socks and underwear. He runs his hand through the perfectly pressed shirts and his brows furl as, at the very end of the closet, almost completely hidden in shadow, his hands brush across the rough wool of a brown uniform.

He squints and pushes the other hangers out of the way, wincing a little as they screech in protest, before pulling the uniform closer to him. It's neatly pressed, like everything else, but stiff, like it hasn't been worn in a long time, and he runs his hand over the golden buttons on the front, sweeping his eyes over the pins and medals that decorate the lapel. Something about this uniform…

—Peg- stops them on their way into camp, her mouth pressing into a thin line as she surveys their weary state. "Press is here," she says shortly with a nod back towards camp and around her the Commandos let out groans of exasperation and Steve sighs, running a hand through dries mud in his hair.

"Your dress uniform is ready," Peg- says, eyeing the splashes of mud and blood stains on Steve's uniform. "Along with a bucket of water and a shaving kit. We'll have to sneak around the back."

Steve nods tiredly and Bucky swipes irritably at the dirt on his face, swallowing down a growl as he follows Pegg- off the path. Always with the stupid cameras – and of course Captain America can't actually be seen as a battle-weary soldier, just a heroic one, so every time with this stupid charade – can't they leave him alone for one blasted day—

He sways slightly as he comes out of the malfunction. That one… that one had been about his handler – and a woman and another group of men, the Commandos…? He shakes his head, his hand pulling away from the – the dress uniform. He stops and stares at it a second longer, turning the new vocabulary over in his head. It's dangerous to pay too much attention to malfunctions but— but it is a dress uniform, isn't it? So…

He opens his mouth almost ready to ask JARVIS to confirm his theory before he cringes, remembering that he probably doesn't deserve to ask JARVIS anything right now with how bad he's being.

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

He shakes his head again and takes a step back, sweeping the closet for anything else that might be useful. There's a shelf over top of the rack of clothes, and his eyes catch on a small cardboard box sitting almost at the back of the shelf. He eyes it for a moment before gritting his teeth and reaching for it.

He's already gone this far…

It isn't very heavy, and he pulls it down easily, stepping back slightly in surprise at how light it is. It's a little dusty and he finds himself wiping off the top with his flesh hand as he sets it down on the floor. He stays there for a second, half-crouching and staring at it as his heartbeat kicks up a notch.

This is it, he realises. Either he finds something, or he doesn't, but this is the last place to look. His hands shake slightly as he pulls at the flaps and he finds himself holding his breath as he looks in. Inside sit two notebooks on top of a few folders and a collection of papers. The air inside the box smells old, and he instinctively moves extra carefully as he reaches in, pulling out the two notebooks first.

They're old, the pages stiff and slightly warped from time, dirt and water. They're both small, almost pocket sized, and their covers are blank, so it isn't until he opens them that he figures out what they are. The first one is a journal, the name Steve G. Rogers, 1943 printed in faded pencil on the first page. The cursive is faint and hard to read, faded in places, thanks to rainwater and mud spots and the pages crinkle as he begins to turn them, his eyes catching on random phrases written in familiar handwriting.

-wanted to give me a team, but I'd rather go with people I trust. Besides, their idea of an 'all-American team' probably isn't the same as mine—

-got a new shield from Howard, still figuring out how to throw it right—

-rains all the time here, never going to dry my socks out in time—

-spoke to Peggy over the radio, says she's got a new mission for us—

-getting sick of eating these rations all the time, I can never eat enough and it's always the same—

-Got a letter from Ma Barnes today she—

—says Becca's pregnant!" Steve says, his eyes wide as he stares down at the letter in his hands.

"What?" He darts up and snatches up the letter, his eyes scanning the page. He feels a smile break out over his face and he looks up at Steve. "Guess we better win the war fast then," he says, a warm feeling welling up in his chest. "There's no way I'm missing this."—

He comes back to himself, the notebook a blur before his eyes. He blinks, sucking in a breath and scanning the date for the latest entry, Sept. 23, 1944. He glances at the names again, Ma Barnes and Becca. Those names… he brushes his thumb over the faded pencil, not quite sure what he's looking for. For some reason… there's a deep quiet part of him that aches when he thinks about Becca's baby and questions pour into his mind. How old would it be now? When was it born? Did she have anymore children?

He doesn't know. He doesn't really know who Becca even is, but… but if he thinks about it really hard, he can almost see—

someone standing in white, holding hands with someone else. He stands watching them, trying his best not to cry and be all mushy, but Steve is watching him with a knowing look—

He blinks away the image and breathes in shakily, setting the journal down. (That malfunction had had the small boy again.) He grits his teeth and moves to pick up the next book, his mind spinning. He keeps seeing the small boy, but he doesn't know why.

He flips open the book and finds it to be a sketchbook. This one is more like what he'd been expecting before. Drawing and doodles fill every available space, and, although the pages are a little warped and the markings a little faded, something about this sketchbook feels right, the cramped images leaving him more relaxed as he scans the pages. They crinkle dryly as he turns them carefully, taking in each sketch. He flips away from the shaded picture of a flower and his eyes widen as he stares down at the most recent image. It's…

It's… it's him.

He stares. It's him from the malfunctions, his hair short and his head bowed as he cleans a gun he can vaguely remember from a previous malfunction. He can feel his right hand shake slightly as he sits frozen, trying to understand the picture in front of him. The… him… in the picture is wearing a uniform that he's pretty sure he's never worn before (he's also pretty sure it's blue and that he'd been wearing in in one of his latest malfunctions.)

He doesn't have a metal arm in the picture. His thumb comes up to trace the pencil lines of the drawing. (He… hadn't had a metal arm in most of his malfunctions either.) He… he doesn't understand why his handler would have drawn something like this, why his handler would have drawn the man he is in his malfunctions—how— those aren't—

He sits back slightly and carefully sets the open sketchbook on the floor next to him, his eyes darting to it for a moment before he shakes his head and looks back towards the box. He reaches inside and slowly pulls out the rest of the files and packets of paper, setting them in a pile on the floor next to him. His hands shake slightly and a feeling like… a feeling almost like excitement wells up in him as he looks over the papers. This feels like what he's looking for.

He grabs the first file and pulls it away from the rest, flipping it open. The symbol of a winged bird stares back at him, surrounded by a ring of words reading 'Strategic Scientific Reserve'. He traces the symbol for a moment before looking over the rest of what the front page has to offer.

'Project Rebirth' it proclaims under a red stamp reading TOP SECRET. He flips the page over and freezes, his eyes fixed on a small picture paperclipped to the top of the next page. It's… it's… Steve. He sucks in a breath and pulls the picture away from the paperclip with a shaky hand, staring. It's Steve. It's small Steve.

The picture is old, the lighting and colours brown, but he doesn't really care, he only has eyes for the small blond boy shown squinting at something off camera. It is small Steve; his shoulders are narrow, and his dog tags hang loosely off his body and he's— he's real.

He sucks in a breath and sets the picture down carefully so as to not accidentally crease it as a wave of relief rushes through him. The boy is real, he doesn't know much else, but he is real. He breathes in carefully, trying to calm himself a little before he turns back to the file.

Steven G. Rogers, it reads before listing a birthday, enlistment number, height and a whole host of ailments. He was always sick, he remembers dazedly. He was, he was always sick. He flips that page over with a trembling hand to find handwritten notes from someone named Dr. Erskine. It's written in ink, so it isn't faded, but the loopy cursive is hard to decipher.

Super soldier serum, he manages to make out as he squints at the notes. A cold fear rushes through him at the words and he flips the page over abruptly, clenching his teeth. His shoulder flares in phantom pain, and he knows it's phantom because he still has Doctor Banner's medicine so it shouldn't hurt, no matter what his brain thinks.

After a few moments he manages to focus enough to look back down at the new pages. It's more of Erskine's notes and he flips through them quickly, not willing to try to read them quite yet. The notes end, and the file falls open onto another picture.

His breath stalls. It's… his handler. His eyes sweep over the image, his heart pounding. In front of him his handler stands shirtless beside a string of numbers on a white wall measuring his height as 6'2. He darts his eyes between the numbers and his handler's face a few times before shakily sliding the picture out of the file. He sets the file down distractedly and settles the new picture beside that of small Steve.

They're different. Of course they are. His handler is almost a foot taller and probably at least a hundred pounds heavier but… he can't deny that there's something in their faces…

What happened to you?"

"I joined the army." Steve is distracted, avoiding the question as he glances around, searching for an escape route.

"Did it hurt?"

"A little."—

That was a lie. He doesn't know exactly how he knows that, but he knows that that had been a lie. He swallows and glances away from the pair of pictures, his eyes catching on the last file from the box. He reaches for it, trying to ignore how his hands shake and how tight his chest feels.

He pulls the file towards himself and opens it, blinking a little in surprise when he finds it to be full of aged photographs. They're obviously old, the images faded and less clear than anything from nowadays, but they feel familiar in a way, and he rifles through them, his eyes flicking back and forth as he looks them over.

The same people show up in most of them, soldiers in uniforms and helmets and— and— him. He hardly dares breathe as he brushes his fingers over the old paper. His own face stares up at him from among a group of other men, their arms around each other's shoulders as they smile into the camera. His hair is short in the picture and he's wearing the uniform that he knows is blue even though the picture is brown.

His eyes dart over the other men in the photo and he tries to remember who they are. Their names sit temptingly on the tip of his tongue, but he can't quite… He blinks. He's had malfunctions about them before, he realises, his eyes widening. Yes. He has. And they had been called—

Howling Commandos?" G- reaches for his tin mug and takes a swig. "I like it."—

The Howling Commandos. Yes, that's what it was! He fights down a laugh of triumph and can't help grinning because he'd remembered, he'd—

He freezes, his eyes staring blankly at the pictures in front of him. Remembered…? His heart begins to pound loudly in his chest as he turns over the word in his brain. Are his malfunctions… Are they…? He sucks in a breath and reaches jerkily over to move the picture of the Commandos to the side so that he can see the photo under it. It's a picture of him again, him and the Commandos crowding around his handler and some sort of car as he outlines a plan.

Had he… Had his handler… been his handler before? Are— are his malfunctions… memories? His stomach twists and he can feel himself shaking, his eyes darting over the papers around him. His malfunctions are bad, he knows that but – but… what if he had worked with his handler in the past? Hydra would have wiped it away after whatever the mission had been but…

His fingers drop down to ghost over the photos. But it's right here, obviously he had worked with his handler and these… Commandos before, and— his eyes dart up to the pair of photos of his handler and the small boy— for whatever reason this boy did seem to be connected to his handler, so his malfunctions aren't wrong.

Maybe… maybe they really are memories.

Of course, that would still technically be a malfunction, since he isn't supposed to remember. But they don't have a chair to wipe his memories here so… so it would make sense then right? That he would start remembering his past missions, especially if they had been with his current handler.

He's busy turning over this new idea in his head when his ears pick up the faint sound of the door to the room being pushed open. His heart spasms in his chest and his breath stalls as his head snaps up to see his handler stepping into the room.

Instantly every half-hearted excused he'd given himself for this venture melts away like tissue paper under a jet of water.

He'd gone into his handler's room.

He'd gone into his handler's room and gone through his stuff.

How could he have decided that this was in any way acceptable? How could he possibly have thought that this would be allowed and that he wasn't going to get caught and that his handler wasn't going to punish him—

"Bucky—?" His handler says, taking a step forward and he flinches back instinctively, barely feeling it as his back hits the wall behind him. His arms raise up automatically in front of his face in a useless defence and he can feel his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest as his breath burst sharply in and out of his mouth, his eyes fixed on his handler in the doorway.

In front of him, his handler stills before closing his eyes, and the Asset stares at him in frozen terror. There's no way his handler will let this go. The evidence of his crime is all around him— not to mention that it had been the first time his handler had trusted him enough to leave him alone, and he'd gone and done this. His handler is never going to trust him again and he's going to be in so much trouble—

His handler opens his eyes and he fights to keep from shivering away, the wall pressing into his back as his handler breathes in carefully, probably absolutely furious with him and trying to control himself long enough to figure out the best punishment.

His handler— his handler crouches, the submissive move completely incomputable in the Asset's panicked brain, his eyes follow him down uncomprehendingly as he continues to breathe in sharp and frantic.

"Hey," his handler says, and he flinches away, despite the gentle tone. He can barely hear him over the rushing in his ears and his rapid breathing and that isn't— that isn't good. He's panicking and making it worse and that isn't allowed.

"I…I know you're scared," his handler says, cutting into his spiralling thoughts. "But you're not in trouble. I'm not mad, no one's going to hurt you."

He darts his eyes around the room, taking in the papers on the floor and the box beside him and everything else that JARVIS will probably tell him later and his handler's words don't make any sense because he'd gone into his handler's room.

"You're not in trouble," his handler repeats, crossing his legs where he sits, carefully setting his journal on the floor beside him. He hadn't noticed the journal before now, and he doesn't know why his handler has it with him (or why he'd needed to take it with him to his doctor's appointment) but part of him cringes at the sight, remembering how he'd skimmed through the other journal that he had found in the box.

"You didn't do anything wrong," his handler continues gently and wrongly. "You're not in trouble." His head feels light as he stares at his handler and he ducks his chin, his shoulders pressing into the wall behind him as he tries to regulate his breathing.

His handler isn't making any sense. He'd been bad, and he deserves to be punished and he— and he can't breathe.

"Bucky," his handler says, and he tries to focus on his words, desperate not to miss any orders right now. "I need your help," his handler says. "Can you find me something that's blue? You helped me with the colours before, remember? Can you find something that's blue?"

Colours? He doesn't understand, but he recognises an order when he hears one, and he latches onto it frantically. Maybe if he follows orders properly then his handler will be more lenient with his punishment. He will do whatever it takes, as long as they don't wipe him. He doesn't want to forget this. Whatever happens, it will be worth it as long as he's allowed to remember this.

He darts his eyes frantically around the room, relief sweeping through him when he spots something blue. "Blanket," he bursts out between breaths, his eyes zeroing in on his handler's bedding.

"Good," his handler says, the word like a balm. "Can you find me something brown?"

He names the first thing he sees. "Box," he blurts out, wincing slightly as he reminds his handler of what he's done.

His handler only nods. "Can you find me something grey?"


They continue like that for a while, his handler naming a colour and the Asset doing his best to respond. His handler praises him every time, even when he repeats things he's already said, and he can feel his breathing and heartbeat slowly starting to calm down as he moves past his initial panic.

By the end of it, he's more slumped than pressed against the wall and his whole body feels like it's shaking as he works on breathing and waiting for his handler to make a move. He stays frozen as his handler starts slowly edging towards him, his legs still crossed, and his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller.

He tenses slightly once his handler gets to be a few feet away from him, and his handler stops, his hands open and to the side. "What are you looking at?" He asks quietly, and the Asset can feel his heartbeat speed up at the question.

He holds absolutely still, breathing in as shallowly as possible as he eyes his handler and tries to figure out what he wants. His handler doesn't look mad at all, he looks calm even, and that isn't something the Asset is prepared for.

"I'm not mad," his handler says inexplicably. "You can look at it, I was just curious what you found." He continues to stare at his handler, his mind spinning as he analyses his situation. His handler says he's not in trouble, but that simply can't be possible. He flicks his eyes up to his handler, trying to figure him out. He… doesn't know what he wants exactly, or why, but right now… it's probably best to play along.

(And maybe, maybe, he'll get some more answers.)

He shifts forward just slightly, an air of caution outlining his every movement as he eyes his handler, searching for any signs of disapproval. His handler doesn't move, only watching him as he edges closer to the picture of small Steve and nudges it gently with his finger.

"You were… you wer' small," he mumbles, hunching behind the strands of his hair as he speaks. Surely, surely this is not allowed. His handler only nods and the Asset feels a small spark of relief that he'd been right. Small Steve is his handler. He brushes his hand over the other picture of big Steve. "Then you wer' big," he rasps out, darting his eyes up to his handler.

His handler's eyes widen slightly as they drop down to the new photo and he nods again. "Yes," he says quietly. "I was small." He nods his head at the first picture. "And then a war happened and… my friend got taken away to fight. And I couldn't do anything because I was too small."

"Why're you so keen to fight? There's so many important jobs."

"I'm not going to sit in a factory Buck, come on."—

"Then a man came to me and told me he could give me a chance," his handler continues, pulling the Asset back to the present. "A chance for me to go and fight instead of staying behind and waiting for my friend to— to die."

His handler swallows painfully and the Asset stares at him, his eyes wide as he soaks in this new information. He hadn't been wrong. The boy and his handler are connected and— and he knew them, he did—

"They gave me something, a serum," his handler says, and the Asset glances unconsciously towards Dr Erskine's notes. "And then I wasn't small," his handler continues. "And I wasn't sick… and then I went to go fight and find my friend." He looks up at him. "And that's what I've been doing ever since."

Something heavy and important seems to fall between them and the Asset can't help wondering if his handler had ever found his friend. Had that been one of their missions? His eyes drop down to land on the sketchbook and photos of him that he barely recognises. Those are him, aren't they? Even without the arm and the hair, he'd— he'd known his handler before. He had.

"I…" The word comes out without a thought and he flinches back. He hasn't used that word in a long time, and it probably isn't the right one, but he can't stop thinking about how close he seems to have been with his handler and the other Commandos before. He has to know. He has to know if he's right.

"I…" His voice drops down into a whisper but he keeps going because he's already gone this far, he might as well continue. "I—I knew you," he manages, his eyes snapping up to watch his handler's reaction. He clenches his jaw unconsciously because he knows he's right, even if they wipe it away later, right now he knows he knew his handler before. He did, he did, he did—

His handler sucks in a shaky breath and he almost flinches at the sound. "Yes," his handler says, his voice strained. "Yes, you do— you did."

He freezes at the admission, because part of him still hadn't been expecting to be told the truth. He'd been prepared for screams and pain and the chair but not… this.

But… then again… he relaxes slightly. Things seemed to be… different… with this handler. And judging from those pictures and his various malfunctions (…memories?), things may have always been different with this handler.

He nods determinedly at his handler and slumps a little, his body taking the chance to decide that he is now absolutely exhausted. His handler scans him for a second before running a hand through his hair and the Asset watches him carefully, still prepared to have everything fall out from under him at the last second.

"I think…" his handler says slowly, flashing him a reassuring half-smile. "I think we could both use some tea." He makes a small gesture at the paper on the floor. "Why don't you clean this up, and I'll get something started."

His eyes follow his handler as he stands up carefully and takes a step back, his shoulders still hunched as he heads for the door. Back on the floor, the Asset slowly uncurls, his eyes fixed a little numbly on his handler's retreating form. His hands tremble slightly as he begins to carefully gather up the papers around him.

He sets them gently inside the box and his ears can hear the faint sounds of his handler in the other room as he begins preparing tea for them. An inexplicable rush of tears floods his eyes at the sound, and he sits hunched over the box, fighting to keep from blinking so as to not let them fall.

He breathes in shakily and dabs at his eyes with his shirt sleeve, swallowing against a growing tightness in his throat. He hasn't cried in… he hasn't cried in a long time, and he isn't planning to start now, but he can't help feeling grateful and a little overwhelmed after everything.

He'd gone in looking for answers and he'd found them, and his handler isn't even mad. He huffs out a breath and stands up in one smooth motion, lifting the box with him to put back on the shelf where it belongs.

He steps back and dabs at his eyes once more, making sure they're completely dry before turning around to go and join his handler in the kitchen.


AN: I hope you liked this chapter!

Steve and Bucky had some important words between them, and Bucky had a few revelations, but he still doesn't quite understand what he is to Steve. (You can't blame him though, he's used to working with a completely different framework.)