TW: Vomit


He forgets all about trying to alter the memory. His mind completely frozen as he stares open-mouthed at the scene in front of him. Stark seems frozen as well, and they both watch as his holo-self continues to read the file, the pages showing pictures of a blue serum and a road map. It's almost meaningless to him though; his mind still stuck on the first part he'd seen. Howard Stark, the file had said and his mind flashes back to when he had asked JARVIS about the man— the man who is Stark's father and who had died in 1991—

He is suddenly distinctly aware that he had never asked JARVIS how Stark had died, nor had he asked after Maria. He'd known that she had died, but he had never asked when, he had assumed it would be a different date than Howard's but—

In front of him, the hologram continues torturously, and the Asset watches almost in a trance as his holo-self stands up from the calibration chair and is led to be outfitted for the mission. His face remains mostly blank as his handlers issue him weapons and bark orders at him (a small distant part of the Asset notes that his holo-self isn't given any long-range weapons, which means he is expected to get up close to the Target—)

The hologram shifts and they pack the holo-Asset into a plane, one of the agents pushing him down so that he can fasten the clamps around his arms and legs. (Yes – he remembers the clamps; Hydra had had them in their vans too sometimes. They aren't much different from the ones on his chair but sometimes they would dig into the flesh of his arm and he would wonder if he was supposed to free himself should the vehicle crash, or if he should just wait for his handlers to return because he's not supposed to fight the clamps—)

The BARF tech must be playing with time again because the plane lands in no time at all and the holo-Asset is shuffled off into a waiting van, his handlers hissing last-minute directions and updates in Russian about the Target's position—

(The Target who is Howard Stark, his ally and weapon supplier and his handler's friend and Stark's father and—)

The van begins to drive, and the Asset finds himself shaking as he watches his holo-self sit blankly inside. In the back of his mind he knows— he knows what his mission is and what is going to happen but part of him can't help hoping desperately that the scene isn't going to end with— with—

He sucks in a breath as the van stops, his stomach twisting uncomfortably and his heart pounding as he watches the holo-Asset step out. Apparently an agent had been following behind on a motorcycle and they trade off, leaving the holo-Asset with the motorcycle and a few last updates before driving off, trusting him to get the mission done alone.

The holo-Asset flicks his eyes impassively around the trees that line the dirt road in front of him for a moment before leaving the motorcycle and scouting out ahead. He comes across some sort of facility next to the road, and he pulls back into the trees as his eyes catch sight of a security camera set up by the gate.

He stares at it for a few moments before retreating back to the motorcycle and settling down to wait, his eyes focused dead ahead of himself, seemingly unbothered by the dark or cold of the night around him. The Asset doesn't know how long he's left there to wait, because the BARF tech takes care of that, and before long, the sound of an oncoming car fills the air. The Asset's breath stutters as he watches wide-eyed, his holo-self leaning forward on the motorcycle as he readies himself to follow.

He remembers—

follow the car, the serum should be in the trunk – but no witnesses, so take out the driver and passenger. He must stop the car. But first wait, wait until—

The holo-Asset revs his motorcycle and pulls up beside the car, using his metal arm to smash in the passenger window, causing the car to swerve and crash—directly in front of the security camera. The front of the car crumples with a screech of metal, and a fire sparks as the holo-Asset pulls back around to park the motorcycle by the wreck, his face continually blank.

He gets off smoothly and marches over to the back of the car, using his metal hand to pull open the trunk and reveal a metal briefcase inside. He snaps it open to confirm what he's looking for and finds five blue bags of serum nestled inside. He reaches for it, only to freeze at the sound of something scraping across the gravel, and he darts his head up, his brow twitching just slightly as he steps around the totaled car to see—

serum acquired, good. Mission accomplished— Wait, no. Targets did not die on impact. Mission: sanction and extract, no witnesses—

His holo-self steps up to Howard, who has somehow managed to pull himself out of the wreck, his movements slow and laboured, his nose bloody and his gaze unfocused as the holo-Asset reaches down to—

The Asset stumbles back, his shoulders hitting the wall behind him as he reaches up and snatches off the glasses, his breath coming out of his mouth in short, choppy pants as the scene in front of him dissolves into nothing. The loss of the hologram does nothing to block the newfound memories that flood his mind though, and he chokes as he—

grabs the Target by the hair and hauls him up, pulling his arm back. The man breathes in wetly, his eyes blinking sluggishly as he stares up at him.

"Sergeant Barnes?" The voice is full of disbelief and confusion, and it stabs at something that he doesn't understand. He doesn't know what it means and he— he— What— What does that—

No witnesses – no, no witnesses—

"Howard," the woman in the car moans, still alive, despite the crash.

No witnesses, no witnesses—

He coughs and gags, collapsing down onto his knees as the images flash through his brain. Howard, the woman had said. It had definitely been Howard, even though he had been older and greyer and bloody and– the woman too, he has to—

he grins as he looks over Howard's shoulder, the man busy trying to figure out how to fire-proof Steve's suit because Steve is an idiot and needs constant supervision.

"Maybe you could add in a leash or something," he jokes. "Something that hooks into my suit and then–"

"Oi, shush," Steve snaps from where he's holed up in the corner of the lab, sketchbook in his lap as he nurses a bandaged arm, a mock-glare on his face. "Medical says it's not that bad and with the serum I'll be healed within a day—

—he can feel his nose break under the weight of his metal fist and—

He throws up.

His whole body shudders and his eyes well up as he coughs, and acid stings his nose, the scent of vomit sharp and distinct against everything else. He retches again and pulls away, sucking in a breath that turns into a ragged sob, his arms shaking as he tries to hold himself up. His flesh hand comes up to wipe his mouth before he realises that he still has the glasses clutched in his grip.

He drops them with a gasp, and from the fog of his current mental state he can hear Stark's voice, sharp and thin. "Beck — out, get— water or something." The Asset sucks in a breath, his vision swimming as he tries to breathe, the bitter taste of acid burning the back of his throat. Beck must leave because the next second Stark's tight voice is back, asking JARVIS to keep him out of the room and to– "Call Stev—"

"No!" Horror rockets through him and he snaps his head up, swaying slightly as he tries to find Stark on the other side of the room. "No please, he can't know," he begs, his chest heaving and his vision blurring as he shrinks down into himself, his hands shaking. "He can't— please—"

Tears fill his eyes and he shakes his head, his hands coming up to tug at his hair as he ducks his head into his chest. He'd— he'd— he'd— killed Howard, his ally, one of his handler's friends, Stark's father and he— and his handler will be so mad

He gasps for air again and draws further into himself, Stark's presence on the other side of the room seeming to cut into him without even trying. He'd killed both Howard and Maria— both of them—

Across from him, he can hear Stark breathing, the man muttering a string of numbers under his breath as he cycles air rhythmically. "Okay, okay." The Asset looks up to see Stark also on the floor, his back pressed against the leg of the table holding the computers, his eyes squeezed shut. He breathes in again, muttering the numbers one-to-four as he does so, before holding his breath. He breathes out after a few seconds and opens his eyes, his hand shaking as he presses it to the middle of his chest. "Look," he says tightly, his other hand making a fist in his pantleg. "Look, Steve already knows, okay? Hydra gave us a file so–" He sucks in another breath and the Asset stares at him, his heart pounding loud in his ears.

Handler-Steve already— no no no that is not good— Handler-Steve and Stark already know and— He finds his arms hugging around his chest and stomach, as if to protect himself, his mind spinning as he stares at Stark, panting. They know he'd killed Howard and Maria and—

Handler-Karpov smiles pleased, when he hands the serum over, back at base. "Отлично, Солдат," he says. Well done, Soldier.

A handler from the mission steps up to whisper something in his ear and his expression hardens before he turns to hand off the serum, demanding to be shown whatever the agent had been telling him about. The Asset stays still, breathing shallowly as he waits to be dismissed back into cryofreeze. He'd completed the mission, he'd done well, he's finished now—

(There's blood still, in the grooves of his metal hand, they haven't washed him down yet and there's blood still–)

Across the room, Handler-Karpov snaps something sharp and angered, and the Asset darts his eyes over to him, careful not to move his head. His stomach drops as he catches sight of the mangled remains of the roadside security camera.

He'd shot it down— of course he had, no witnesses, no witnesses— but he hadn't destroyed it and he'd had to report it to his handlers when they had come to extract him and then they had had to grab it because no witnesses—

Handler-Karpov is speaking to the agent in low, rushed tones that he can't understand— and he shouldn't be listening anyways because that's not his job— but he watches from under his lashes as the two of them work on hooking up the camera to one of their monitors. Something runs cold and terrible through him when he realises that they will be able to review the mission. (He should have destroyed it, why hadn't he destroyed it—)

They manage to get it connected, visual only, and Handler-Karpov watches it, his arms folded over his chest, his face a solid block of stone. His jaw flexes as the video ends and he turns to look over at him, his eyes dark. "Солдат, давай!" He barks, pointing at a spot on the floor next to him. Soldier, come!

He complies, dread swimming in his stomach as he marches over and plants himself next to Handler-Karpov, his eyes skating over the grainy black and white image on the screen in front of him. Handler-Karpov's eyes are sharp and hard as he orders the other agent to replay the video again and he points at the screen, the Target's mouth just barely discernible as it moves, speaking to him in the moments before his death.

"Что он сказал?" Handler-Karpov snaps, his finger continuing to point accusingly at the screen. What did he say?

He swallows and darts his eyes back and forth between Handler-Karpov and the screen, anxiety twisting around in his gut. His handler is mad but he doesn't know why, and the words that the Target had said – he doesn't know what they mean – he doesn't know why they're so important but— Handler-Karpov narrows his eyes and ice shoots down his spine. He's taking too long to respond.

"Он сказал Sergeant Barnes," he says quickly, the words feeling awkward and strange in his mouth. Instantly he knows that whatever he'd said is very bad because Handler-Karpov's face twists into something sour, his lips pulling back into a snarl before he backhands him sharply.

Pain arches up his face and down his neck as he stumbles away, confusion and fear clouding his thoughts. He doesn't— he doesn't know what those words mean, but they're bad and the Target had said them but he doesn't know why

"Отведите его в исправительные камеры," he hears Handler-Karpov say as he recovers. Take him to the correctional cells. Panic grips his chest as a set of guards step towards him and he

"Barnes, come on–"

Stark's voice breaks into his reality and he sucks in a breath, the sharp scent of vomit greeting him again as he hunches over, pulling his metal arm into his chest. (There's blood in the grooves of his hand and he needs to get it out but they won't let him wash first—) He gags and whimpers, Howard's confused voice echoing through his head.

Sergeant Barnes. He'd called him by the title he'd used with Handler-Steve because Howard had been his ally but he hadn't known— he hadn't known what it had meant— he didn't— didn't know why Handler-Karpov was so mad

"I'm sorry," he finds himself saying, his words barely comprehensible between his gasping breaths. "I'm sorry, I didn't— I didn't know, what— what he said— I didn't—" He sucks in a breath that is more like a sob than anything else and closes his eyes, the room spinning. "I didn't know what it meant— but they were— so angry – but I didn't—" He cuts off because he can't breathe, and he chokes because he can feel Maria's neck under his hand and he—

Sergeant Barnes, Howard had said, using the title his handler had given him, probably trying to get him to stop because he's his ally and he— he should have stopped but he— he didn't know what it meant— he didn't know and there's blood on his hand and— and—

Stark is counting and breathing again and the Asset swallows back a wave of nausea, a steady beat pounding in his head as he fights to catch his breath. His hands shake as he wipes the back of his metal hand on his pants over and over again, trying to get it off because he can still feel it— still feel it stuck in the grooves— feel it crawling up his arm, under his skin— and he needs to get it out—

"Barnes, look, I can't—" Stark sucks in a slow breath and lets it out again, and when the Asset looks up at him, his eyes are closed, one hand resting on his chest. He opens his eyes and his gaze seems to skip off him, his hand tightening on the fabric of his shirt as he focuses down on his knees, still breathing. "Look, I can't deal— with this right now," he says. "Let me call Steve, and then you can talk to him and I will go call Pepper and talk to her and we'll–" He sucks in a breath and waves his hand, his jaw flexing. "And we'll deal with this later just— just not right now. Please."

He doesn't want to call Handler-Steve – doesn't want to admit to him what he's done – but according to Stark, Handler-Steve already knows, and of course his handler should be notified about something like this and Stark looks like he'd rather be anywhere else but here—

He finds himself nodding, and something in Stark relaxes just slightly. His gaze doesn't quite meet his as he shakily pulls himself off the floor and asks for JARVIS to call for Handler-Steve, his hand trembling as he runs it through his hair. For his part, the Asset presses back into the wall, his entire body seeming to shake as he tries to breathe and wait for his handler to come.

(They had been so mad, so mad about the words and the camera, but he hadn't known what they meant— hadn't known why it was so bad—)

Handler-Steve doesn't take long to arrive, his face tight and pale with worry as he pauses to speak a few words to Stark, their conversation is completely lost on the Asset as he finds his pulse redoubling at the sight of his handler, a rushing noise filling his ears as he clutches at his shirt collar, trying to breathe. His handler clasps Stark's shoulders and says something before letting the man go, and the Asset barely registers him leaving the room because his handler turns to him and—

"I don't— don't know what it means," he babbles in between breaths. "I don't— Я не знаю. Я не знаю. Пожалуйста."

"Okay." His handler raises his hands, palms out in a non-threatening gesture, and he crouches down a few feet away from him (a safe distance – he's too far away to reach him he can't–) "That's okay, that's fine." His handler's voice is low and smooth, but his face is creased with worry. "Can you breathe for me instead, Buck? We're going to work on breathing."

His handler sucks in a slow breath and holds it for a second before letting it out again, his shoulders moving up and down as he breathes. "Just like that," he says, demonstrating again. "Can you breathe with me Buck? Try to breathe in with me."

He tries, but his breaths are too short and rapid and he can't even follow his handler's orders

"That's okay, that's okay," his handler says, his body rocking for a moment as if he wants to move forward but thinks better of it. "Let's just try again okay?" He says imploringly. "We'll keep breathing 'til we get it, alright?"

He tries again and he keeps his eyes fixed on his handler's chest and shoulders as they go up and down with each breath. He sucks in air and swallows back the saliva thick in his mouth, blinking as he tries to keep his eyes focused, the fingertips of his right hand feeling numb as he braces himself against the floor and tries to hold his breath for the few seconds that his handler does. The breathing is important—

"That's right Stevie," he says, his hand rubbing over the bony ridge of Steve's spine as the boy hunches over, his breath wheezing thinly in and out of his mouth. Internally, he winces at the sound, his pulse pounding a little harder at the possibility that Steve's airway might close up completely because then there will be nothing he can do— But externally he tries to remain calm, rubbing his hand over Steve's back again as he counts the breaths for him. "You're okay—

"You're doing good, Bucky," his handler says to him as he sucks in another breath, his metal hand tugging on his pantleg as he forms a fist, his entire being focusing down on breathing. Why is it so hard? He breathes all the time and it's never this hard. (Except for when he's coming out of cryofreeze, sometimes it's so cold and he can't move and he can't breathe—)

"Bucky, Bucky," his handler's voice cuts in as he begins to spiral again and he tries to focus on his voice, his hand pressing down on his leg as he shakes, his breath thinning. "Bucky, can you tell me the colours again? What colours do you see?"

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before darting them around the room, trying to find a colour to settle on. His eyes feel like their straining as he tries to focus them and a headache pokes at the back of his eyeballs. But he finds a colour.

"White," he gasps, referencing the walls of the room and his handler nods, asking him for another colour. He pants out a few more breaths, his eyes on his handler's shoulders as they continue to move up and down expressively and he tries to remember the colour of his handler's shirt. "Blue."

"Good Buck," his handler says intently, breathing in with him. "What else can you see?"

He blinks hard in an effort to focus better, his eyes not wanting to cooperate, before he catches sight of his metal arm fisted in the fabric of his pants. The same metal arm that he had used to smash in the car window and the same arm that he had used to drag Howard back to the car—

"Colours Buck," his handler cuts in and he squeezes his eyes shut, suddenly hating his metal arm and wanting it off more than he can ever remember having done before.

"Silver," he gasps out finally, his hand clenching as he tries to keep breathing. His breath catches in his throat and he can feel his eyes grow hot, his throat seeming to swell and grow tight as he tries to swallow, his free hand moving to dig into his hair as he tries not to think about what he's done—

"Bucky," his handler's voice is low and pained and the Asset's fingers tighten in his hair. "Bucky, can I hug you, please?"

The request is so unexpected that he actually looks up, his gaze catching on his handler's own gut-wrenching one. He stares, not quite sure how to react as he turns the words over in his head. He's— he's never— his handler has never touched him like that before, none of the Avengers have, and part of him doesn't want to say yes because he's still aware of the puddle of vomit a few feet from him and he doesn't want his handler to have to come any closer to that, but he also remembers how grounding it had been for him when his handler had simply leaned against his shoulder and he can't help thinking about what a hug might feel like—

Of course he doesn't exactly know if he deserves a hug, but his handler looks so sad and his chest hurts and he really really wants—

He finds himself nodding, his breath catching on another sob and his eyes prickling as his handler slowly eases over to him, never getting up off his knees as he settles in front of him. "Tell me if you need to stop," he says softly as he leans forward, his right arm coming up to wrap around the Asset's shoulders and the side of his face pressing into the Asset's neck.

The Asset shudders and he finds himself instinctively reaching up to wrap his arms around his handler, his eyes brimming and finally overflowing as he clings, his handler carefully bringing up his other arm to finish the hug, the weight of it solid and heavy and warm

Something cracks open inside him and he sobs, in great undignified gasps that would never have been acceptable anywhere else, but his handler doesn't reprimand him, doesn't care even though he'd— even though he'd— He finds himself rambling, stuttering out apologies and explanations in garbled sentences that spend half their time in the wrong language, and he buries his face into his handler's shoulder, shaking and clinging harder as his handler brings up a hand to press against his hair.

"I know Buck," he says roughly, his voice thick and wet with tears. "I know. It's okay, I'm sorry."


Eventually, he wears himself out. He sits, a deadweight against his handler, his breath hiccupping every once and a while as he stares blankly ahead of himself. His mind feels drained. At this point Howard and Maria's death and his own actions in it feels almost immaterial, removed from him somehow, like he's just watching the fact settle into his brain, sinking into him without actually touching him.

He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about the fact that Stark and his handler had known the whole time what he'd done and they had still let him come live in the Tower, still let him move around freely and go outside even, they hadn't even taken away his weapons, just left him alone and told him to live.

Stark's earlier avoidance of him makes more sense, but it only makes Stark's more recent interactions with him more confusing. Stark had purposely chosen to initiate conversations with him and had offered up his tech to help him and had sat in on those sessions when he could have probably asked someone else to do it and— and no wonder he was so uncomfortable when he had been trying to express his growing confusion and guilt over Hydra's missions.

Do you remember all your missions? He'd asked, as though it was just another question, as though his own parents hadn't been one of the Asset's missions, as though he hadn't—

A thought crosses his mind and he shifts, his throat feeling raw as he swallows and tries to speak around the congestion in his nose. "Is… is this why I'm not allowed to go on missions?" He asks, his face still pressed into his handler's shoulder, his stomach dropping as he thinks over his statement. Of course the Avengers don't want him on their team— why would they want someone like—

His handler's arms tighten around him as though the question physically pains him. "No Buck," he says instantly. "No. Never because of anything you did. Never for that reason."

He doesn't really understand because he can't fathom how this kind of thing wouldn't factor into his worth as the asset, but he can't really think about that right now because suddenly his handler's embrace becomes too much.

It had been good, it had, but now his chest suddenly feels tight again and the arms around his shoulders and his handler's face are too close for comfort, his skin crawling rather than being relieved by the proximity. He moves instinctively to draw back, but he freezes almost as quickly, suddenly unsure if he should end the hug or just let his handler continue. His handler obviously wants this, the move seems to comfort him too, and the Asset has already distressed him enough, he can probably stand to just sit here and wait—

He doesn't have to decide because almost as soon as he starts to get uncomfortable, his handler is pulling back, dropping his arms and leaning away from him, revealing his own red eyes and blotchy face as he does so. He wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand and offers the Asset a smile that seems more of an instinctual reaction rather than an actual display of feeling, and the Asset finds his hackles beginning to lower again, now that there's some space between them.

His handler sucks in a slow, calming breath and rubs his hands along his pantlegs, wiping at his eyes again before rolling his shoulders and looking of at the Asset. "I know… this is really hard right now," he says gently, his eyes glistening. "I can't even imagine what this is like for you… but, I do know that having an attack like that is really exhausting." He offers another half-hearted smile. "We'll keep working on this, of course, but…" He shifts. "Right now I bet we could both benefit from drinking something maybe, and laying down."

The Asset blinks tiredly and nods. A very small part of him wonders at who is going to clean up after all this – the BARF tech is still out and the mess he'd made is still on the floor – but the rest of him doesn't care. His mind and body feel heavy and sluggish as he stands up to follow his handler out of the room, and he barely even registers the route back to their room.

The lights are dim when they get inside, which a small vague part of him appreciates, but the rest of him feels almost disconnected from everything as his handler hands him a glass of water and sits him down on the couch. He drinks some of it, and it helps wash away the bitter taste left over from his episode, and he finds his throat dryer than he'd been expecting, but he also finds his eyes zoning out and slipping closed, the effort of staying awake almost too much to bare.

Hands take the glass from him and he finds himself being gently nudged over so that he's laying down on the couch, a blanket getting settled over his shoulder. "It's okay Buck." He hears his handler say. "You can sleep now. I'll be here when you wake up."


AN: *hands you a chapter of sadness*

Poor Bucky and Tony though, honestly.

But Steve and Bucky finally got to hug! That's… good, right?

As you can probably tell, we will be dealing with the aftermath of this chapter for a while. Tony— while he didn't attack Bucky because he's had some time to deal with the initial shock of everything and such— is still greatly affected, and he and Bucky will eventually have to deal with it. And of course, Bucky hasn't really done much to deal with anything either.