He's still tired when he wakes up, his mind sluggish and disorientated as he recovers from the first nap he can ever remember taking. The world stays that way, lethargic and slow, as he gets up at the prompting of his handler. It's supper time now, apparently, and he can feel his handler giving him worried glances as he prepares something for them, but he hardly feels like eating, let alone talking or engaging with anything right now.
He eats the food his handler gives him, because of course he does, but he hardly tastes any of it, and he moves through the after-dinner rituals in a sort of haze, his body moving without really engaging his mind at all. He dries the dishes as usual, but finds himself staring at the sink afterwards as his handler lets the dirty water drain.
The back of his left hand itches, even though he shouldn't be able to feel anything like that, and he finds himself setting his towel aside and moving to stand in front of the sink, his right hand reaching seemingly on its own for the dish soap. He pours it onto his left hand liberally, only half-conscious of his handler standing back and watching him as he rubs the soap over the grooves of his hand, reaching forward to turn on the water again because he needs to get it off— needs to get it out, needs to make sure—
It doesn't hurt, washing his hand, because he's mainly focused on his left one and that one doesn't exactly feel pain. Pressure it can feel, of course, or else he wouldn't be able to shoot with it, but he can't really feel the heat from the water or the slickness of the soap as he washes, even though he can still feel the blood caught under the grooves of his knuckles, probably built up in places he can't see because the whole stupid arm is a series of interlocking plates—
He blinks and comes back to himself, his hands still wet and soapy as his handler slowly reaches around him and switches off the tap. He blinks again, and he isn't sure how much time has passed, the colours around him suddenly brighter as he turns his head to look at his handler in confusion. Water drips off his hands into the sink and his hand still isn't clean, he needs to clean it, needs to make sure—
"Mind telling me what you're doing?" His handler asks quietly, his eyes flicking over him. "You've been washing your hands for a while now."
The Asset breathes in slowly, his hands continuing to hang limply over the sink, the steady drip of water down the drain filling the silence of the room around him. "I have to wash it off," he tells his handler, his eyes focusing somewhere past his shoulder. His left hand twitches and he rubs his thumb over the back of his knuckles. "Gotta wash it off."
His handler stares at him for a moment before glancing down at his hands. "Wash off what, Bucky?" He asks, his voice as soft as ever.
The Asset flinches, his hair swinging down to shield his face as he ducks his head. "Th' blood. Howard's blood," he says tightly, his hands clenching at the edge of the sink. "They didn't let me wash it off first, I gotta get it off."
His left hand twitches again and he probably would have started scrubbing at it again if his handler hadn't reached forward and gently taken it for himself. "Bucky, your hands are clean," he says softly, trying to catch his eye. "If you keep going like this, you'll hurt yourself."
The Asset tries to shake his head because his metal hand can't hurt, he doesn't have to worry about that, but his handler reaches for his other hand, running his thumb over the reddened skin, agitated thanks to the hot water and vigorous rubbing. The Asset blinks, staring at his hand like he's never seen it before. He hadn't noticed. He hadn't been paying attention to his right hand, he hadn't even felt it.
His eyes jump back to his left hand. "It's in the grooves," he explains, his eyes pinned to their clasped hands (his handler shouldn't be touching them, his handler shouldn't have to touch—) "It's in the grooves. I can't get it out."
His handler's hands tighten just slightly on his and his lips press together, his throat flexing as he seems to swallow down his words. He breathes out after a second and loosens his grip. "Okay," he says slowly. "Okay, how about this?" He looks up at the Asset. "Can I help you? Get it clean? You won't be able to get into the grooves with just soap and water."
The Asset blinks at the unexpected offer and he opens his mouth in surprise. He blinks a few more times and closes his mouth before finally nodding, his brain thrown for a loop at the change in plans. His handler gives him a relieved smile, his shoulders loosening as he takes a step back, letting go of his hands.
"Great," he says, seeming genuinely pleased. "Why don't you sit down by the table while I go get some stuff."
The Asset nods, still feeling slightly dazed as he steps away from the sink and watches his handler head towards the bathroom. He breathes in slowly, drying his hands before finally moving to sit on one of the stools by the counter where he and his handler normally eat, being careful to sit so that his left hand can rest easily on the counter next to him.
His handler comes back soon enough, a box of q-tips, a washcloth and a bottle of cleaning alcohol in his hands. His lips twitch up in a reflex smile as he sets the items down on the counter and moves to the kitchen to fill a glass with water. Once finished he comes back and sets the glass down and the Asset watches as he reaches for the alcohol, pouring a small amount into the water, the scent of it sharp to the Asset's sensitive nose. His handler wrinkles his own nose before replacing the cap of the bottle and finally sitting down, his hands running restless over his jeans as he looks over at the Asset.
"I figured this would work a little better," he says, reaching up to open the box of q-tips and pull out several of the cotton swabs. The Asset swallows, watching his handler's measured movements, some of the torment in his mind starting to calm at the serious and thorough response from his handler. His eyes flick down to his left hand as his handler reaches for it, wetting one of the q-tips in the alcohol solution with his other hand and bringing it to the first joint of the Asset's thumb.
His brow furls in concentration as he carefully manipulates the joint, working the cotton around so that it can pick up any debris inside before flipping the swab around and drying it. He discards the q-tip and moves on to the next joint of the thumb, his process just as slow and methodical as before. The Asset watches in silence, part of him stunned at the amount of care his handler seems to be putting into the procedure. The q-tips come out mostly white, very little grime having made it into the joints and grooves of his hand because there simply isn't space, but still, his handler continues, his pile of used q-tip's growing as he follows the lines of metal along the back of the Asset's hand.
"It wasn't your fault," he says quietly as he gets started on his pointer finger, and the Asset can feel himself tense slightly at the approaching topic. He curls his right hand into a fist by his knee and looks down, his handler continuing to work over his joints, the light, constant pressure of his hands helping to keep him grounded as he thinks. He swallows and doesn't look up, keeping his eyes pinned on his handler's knees, a few inches from his own.
"I didn't stop," he says faintly, his world zeroing down to just the feel of his handler's hands on his own. "He said the words but I didn't stop."
His handler doesn't look up from where he's running a q-tip over the knuckle of the Asset's middle finger. "What words?" He asks softly, tilting the Asset's hand so he can clean by the base of his finger.
The Asset's right hand tightens, and he clenches his jaw, still not looking at his handler. "Sergeant Barnes," he says, flinching, his heart skipping a beat at the words. He breathes in. "He called me that but— but I didn't know, what it meant." He swallows. "Hydra gave me a mission and I didn't try to fight it even though he said the words."
His handler pauses and looks at him for a moment, his eyes flicking over him before he sets down his q-tip and gets a new one. "You know…" He says slowly. "Sergeant Barnes isn't—" The Asset flinches again and his handler's hand tightens on his before relaxing again. He seems to scan him for a second before going to wet his q-tip. "That— those words aren't trigger words," he says, not looking up as he starts on the Asset's ring finger.
The Asset sits still, letting his handler manipulate his finger as he contemplates what he's been told. He's not exactly sure why he'd assumed Howard's words would have triggered something. Maybe it was because they were the words his handler had used, ones that Hydra obviously didn't, and Howard must have said them for a reason—
"You can't say you didn't fight either," his handler says, his hands tightening for a fraction of a second before he continues cleaning, something hardening in his gaze. "You did fight," he says, his eyes still focused on his work, and the Asset stares at him, wondering if his handler knows something he doesn't, because he certainly doesn't remember having tried to fight Hydra's mission. "I— Hydra gave me a file," his handler says, his cleaning suddenly becoming even more thorough as he speaks. He flicks his eyes up to him. "Did you know your first mission wasn't until 1953?"
The Asset shakes his head mutely, his eyes wide as he tries to guess where his handler is going with this. His handler drops his eyes and discards his used q-tip and reaches for another, shifting his grip to start on the Asset's pinky finger.
"That's eight years," he says softly. "It took them almost a decade before they could get you to do what they wanted." He looks up again, his hands pausing. "Five of those years they had you in cryofreeze while they built and tested that blasted chair, but that's— that's three years of you fighting back and having to be conditioned. You can't say you didn't fight." His voice hardens determinedly and his jaw flexes. "The only reason you didn't fight it with Howard is because they literally burned it out of you."
His handler's gaze is sharp and intense, his eyes filled with a deep kind of righteous anger that the Asset knows instinctively is not directed at him, and he sits in stunned silence, staring into his handler's eyes as he tries to come to terms with everything he had just been told. He swallows, opening and closing his mouth a few times and his eyes flicking minutely over his handler as he tries to reconcile his own thoughts with his handler's words.
"I don't understand," he admits quietly, watching as his handler goes back to working on his little finger. "Why— why did Hydra have to build the chair?"
His handler pauses again and looks up at him, his brows furling slightly in confusion. "They wanted to wipe your memory," he says slowly. "Keep you loyal to them."
The Asset swallows and focuses down on his hand, his confusion only growing. "I know," he says, he knows the protocols he'd needed to operate, that is not the problem. "But why did Hydra have to build it? Wouldn't they have gotten it and my protocols from my previous handlers?" He looks up.
Wouldn't they have gotten it from you? He thinks, because if Handler-Steve had been his handler before, and Hydra became his handler later, then surely Handler-Steve would have transferred everything to them— but of course that doesn't make sense because they were fighting Hydra and the Asset had been fighting them too—
His handler's eyes widen, and he seems to still, his hand tightening over the Asset's as he stares at him, even his breath seeming to freeze. The Asset eyes him apprehensibly, trying to assess his condition (the breathing is important after all), and his handler blinks, breathing in quickly through his nose before looking away, running his thumb over the ridges of the Asset's hand. He lets out a slower breath and the Asset relaxes slightly as his handler seems to calm down.
His handler's jaw flexes for a moment and his eyes stay focused off to the side, his gaze somewhat troubled. After a few seconds he looks back, his eyes meeting the Asset's before flicking down to their clasped hands. "No," he says softly. "Nobody gave Hydra the chair or your protocols because—" He breathes in. "Because you didn't have that before," he says stiffly and the Asset blinks in surprise. "You didn't have any maintenance protocols before," he continues. "Hydra made that up after they captured you."
For a second he looks like he wants to say more, but he swallows heavily instead, pressing his lips together and flicking his eyes up to watch him.
The Asset, meanwhile, can feel his eyes widen as a few more puzzle pieces of his mental map click into place. He hadn't realised he hadn't had any maintenance protocols before working with Hydra, he'd just— he'd just assumed that that had always been how he'd operated. But if that's true then that— that means he really doesn't need those protocols to function, he'd functioned without them before, he hadn't had them until he'd been—
His mouth opens, his pulse suddenly loud in his ears as he stares at his handler. "Captured?" He says quietly, his mind buzzing. Suddenly a lot of things make a lot more sense—
His handler nods, dropping his eyes back down to his metal hand, working the q-tip around the third joint of his pinky finger. "I don't know if you remember this or not," he says roughly without looking up. "Me and you were on a mission, trying to capture Zola, one of Hydra's scientists."
The Asset tenses slightly, his mind flashing to a small man with round glasses and buggy eyes, his smile a little too big as he straps him down, prattling away about serums and soldiers and Hydra—
"We were on a train," his handler says, continuing to work on the third joint, even though it's probably clean by now. "We only had a short widow to capture him and—" He swallows. "We got into a firefight. A hole was blown into the side of the train and–" He clenches his teeth for a moment, his hands stilling as he seems to stare emptily at the Asset's hand. "You fell out," he says finally, something aching and forlorn in his voice. "I tried to get to you but—" He shakes his head and swallows heavily.
The Asset blinks, and for a second there's—
—biting wind and snow blowing over his face and freezing metal under his hands and Steve's terrified face above him—
He blinks again because he's pretty sure he's already seen that flashback before, near the beginning of his stay at the Tower. In front of him, his handler breathes in slowly and finally discards his q-tip, grabbing another and turning over the Asset's hand to start working on the lines of his palm.
"You fell," his handler says, almost swallowing his words as his throat flexes. "I didn't know— I didn't know you'd survived and we still had to chase Hydra, so Command said we couldn't look for you and—" His cleaning stops as his hand tightens again and he looks up, something almost pleading in his gaze. "There was a Russian team nearby, so they told them to look, just in case – just so that we could have your body – but they said that they didn't find anything. I thought you were dead."
The Asset watches as his handler draws back slightly and breathes in, trying to calm himself. His grip loosens again as he looks down. The Asset swallows. "They… they found me though," he says slowly. "Didn't they? And they brought me to Hydra."
His handler nods and the Asset finds himself relaxing, breathing out as questions he hadn't known had been bothering him suddenly receive answers. He'd been confused as to why his handler would have ever transferred him over to Hydra when they had been enemies, but now he knows that he hadn't. He'd been stolen, and Hydra had had to develop new protocols and trigger words for him because no one had been there to transfer authority to them, he'd had no reason to listen to them and he had tried to fight them because they weren't his handlers.
Tears prick at his eyes again and he looks down, watching in silence as his handler continues to clean out his hand, feeling overwhelmed by the kindness of his handler, the magnitude of his revelation and the implication it has on his past missions. "I didn't know I wasn't supposed to fight for Hydra," he says, his voice thick in his throat.
His handler sets aside the last q-tip and grabs the cloth, wiping it over the metal of his hand. "I know," he says softly. "It wasn't your fault, Bucky. You were just doing what you were taught. It was all you remembered."
He drops his gaze and swallows, unable to meet his handler's eyes. What he says might be true but… but he'd still done it. He'd still fought for Hydra and killed so many people for them, including Stark's parents. And that… He swallows again. Stark had said that they would 'deal with it later', and he doesn't know what to think about that.
oOo
He sleeps a lot after that. He can't exactly explain why he's so tired, but he has almost no motivation to do anything beyond laying in his bed. His handler gets him up regularly to eat, which means he also has to get up to go to the bathroom, and his handler orders him to shower at one point, so he does, but other than that, he spends the next day and a half on the couch.
His handler is worried about him, he knows he is. He seems to have a permanent crease between his eyebrows whenever he looks at him, and at one point, the Asset hears him in his room, talking worriedly over the phone with someone, but even his handler's concern isn't enough to move him.
If he were with Hydra, his behaviour would be absolutely unacceptable. His handlers would have forced him into action and punished him if he were ever so lazy as now… But he isn't with Hydra. He was never even supposed to have been with Hydra. Hydra had stolen him from his handler, and then retrained him and told him that he was helping people, but really every mission they had sent him on had been wrong.
That's the hardest part honestly.
Every mission, every target. All of it, everything Hydra had done and had him do, he'd been supposed to fight it and he hadn't even known. He'd just— He'd just done it, because— because if he hadn't then, he would have been punished.
He still doesn't remember all his missions. Honestly, he's not sure how he will know if he ever remembers all of them, but the ones he does remember consume his thoughts while he lays blankly on the couch during the day, and then consume his dreams while he sleeps.
His sleep schedule is all messed up now and he wakes up in the afternoon, the sun reflecting in the windows of the buildings across from him as he slowly sits up and leans against the arm of the couch. A sound from the kitchen startles him from his haze and he looks over, blinking in incomprehension when he sees Wilson sitting on one of the stools, his phone in hand.
The Asset stares at him for a while, his unexpected presence throwing him for a loop. Eventually he flicks his eyes around the room, noting the lack of his handler's presence, his brain gradually working up to curiosity. He licks his lips. "Where's Handler-Steve?" He asks finally, his voice grating dryly in his throat.
Wilson looks up from his phone, a calm expression on his face. "He went to go check on Tony," he says, his foot swinging from its perch on the stool. "He asked me to be here in case you woke up."
The Asset nods dully and turns back to face the living room, glancing emptily over the skyline outside the windows. Behind him, he can feel Wilson watching him, but he finds he doesn't care very much, and eventually the man goes back to his phone as they both wait for his handler's return.
He chews on the inside of his cheek and can't help feeling guilty as he processes what Wilson had told him. His handler is checking on Stark because the man had also been affected by all this. He'd said that he'd already known about the nature of his parents' death, but the idea of that is so… The implications of that… He swallows and grits his teeth. He understands better now, why Stark had originally avoided him, but he can't understand why Stark had let him stay in the Tower in the first place, let alone reach out to him like he had.
Even with Stark's past hospitality, who knows if that will continue now, and the Asset is probably putting his handler in a difficult position (although part of him finds it hard to understand why his handler would have difficulty choosing between him and his friend.) But… he swallows nervously as he thinks over the possible response from Stark and the rest of the Avengers. He doesn't know if they all know what he's done, but even if they don't, they will probably find out soon and then…
They don't have a chair, he reminds himself. They don't have a chair because Hydra had built that themselves, so if the Avengers or Stark want to punish him, they will have to do something else. He tries to relax back into the couch and work on preparing himself for whatever they might choose. As long as he can keep his memories – even the painful ones about Howard – then he will be fine, he can handle whatever they do. He doesn't think they have cryofreeze here, or even a brig so—
His speculations get cut short as the door to the apartment opens and he turns his head to see his handler returning. He blinks in surprise as, behind his handler, he catches sight of Romanoff as well. His eyes track her as she follows his handler into the room, and he can't help wondering why she'd come with him.
His handler pauses next to Wilson's chair, but Romanoff continues on her course, marching right up to the back of the couch and looking down on him. "Come on," she says, her voice holding no room for argument. "Let's go for a walk."
The Asset blinks at her, and then flicks his eyes over to his handler, searching for a reaction. He doesn't really want to go on a walk right now with Romanoff, so if his handler tells him not to, then he'd be fine with that. Of course, he'd go if his handler said to, but Handler-Steve's face remains frustratingly neutral when he looks over to him, and he has to look back over to Romanoff without any extra clues as to how to respond.
Romanoff folds her arms and settles in with a look on her face that says she's willing to wait for him as long as it takes, and a flicker of irritation flares up in him before it just as quickly gets smothered by resignation. He lets out a quiet breath that is almost a sigh and levers himself off the couch, turning to face Romanoff. He happens to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt already, so he doesn't need to get changed to go out, which is good, he supposes. He doesn't really understand why she wants to go on a walk now of all times, but at the same time he doesn't really care.
Romanoff nods at him and drops her arms, turning to walk back towards the front door. The Asset follows tiredly and lets her lead them silently all the way to the elevator. She pushes the button for the ground floor, and they ride the elevator all the way down, the Asset staring quietly off to the side, trying to keep his mind mostly blank.
It used to be a lot easier.
Romanoff doesn't speak at all as they exit the Tower and begin to make their way down the street, following the familiar path to Bryant Park. It's the same route he takes with Dr Banner to get to the library right next door, and people line the sidewalks and cars wiz past as he walks next to Romanoff, but he doesn't pay them much mind.
"You're worrying Steve, you know," Romanoff says suddenly, and he glances over, finding her gaze still focused on the path ahead. She shrugs. "He's trying not to make it obvious, and he won't say what happened. But judging from the fact that Stark is shutdown and holed up in his labs, I'm guessing it has something to do with something you both saw with BARF." She flicks her eyes over to him for a brief second before looking back in front of herself.
The Asset swallows without saying anything and sidesteps a slower pedestrian who is more focused on their phone than walking as he thinks over Romanoff's words. He knows his handler is worried for him. In all honesty it's a little bit of a foreign concept, since he's pretty sure none of his other handlers ever really worried for him, and he doesn't really like worrying his handler, but he doesn't really know what to do with the things he's learned and the confrontation he knows is coming with Stark.
He shoves his hands in his pants pockets and looks down at his feet, his eyes skating over a discarded cigarette butt. Next to him, Romanoff remains silent and he swallows again. "I wasn't supposed to do my missions with Hydra," he says softly, barely audible above the street noise around them. "I didn't remember, but now I do."
And I killed Stark's parents, he thinks, pressing his lips together, not about to share that mission if Romanoff doesn't already know about it. And I didn't even know it was wrong.
Beside him, Romanoff looks down, her hair slipping out from behind her ear and blocking his view of her face as they continue to walk, a bubble of silence amid the busy street life. After a few minutes, Romanoff reaches up and tucks her hair back behind her ear and rolls her shoulders, sticking her hands in her pants pockets. "You know," she says quietly without looking at him. "You know I'd never had a birthday before I joined SHIELD?"
The Asset's brow furls slightly at the unexpected subject, but he shakes his head, watching as Romanoff shrugs her shoulders again. "Clint organised it for me," she says, continuing to stare straight ahead. "I don't actually even know when my exact birthday is, the Red Room wasn't really big on that sort of thing." She looks over at him for a moment before looking away. "They picked me up when I was a kid," she says. "I don't really remember much before them."
She looks up at the sky for a moment and the Asset remains silent, Bryant Park coming into view in the street ahead of them. He's not exactly sure where Romanoff's story is going, but she obviously has something to say, so he waits for her to begin again.
Romanoff looks down and moves seamlessly out of the way of a wandering pedestrian before stopping at the crosswalk, her eyes focused on the entrance of the park as they wait for the light to change. "The Red Room taught me everything I know— everything I knew," she says, her gaze on the red traffic light. "They were strict, ruthless, and there was no room to question the morality of their missions."
The light changes and the Asset steps out onto the road with her, their steps in sync as they cross the street. "Having a conscious wasn't really encouraged with them," Romanoff says as they step up from the curb and head towards the entrance to the park. "But…" She shrugs, looking down. "I learned anyways."
The park is lined with massive trees and their leaves filter out the sun, casting leafy patterns on the wide sidewalk as he and Romanoff begin to amble along the path, sidestepping other park-goers walking around or sitting in chairs. A cool breeze rustles the leaves and fans out Romanoff's hair, causing it to twist out in wisps.
Her mouth twitches. "By the time I broke with the Red Room… I'd already gotten onto SHIELD's radar, in a bad way." She turns her head to look across the field in the middle of the park, her voice growing quieter. "They sent Clint after me, and I expected to be killed. I didn't really see any other option." Her mouth twitches again, this time with amusement. "Clint made a different call though," she says, pulling her hands out of her pockets to rub at her wrist. "And he managed to convince both me and SHIELD to give each other a try."
She shakes her head. "At first I thought I could do it. I was a good fighter, and now I could fight for the right side, and I thought if I worked hard enough, I could prove myself to them in no time, I thought I knew where I stood…" She shrugs and looks back towards the field. "Except… SHIELD wouldn't send me on any missions."
The Asset turns his head and blinks at her, her story suddenly feeling very familiar. He swallows and watches as the wind catches her hair again, the strands sparkling brightly in the flickers of sunlight shining down from between the trees.
Romanoff huffs and puts her hands back in her pockets. "Instead SHIELD insisted I do things with my handler that I thought were pointless. Things like find and rent an apartment, grocery shop and choose a wardrobe." She rolls her shoulders. "I could do all those things for missions if I needed to," she says. "But I didn't understand why I needed to do them for myself. I could be so useful for SHIELD, and all Clint wanted to do was watch movies with me and walk his dog. And he wasn't even my handler."
She lets out a breathy laugh, more air than anything else, and her mouth twitches ironically. "When they finally took me on my first mission…" Her voice drops and she looks down. "I did it. But I broke down after," she admits. "All of the sudden, every mission I'd ever done with the Red Room was so much more real. I'd done terrible things and I'd hardly even cared."
The Asset swallows and watches her stare at the cobblestones under their feet for a while. Eventually she sucks in a breath and shakes out her hair, casting him a glance before looking ahead again. "They told me it wasn't my fault," she says quietly. "That the Red Room had been brainwashing me since childhood, and that I couldn't be expected to resist them under those circumstances."
She stops walking abruptly and turns to look at him. "But that doesn't change the fact that I still did it," she says, and the Asset feels his breath stall in his lungs as he stares at her, his eyes wide. He nods subconsciously, unexpected relief flooding through him at the sudden knowledge that Romanoff understands. She knows.
His handler had said that it hadn't been his fault, but that doesn't change the fact that every single one of his missions had still happened, all those people are dead, and nothing he can do will change that now. Whether or not it had been his fault, he'd still done it, and nothing will change that.
Everyone will still be dead. Stark's parents will still be dead.
Romanoff nods and looks to the side. "Of course," she says quietly. "Being upset about it won't change it, and the choice comes down to either wallowing for the rest of your life or finding something to move on with." He stares at her and she looks up at him. "I'm not going to say it gets easier," she says, something deep in her gaze. "But…" The wind whips her hair again and she reaches up to tuck it away. "After a while… it doesn't hurt so much."
oOo
After that, he does his best to check back into life again. The death of Stark's parents and his work with Hydra still sits like an aching wound in his chest, but he slowly accepts the invitations of the other Avengers to begin his training again. None of them seem to know exactly what had happened between him and Stark (and part of him wonders if they would be so accommodating if they knew what he had done), but they all seem to do their best to be gentle with him.
He does his best to avoid Stark. Not that it's very hard really, since Stark doesn't seek him out, and the Asset studiously keeps away from the garage. He knows that Stark will confront him eventually, and his handler is sure to keep an eye on his teammate, but the Asset feels no need to approach Stark any sooner than necessary.
Just over a week after the initial incident, he finds himself alone in his handler's room. Handler-Steve is back at one of his doctor's appointments, and the Asset's walk with Bruce had left him with about half-and-hour to himself. He finds it harder than before to find the urge to keep busy, so he's simply sitting on the couch when JARVIS calls to him.
"Sergeant Barnes?"
His whole body jerks as he flinches, his breath catching in his throat and his heartbeat doubling as he cringes into the couch, his mind flashing back to—
—pain, and anger, and he doesn't know why those words are so bad but his handler hates them so much and he will never never say them again—
He gasps and finds his arms drawn up to shield his head before he can even think. "Don't—" He shudders. "Don't. Call me that."
JARVIS is silent for a moment and the Asset works on trying to breathe properly again. Reminding himself that Handler-Karpov isn't here, and that Handler-Steve doesn't carry a leather strap at all and that he's fine. He sucks in a slow breath and drops his arms, running a shaky hand through his hair as he sits up, his shoulders hunched.
"Do you have another name you would prefer?" JARVIS asks finally, and the Asset twitches at his words. He opens his mouth before finding himself speechless, his mind suddenly completely stumped.
He knows he could simply say 'Bucky'. His handler calls him Bucky all the time, and so do most of the other Avengers, so, logically, he could ask JARVIS to do the same. Wilson had once asked JARVIS to call him 'Sam', so it's okay to ask for something like that but… But, he doesn't feel ready for that. Something about the name Bucky is… something about it is important, and he doesn't know what it is yet, and he doesn't think he can ask JARVIS to use that name until he knows for sure what it means.
But, he finds he can't quite get himself to ask JARVIS to call him 'the Asset' either.
"I don't know," he says finally, his heartbeat almost back to its original tempo.
JARVIS is silent for a moment longer before speaking up. "Is the single word 'Sergeant' acceptable?" He asks, and the Asset waits for the onslaught of panic to hit him again at the word. He tenses slightly, but other than that he feels fine, and he relaxes again, taking in a breath.
He nods, breathing out in relief. "Yes," he says. "That's fine."
"I shall keep that in mind," JARVIS promises. "However, my original purpose in calling you still stands." He pauses for a moment and the Asset looks up, waiting to hear what he has to say. "Sir has asked to see you," JARVIS informs him, and a block of ice hits his stomach, throwing off the careful breathing rhythm he'd managed to achieve. "He is waiting for you in the garage."
AN: So Bucky is working on coping with what he's learned. I know it might have seemed a good opportunity for Steve to tell Bucky that he's, you know, a person in this chapter, but it actually isn't. Bucky's already gone through something shocking and traumatizing today, destroying everything he believes is probably not a good idea. But, he does know he wasn't ever SUPPOSED to be with Hydra.
I thought Natasha would be good at helping him. In this AU, Bucky didn't teach her in the Red Room, because that hasn't been made canon in the MCU yet, but their experiences are similar.
Anyway, now that Bucky's on semi-stable ground he has to go talk to Tony.
