It had been so long since he'd awakened from natural sleep that he was disoriented. Was it morning? No, fluorescent light overhead illuminated the room. His eyes were gritty, and his mouth was dry. At some point, the dog had climbed onto the bed, and lay passed out next to him, its head flopped over his right arm. He tried to sit up, but the dog's bulk made it difficult. Finally, he poked at its haunch with a metal finger until it opened its eyes and gave him a disapproving look. Then its ears pricked up, and in response to some sound outside human auditory range, it jumped off the bed and jogged into the hallway.

Ron had ordered him to make some noise when he woke, and he was in the process of determining what would be acceptable, when the old man appeared in the doorway. "Hey, wild man, you're up! I saw Boney coming out and figured you were. Are you feeling any better?"

Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT

Recovery in progress. Mobility approximately 75% of capacity. Head, abdominal and leg injuries healing satisfactorily. Right shoulder motion acceptable. Prosthetic arm functional.

Some pain still registered when he moved, and his cognitive functioning was slow but greatly improved. He was service-ready, if that's what the question meant. One or two-word status inquires were the only kind he knew how to answer. There were too many layers of possibility for him to form a verbal response, so he just nodded. "Good!" said Ron, looking genuinely pleased. "Food service is over for today, so we'll be able to get you fixed up. First order of business, are you hungry? You've been asleep for ten hours."

Ten hours? His blood rushed cold. He didn't remember ever being allowed to sleep that long. Short naps when he had been too fatigued to continue training had been all…those had always been preceded by beatings and he'd always been slapped awake. How had he slept so long? Ron was looking at him again with that same expression he did not understand. Expecting to be struck, he winced involuntarily.

"Listen to me," Ron said, his voice more gentle. "No one is going to hurt you here. Nod if you understand."

He understood the words. He nodded.

"If you want to sleep, or just be alone for a while, you can come back to this room at any time. If you need anything, just get my attention. You can call my name, or if you can't speak, knock on something. Understand? Nod if you do."

He'd been tricked into breaking discipline with words like that during training, and had been punished severely. He wanted to obey Ron, but he didn't know which set of orders to follow, and it confused him, but he nodded. The headache ground behind his eyes, but revealing such a minor thing would earn correction.

Ron didn't say anything else for a minute. He dropped his eyes, acutely aware that he was being watched. Then Ron asked, "Do you remember how to use a shower? You do? Good, because honestly, you stink like river mud and burned oil and who knows what else." The old man took a few stiff steps that favored his arthritic knee. "It's down the hall and to the right. The towel in there is clean. I've already put some clothes for you on the shelf in there. Take your time, and if you have any questions, just knock on the wall. I'll be listening in case."

He didn't remember having used a shower before, but the knowledge was there as soon as he entered the bathroom. Stripped of his body armor and uniform, he was able to visualize the extent of his injuries for the first time. His right shoulder was swollen and discolored, purple at the top of the bone and layered in blotches of red and green down his bicep and forearm. More colorful bruises, in various stages of healing, covered his torso. The skin across the knuckles of his right hand was torn, but he didn't remember what had done that. Where his legs had been crushed under the frame of the helicarrier, one had been split open from mid-thigh to past the knee but it was knitting well. Wide red and purple stripes crossed both of his upper legs. Something had pierced his armor and one calf was stippled in mostly-healed cuts and scrapes. He couldn't see his neck or his back. He gingerly touched his head, and his hair was matted over what had been a deep wound.

Two handles and a round knob took a few minutes to figure out. The middle one started the water. The handles were marked with letters, but he didn't know what they meant. He turned one halfway, and stepped under the spray. The water was so cold it took his breath away, but it was endurable. He soaked himself until the grime and dried blood began to loosen. Some white soap was nearby; he spread lather over his face and body and clumsily washed his hair. With his jaw locked against the frigid water, he rinsed himself until it ran clear.

The metal arm required no special attention. He washed it anyway it so Ron wouldn't have to administer correction if it smelled offensive.

HYDRA had expected him to be clean-shaven between missions. There were several recognizable shaving tools nearby, so he assumed the prior orders must still be in effect. He selected an electric one to avoid opening any recently healed abrasions on his face, and circled it carefully over sore spots as he discovered them. He didn't know whether he should do anything about his long hair. It hadn't mattered much to HYDRA before, and no obvious tools had been provided for cutting it. He left it alone.

The clothes were of soft materials that did not aggravate his wounds. There was a dark blue shirt with long sleeves that was large for him around the chest, and loose denim trousers. Both had signs of previous wear, but were clean. No instructions had been given about the disposition of his uniform, so he folded it as neatly as he could and put it on the shelf, then stacked the assemblage of muddy armor pieces on top of it.

When he had finished, he went back to the room with the bed. The patchwork quilt had been changed for another one that looked almost furry and so soft he was hesitant to touch it. He heard Ron come in behind him, and quickly turned to face him. "Do you like that?" Ron asked. "It's from Korea, called a "mink" blanket, if I remember rightly. It's for you to use. The quilt had mud all over it." He held up a glass containing a frothy pink mixture. "Another shake, strawberry this go-around. If that sits well, we can try some real food next time. Drink up."

The thought of real food made his stomach growl, but Ron probably knew better. HYDRA always did. He drank it quickly, not noticing much difference in taste from the last one. He handed the empty glass back to Ron. Ron regarded him with his gray brows furrowed. "You still look pretty beat. If you need to rest, you don't have to ask permission, just do it. You are under no restrictions."

No restrictions? The concept was foreign and did not fit anywhere into the experiences he remembered. This was all new, and trying to understand was exhausting. The cold shower had temporarily relieved his bruises, but he was beginning to feel them again, and he felt like he wanted to lie down. He bit his lip in anticipation of punishment, and nodded.

Ron smiled. "It's ok, seriously. Do you want the light off?"

He didn't know. He'd slept ten hours with the light on, so he shook his head to indicate it could stay on.

When Ron left, he lay on his back on the furry blanket for a while, rubbing the fingertips of his right hand against the softness. It feels good. He hadn't remembered the word before, or even what "good" was like before now. He rolled himself up in the blanket to feel more of the good, and it was so heavy and warm that he had no trouble falling asleep this time.