The Asset gives they Avenger all the information he has on the Winter Soldiers and their Hydra history, and the Avengers continue in their preparations for the Siberian mission, solidifying their plans and gathering the needed supplies. He, of course, is not going, because he hasn't yet figured out what he needs to do to be cleared for missions, and the morning before departure, his handler walks him through his absence protocols. "Tony will still be here in the tower," he tells him after making sure the Asset is comfortable with food preparation and clean up. "If you need something you can always ask him or JARVIS for help."

The Asset nods and clasps his hands behind his back, trying to project an air of confidence for his handler. He's never had to care for himself like this before, but there's no stopping his handler's departure, so he might as well try to make it easier, even if the idea makes him nervous.

His handler flashes him a slightly strained smile before moving on to reiterate that he is free to wander the tower and that he should discuss with JARVIS if he wishes to go outside. The Asset nods again and his handler fiddles with his fingers. "Hopefully Hydra hasn't activated the Winter Soldiers yet," he tells him. "We'll still be gone for a few days… but the mission should be pretty simple that way."

His handler turns to lead him up to the common room, where Stark is waiting to see the rest of the Avengers off, and the Asset has to bite back the urge to remind his handler once again that he must not give the Winter Soldiers a chance to escape and fight him.

Do not let them out of the cryochambers, he thinks desperately. Kill them while you still have the chance.

He tightens his hands behind his back and presses his lips together as the Avengers say their final goodbyes and load onto the waiting quinjet, dust flying around the landing pad as the ship's engines ignite and they lift off, flying into the rising sun.

Beside him, Stark coughs and rubs his chest, taking a sip from his coffee mug, his eyes still on the horizon. "Well," he says, swirling his mug a little and turning back towards the elevator. "I'm heading down to the lab. See you later."

The Asset watches him leave and the room suddenly feels overly quiet as the elevators ding closed. He swallows and looks around the common room, unsure what to do with himself now that he's alone. He unclasps his hands and swings his arms a little, trying to get used to the feeling.

It's not the first time he's been alone. His handler has left him alone to go to his doctor's appointments, and more than once the Asset has found himself alone in between his activities with the other Avengers and his handler's return… But this time feels different.

He's used to doing things now, whether with his handler or with the other Avengers, but most of the time they are the ones to introduce a prospective activity. He generally just goes along with whatever they offer, so it feels a little weird having to come up with something himself.

Eventually, he decides to make his way down to the gym and practice his archery. He'd been improving steadily since Barton had first started to teach him, and he's proud to say that his arrows now land on the target over 90 percent of the time. As he'd improved, Barton had introduced more complicated targets and stances, seemingly enjoying himself as he'd shown him tricks and rolls to 'spice up his practice'.

He practices in the gym until his fingers start getting sore (thanks to his handler, he's distinctly aware of the need to pace oneself during a workout, regardless of any serum enhancements.) He still has a little bit until lunchtime, but while putting away his archery equipment and checking everything over, he's struck with the sudden realisation that he hasn't done any maintenance on his own weapons in quite some time.

The idea feels almost… illegal, given how with Hydra he was never to arm himself without permission from his handler… but here the Avengers don't seem as worried about it. His handler had given him full range of the gym and the training weapons it has to offer, and he had never mentioned anything about any rules surrounding weapons at all.

He presses his lips together for a moment before nodding determinedly to himself and turning to make his way back to his room. His weapons need to be maintained if they are to remain useful. That is a fact. And part of him is pretty sure that his handler will never give him explicit permission to do so, simply because it will never occur to him that his asset might need it.

If he wants to maintain his weapons, he's going to have to do it himself, without checking with his handler first.

Strangely enough, he finds that the idea doesn't frighten him as much as it once would.

When he gets to his room, he pulls a dirty sheet from the laundry and spreads it out on the floor beside his dresser, before pulling open all the drawers and retrieving the various weapons he has stashed inside. He ends up getting a rag from the kitchen (for half-a-second he expects to reach into his pocket to find a handkerchief of all things, but of course he doesn't have one) and he spends the rest of the time before lunch checking over his knives and guns, finding the rhythmic work rather enjoyable.

Lunchtime is when things really start getting interesting. He's cooked enough times with Wilson now, that he's pretty confident in his skills, but this will be the first time that he's ever planned and executed a meal all by himself.

He goes to the kitchen and pulls open the fridge to see what kind of food is available. He frowns a little at the cold air – only to frown a little deeper because he's pretty certain he now knows why he doesn't like cold… but he's noticed that Handler-Steve doesn't like cold either, and that is more of a mystery.

After a moment he gives his head a shake and focuses back on the contents of the fridge. It really isn't any of his business the kinds of things his handler does or doesn't like, and he needs to figure out what kind of food he's going to be eating, so he needs to pay attention.

He spots a packet of bacon on the middle shelf and he sees a jar of mayonnaise on the condiments shelf. A smile widens on his face and he reaches for both items, letting the fridge door swing shut behind him as he turns towards the stove. Wilson isn't here to look at him strangely over his food choices, and he's about to take full advantage of that.

As he makes the sandwiches, JARVIS helpfully informs him that he still needs something else to supplement his required calories, so he ends up making a pot of soup too, and by the end of it, he has a full meal laid out, one that he'd made completely by himself. And, it might just be his imagination, but he thinks it might even taste a little better than usual.

After he cleans up both the dishes and his weapon stash, he finds that he still has a lot of free time, and he stands in the living room, looking around, trying to find something to do. He wonders what on earth people usually do to occupy their time, everybody always seems to be doing something

His eyes land on the TV for a moment before he discards that option. He's not against watching TV per se, but he really has no idea where to even start with it. Everyone else already seems to have a list of movies and TV shows which they enjoy, and he really doesn't have that. If he gets really desperate, he supposes he could try asking JARVIS, but he's not sure the computer would be able to help in that situation.

Instead his eyes drift to his handler's bookshelf and he takes a step forward, his eyes focusing on the book he had looked at last time. The Hobbit, it reads, and he pulls it off of the shelf. He darts his eyes around the room for a moment before feeling silly. There's no one here to stop him from reading the book (no one to stop him from doing anything really) and he gets a feeling that even if JARVIS were to tell his handler about it, Handler-Steve wouldn't be all that bothered.

And besides. His handler isn't here.

A small thrill of excitement shoots up in his stomach as he makes his decision and turns to move back to the couch, pausing only long enough to turn on the record player before settling down and opening the book to the first page.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit, it reads, and he finds himself beginning to relax, music playing calmly in the background. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.


He reads until suppertime, only resurfacing once JARVIS reminds him that he needs to eat again. He blinks in surprise, having almost forgotten about his surroundings, before setting the book aside and getting up to find something else to eat.

Supper goes smoothly enough and it's his day to take a shower, so he does that before beginning to set out his bedding. It's still a little early to be going to sleep, but he's already almost finished with his book, so he figures he might as well settle in and read it until nightfall.

It's… probably a good thing that his serum makes it easier to see in the dark because by the time he sets the book aside, the sun is setting. JARVIS hadn't turned the lights up to match the growing darkness and he can almost feel the AI's passive disapproval at his sleep schedule.

He huffs and cracks a smile at the ceiling before pulling his blanket up to his shoulders and turning over, intent on going to sleep.


He's struggling as the two guards drag him down the hall, but everything feels sluggish and uncoordinated, his jerky attempts to get free seeming to move in slow motion. One of the guards snarls something at him but his words sound like they're being spoken under water and he can't understand them at all. His vision swims and he catches sight of what looks like a tall metal coffin standing at the end of the hall, the lights glinting off of it ominously.

His eyes slip closed for a second before he forces them open again and sucks in a breath. He can't seem to regulate his breathing very well, and he sags, gasping for air and trying not to fall over, as one of the guards reaches over to pull open the metal coffin.

"If you're going to be difficult," he spits at him, tugging on his arm. "Then we'll just have to put you away until we come up with something better."

The Asset opens his mouth to ask what he means, or maybe to protest, but he doesn't get to do either because the guards manhandle him into the coffin and shut the door, closing him into the tiny space. His chest squeezes and he lifts his hand— to push open the door, to beat it down, to—

But a sudden aching cold washes over him and his vision whites out.

His vision glitches and he wakes, coughing and shivering and confused, but his guards don't give him any time to adjust to suddenly being able to breathe again. Instead they grab his arms and begin to drag him back down the hall, his feet slipping uselessly against the floor as they enter the main chamber.

He raises his head as they pull him inside and there's a great metal chair in the center of the room that part of him is certain hadn't been there before. He catches sight of the clamps on the arms and legs of the chair and his breathing stutters, his stomach dropping as he begins to pull against his captors with renewed vigor.

Something about that chair is dangerous— something about it is very bad.

His efforts do nothing though, and his reaction time still seems slow as they jerk him over to the monstrous thing and begin strapping him down. His breathing accelerates as something hums around him and his brain is so muddled that he can't understand what is being said to him, his eyes fixed uncomprehendingly on the moving mouth of his guard. Something swings around to position itself over his eye and then—

And then he's in the training room, practicing the same moves – with those same words – over and over again and trying to remember the right words in the right language and flinching away when he angers his handler and—

And then they stand him in front of a line of targets, pressing a pistol into his hand. The metal is cold against his fingers and he knows instinctively that there is only one bullet inside.

"Shoot the target, Soldier," his handler tells him, his eyes sharp and his hand resting firmly on his own gun.

The Asset lifts his gun and becomes aware of his target. The small figure is kneeling hunched on the floor, a bag over their head, obscuring their face. The Asset watches as the man's narrow shoulders move up and down as he breathes.

He aims… and he hesitates.

Something about this is very important. Something about it—

He watches the person's shoulders shake as he lets out a particularly shuddery breath, and he swallows. The breathing is… important. He watches the shoulders move again, his eyes flicking over the figure. The man is wearing a beige jacket that is slightly too big for him and the one shoulder is scuffed, like— like, something—

One of the guards cracks the leather strap in his hand and the Asset flinches, his own breath stuttering as he cringes away.

"Shoot. The target, Soldier."

He nods his head automatically and straightens, his heart pounding as he raises his gun and sets his sights. The man's shoulders move up and down again and he grits his teeth. He has… an order. He has an order from his handler, and he's supposed to— His finger moves to the trigger and he breathes in.


He wakes with tears wet on his face and he draws in a long shuddery breath, his hands shaking where they grip at his blanket. He lets out a slow breath that sounds more like a whimper than he'd been hoping for, and he lifts one hand up to wipe at his face, trying to blink away the image of the living target from his mind.

He shot the target. He knows he did.

His breath bursts out in another half-sob and he sits up, trying to breathe in evenly and wiping at his face again. His chest squeezes and he tries to gather himself so that he can get up from the couch and go over to his dresser to write down his dream, but he ends up falling back, his breath tight and strained in his lungs.

He hunches over, pressing his palms into his eye sockets and sucking in a breath. The metal of his left hand is cold against his face and he's shaking, the trembling seeming to only get worse the more he tries to control it.

The image of the kneeling target flashes in his brain again and he cringes away, dragging in another breath. The image clashes with the one from his previous flashback and he no longer knows which one is more accurate. He doesn't know how much of his dream had been truth and how much of it fiction, but he knows he had shot the target.

His breath catches and tears well up against his hands. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to get himself under control. He knows he shouldn't be as upset as he is. He had been following orders, that is what he is supposed to do— but he— but he hadn't wanted to.

He sits up and swipes frustratedly at his face, suddenly glad that his handler isn't here at the moment. He doesn't think he'd be able to explain himself if he were. He sucks in a shaky breath, pressing his hands into his knees and breathing out slowly, gritting his teeth as he tries to calm down.

"Sergeant Barnes?" He jumps and a strangled noise catches in his throat as his hands turn into claws on his knees and he jerks his head up to look at the ceiling, his heart pounding loud in his ears. "My apologies, Sergeant Barnes," JARVIS says, his tone softening, and the Asset breathes in through his nose, clutching at his pants as he works on relaxing again. "I was only intending to inquire if you required any assistance," JARVIS explains.

"I don't—" He drags in a ragged breath. "I don't know," he admits as his hands continue to shake and a lingering tightness in his throat threatens further tears.

JARVIS is silent for a moment before speaking up again. "In my experience, Sergeant," he says finally. "Those waking from nightmares often find it beneficial to focus on their present circumstances and senses. If you wish, I could put on Captain Rogers' music and recite to you the latest news events."

The Asset nods slowly, reaching up with his right hand to wipe his face again and trying to relax enough to settle back onto the couch. JARVIS puts on one of the songs from his handler's playlist, and the first soft notes of a piano begin to play as JARVIS begins to list off the most recent current events, facts about Presidents and weather anomalies and celebrity gossip that the Asset hadn't bothered to worry about, let alone tried to keep up with, for a long time.

He finds himself beginning to settle down as he zones out to the essentially useless information. He doesn't need to pay attention to the latest scandal involving a newly elected senator or keep in mind the strange baby name chosen by a singer, he can just… listen.

Eventually, his hands stop shaking, and they're steady enough for him to stand up and brew himself a cup of tea, carefully following JARVIS' instructions as he fills the kettle and pours, the heat from the cup helping to warm up more than just his hands.

oOo

The dream is still on his mind the next day and he takes his book (a new one called The Fellowship of the Ring, which JARVIS tells him comes after The Hobbit) and packs himself up to the common room, needing to be away from his room for a little while.

It's harder to focus on his book then it had been before and he's only a few chapters in by the time Stark reappears in the common room, an empty coffee mug in hand. His eyes flicker over to the couch and scan the Asset for a moment before seeming to shrug off his presence and head for the coffee machine in the kitchen, muttering something deprecating about 'decaf' and 'heart surgery' under his breath.

"Has Cap and the team touched base yet?" He asks as he waits for the machine to finish up, and the Asset turns to look at him, his brow furling a little in confusion. He's pretty sure JARVIS would have told either of them if Handler-Steve had contacted the tower, so he's not exactly sure why Stark seems to want to ask him instead.

Not that he minds really, he hasn't spoken to anyone besides JARVIS since yesterday, and, he imagines Stark is probably in the same boat, so maybe it isn't that strange. Either way, he simply shakes his head (before wondering if maybe he should have responded verbally, since, that is kind of the point of human interaction.)

Stark nods right back at him and turns to stare at his coffee machine and the Asset returns to not reading his book, his mind now preoccupied with thoughts of his handler. He can't help worrying that Handler-Steve won't take his advice about the Winter Soldiers. He's pretty sure at this point that his handler, and maybe the Avengers in general, don't kill people in cold blood very often. (Romanoff might be the odd one out in that situation, but he doubts that even she is extremely cold-blooded when working with the Avengers.)

In his handler's case…

He remembers the tired expression he'd seen on his handler's face in one of his flashbacks – his handler sitting emptily by a tree and staring off into the distance. He swallows and his hands tighten on his book. He… gets the feeling that his handler will do what needs to be done but… but he doesn't want to have to see that look ever again.

A part of him feels like he should have gone on the mission after all, killed the Winter Soldiers himself so that his handler won't have to bear the burden of that decision himself. He should be the one to protect his handler from having to look like that again—

He slings his bookbag higher on his shoulder and kicks a rock ahead of himself on the ground before ducking his head and scanning the depths of an alley as he passes, his eyes skating over the ragged bricks and littered trash. School had let out a while ago and he'd had rugby practice, so theoretically Steve should already be home, but it never hurts to check, seeing as he finds him in some sort of scuffle often enough—

—He straightens his uniform and breathes in, trying to calm his nerves as he walks down the street. Steve had promised to meet him at the cinema for his last night and he doesn't want to ruin it by being a downer–

He stops up short as he passes an alley and hears a familiar sound within. He sighs, and a genuine, although exasperated smile twitches on his lips as he shakes his head, his eyes turning to the brick walls beside him.

"Oh for crying out loud," he mumbles almost fondly, before ducking into the alley. A spark of anger flows through him as he comes in time to see Steve get decked by a man almost twice his size and crumple to the ground. "Hey!" He shouts, grabbing the man's arm. "Pick on someone your own size!"—

"Hey Barnes?"

He jerks and blinks, more in surprise than anything else, and becomes aware of Stark standing a few feet away from the couch, a steaming mug in his hand and a skeptical look on his face. "You good?" He asks, taking a sip from his mug and shifting his stance.

The Asset swallows and looks away, fiddling with the pages of his book. He is, in the most immediate sense, fine. The latest flashback hadn't been distressing or dangerous but he's still… he's still worried over his handler and conflicted over the dream he'd had last night.

He looks back over at Stark and thumbs the edge of his book, flipping through the pages as he chews on his words. "Handler-Steve will have to kill the Winter Soldiers," he says finally, looking up to meet Stark's eyes for a moment before looking away again.

Stark seems to blink at him in surprise before shifting uneasily on his feet, sipping his coffee. "Yeah. I guess," he says after a moment.

The Asset's mouth twists, and he looks down at his book, his free hand tapping against his leg. "He won't want to," he mumbles, his finger tapping faster. "He doesn't want to kill people I don't think—" He looks back up at Stark, something tight in his chest. "He hasn't sent me on any missions," he blurts. "But it wasn't supposed to be bad."

Stark stares at him, his cup a few inches away from his mouth, looking lost. "What?" He asks finally, his eyes flicking over him.

The Asset thumbs through the book pages again, the sound of the flipping pages filling the room as he tries to figure out what he's trying to say. He doesn't know why exactly he's expressing this to Stark, of all the Avengers he knows him the least… but maybe that's the point. He's not sure he would be able to say any of this to his handler without overthinking.

"Handler-Steve doesn't like killing," he says quietly, his eyes on his book. "But he has to, for missions sometimes." He taps restlessly on his book. "But he'll get—" He thumbs the book's pages. "He'll get upset about it. Even if he had to. Even if it wasn't bad."

He fights the inexplicable urge to draw his knees up to his chest and continues to stare at his book. Stark's presence is almost inconsequential at this point, his mind whirling as he tries to untangle his thoughts.

"Handler-Steve doesn't like killing on missions and he's my handler and he hasn't sent me on any mission," he says in a rush, his fingers once again tapping against the cover of the book. He looks up at Stark, conflicted. "But it wasn't— it wasn't supposed to be bad."

Stark swallows, his face a shade paler than usual. "You— you mean your other missions?"

The Asset nods and looks away, his one hand climbing up to tug on his hair for a second before dropping back down to his book, anxiety twisting around in his chest. "It wasn't supposed to be bad," he repeats, staring blankly ahead of himself, his fingers fumbling with the book. "The Asset is supposed to follow orders but—" His right hand is shaking again, and he finds himself biting the inside of his cheek. "But it wasn't bad," he bursts out, his stomach clenching before he deflates a little. "But now— now I donno."

In front of him, Stark's hand seems to shake on his coffee cup a little and the Asset eyes him warily, wondering if he still needs to sit down and rest regularly from his surgery. Stark swallows a few times, something strange in his eye as he finally takes another sip from his mug.

"You… do you… remember all your missions?" He asks roughly, and the Asset looks away, thumbing the pages of his book automatically.

"No," he says quietly, before going off in a rush. "I get flashes, an' dreams sometimes, and I write them down but— but I don't know how many…" He shrugs, continuing to stare ahead of himself. "I thought it was okay," he admits softly. "I thought it was— Hydra said— But sometimes in the flashes I don't want to—" His throat closes up. "An' then when I wake up, I wish I hadn't—" He breathes in shakily and blinks carefully, his eyes slightly damp as he fiddles with the book in his lap. "But I didn't think it was bad," he admits frustratedly, not looking up. "But now it is."

In front of him, Stark runs a restless hand through his hair, grumbling something and letting out a gust of air before shuffling over to collapse dramatically in a chair across from him, wincing slightly as the move jostles both his chest and his mug. He sits up. "Look—" He cuts himself off and rubs his over his hand mouth, mumbling something under his breath. "Look," he says again. "I'm not the person to talk to about this. Sam or Steve are better, or even Natasha or Clint but—" He sits back and looks at the ceiling for a moment, his jaw flexing.

He looks back down. "Of course." He lets out a long sigh and waves his free hand disparagingly. "None of them are here right now, and I did ask." He looks like he might regret having asked.

The Asset eyes him, unsure what to expect, and Stark runs his hand through his hair again, his eyes a little distant. He swallows and brings his coffee automatically to his mouth, drinking instinctively as he continues to stare ahead of himself. After a second his eyes flick down and catch onto the Asset's for a moment before flicking away to stare off to the side.

His free hand taps a steady rhythm onto the arm of his chair, and he drinks again from his coffee cup. "Okay look." He looks up at the Asset. "You're conflicted because— because you didn't use to think you're missions with Hydra were, well, bad, but now you're starting to, right?"

The Asset nods slowly, his hands still on his book as he watches Stark. For his part, Stark seems to scan him for a moment before looking off to the side again. Silence falls for a moment before Stark brings his mug to his lips again. He sips slowly, his eyes clouded. Time stretches between them and the Asset sits frozen, looking at Stark.

Stark swallows. "Did you know I used to make weapons?" He asks finally, without changing his gaze, the unexpected topic change catching the Asset by surprise. He swallows and shrugs uncertainly in response. If he'd known about it, he can't remember. Hydra hadn't given him detailed intel on the Avengers in a while, since Handler-Steve had been supposed to take care of them. Stark nods distractedly at his response and his fingers tap against the arm of his chair.

"Some people had a problem with me building weapons, but I didn't see anything wrong with it," he explains quietly, his eyes distant. "My dad used to build weapons, right? So, when I took over the company, I just kept going with it. I figured someone's got to make sure we have a bigger stick than the other guys…"

He gives his head a shake and draws in a breath. "Long story short, I sort of got blown up." His hand rubs at his chest for a moment. "And I ended up seeing the other side of my weapons. They were supposed to help people, but they were also hurting people they weren't supposed to hurt…"

He lets out a breath and runs a hand through his hair, seemingly frustrated. "Ah, geez, Judith is better at this," he mumbles before finally turning to look at the Asset. "What I'm saying is, sometimes…" His eyes grow distant again. "Sometimes… our outlook on things change, after we learn. I mean–" He waves a hand. "I guess that's generally the goal, but…" He shrugs carefully. "When we've made mistakes, we just… have to do our best to make up for it and live with it, I guess."

He looks down awkwardly and takes a sip of his neglected coffee, mumbling. "At least, that's what Judith would say. Probably."

The Asset blinks. "Judith?" He asks, because Stark's statements seem too big to touch right now.

Stark's eyes widen in surprise for a moment and his shoulders straighten. "Ah, she's just–" He waves a hand. "She's just someone I talk to," he says quickly, shifting in his seat before standing up and draining his cup, not quite meeting the Asset's gaze. He wipes his free hand on his pants before flashing the Asset a smile that doesn't meet his eyes and turning away.

"I'm going to the lab," he says shortly as he heads to the kitchen, reaching again for the coffee pot. The Asset watches him go, and narrows his eyes as he spots fine tremors running through the man's hands. He nods slowly and sits in silence as Stark pours his coffee and retreats back to the elevator, his cup clutched almost defensively against his chest.


He doesn't know what to think about his conversation with Stark. What he'd said makes sense, and it sort of matches something he vaguely remembers Barton saying to him when he'd first arrived at the tower, but he can't help noticing how uncomfortable Stark had been while talking to him. Part of him worries that he'd managed to offend the man, although he doesn't know how.

He decides to leave Stark alone for now, not that that's very hard, given how the man spends most of his time in his lab anyways, and he spends the rest of his day alternating between reading his book and staring ahead of himself, thinking over the things Stark had said to him.

He comes out of his haze around suppertime, when JARVIS reminds him to eat and directs him to a ready-made lasagna in the freezer. He can't remember if he's ever had anything like it before, but the instructions are easy enough to follow and the end result tastes rather good.

He goes to bed that night and he doesn't dream at all.


AN: So Bucky doesn't get to go on the Siberian mission, but that does give him the chance to be a little more independent and interact with Tony.

Tony also gets to see Bucky's dilemma as he tries to come to terms with his programming and how Hydra's missions actually make him FEEL.