It takes a long time for the Soldier to realize he is in pain.

He doesn't feel it at first, doesn't feel anything apart from the friction of bandaged fingers stroking against his scalp, and the slow, faint itch of strands of hair slipping loose from the ponytail, forward and across his face. His body is overcome with satisfaction, almost shaking, and his mind is wonderfully empty. There is no guilt, no memory, no desire to be anything more than what his programming demands. There is only a hand at his hair, and he does not shy away from any touch of HYDRA's, hard or soft. Everything is as it should be.

Until it isn't.

The knowledge of pain arrives in increments so small and slow that, by the time he realizes the sensation, it is as if it has been in his mind from the start.

His hands are clenched, fingers pressing into his palms. It is the pose he has held since he first got onto the bed, initially to focus the tension throughout him. Then the tension had melted and the position had become about support and grounding, to keep him from entirely collapsing onto the mattress, limp and overcome with contentment. There is pain at the center of his right palm, where the tip of his middle finger presses the skin. It is a mild sting, more of a discomfort than an actual hurt. He only notices it at all because it is the one part of him not flooded with relief.

The Soldier nearly sits up to assess the damage, but he remembers the source of the feeling before he can investigate. After Romanoff had pulled the cigarette away from his hand, there had been a small, circular burn forming on the skin. It had blistered by the time they reached the Smithsonian. The blister is gone now, but the spot remains tender to the touch. He is almost surprised to still feel it, but hands have so many pain receptors in comparison to other areas of—

He jolts up, retaining the presence of mind to shift back in the process so his head will not jar Rumlow's wrist as he straightens. The Soldier stares at the commander's bandaged hand, eyes wide. He is cold. Rumlow does not heal at an accelerated rate. Rumlow's burns are far more severe than anything a cigarette could accomplish, and Rumlow was in pain just lying there. "Is this hurting you?"

The commander is tense again. The Soldier should not have sat up so quickly; the movement must have read as a threat. He is still, quiet, and the worry drains from Rumlow's eyes as confusion works its way into the space left behind.

"Your hand," the Soldier clarifies. "Did it hurt to—I can function without the sensation if it is detrimental to you." He is not meant to question anything HYDRA cares to give him, but how can he knowingly cause pain to a handler? It's wrong.

Rumlow is still silent, still staring.

"Do you need more water?" He can think of nothing else to ask. The Soldier should punish himself, but he has not been ordered to do so and what if the sound of the reprimand draws others into the room?

"Christ, they did a number on you," Rumlow mutters, and only then does the Soldier understand.

As an asset, he was not designed to feel empathy. Even if he pulled an agent out of harm's way during a mission, he never stopped to assess injuries or inquire as to wellbeing. It did not matter. Only the mission mattered. His commander is stunned speechless by the realization of how far from his programming the Soldier has slipped in so brief a time period. He is a disappointment. The Soldier flushes. He wants to apologize, but weapons do not make amends.

The wipes and rewriting cannot come fast enough.

It seems strange now, to view empathy as a malfunction. But of course it is. It must be. How can he help to save the world if he is distracted by compassion for individuals?

He has not been told to kneel down and allow the contact to resume so he remains in place, waiting for an order.

But Rumlow is quiet, eyes locked onto the Soldier. He feels dissected by the stare, as if he is a dossier the commander is using to formulate a plan of attack, or as if he is a rifle in the process of field stripping. "What the hell happened on the helicarriers?" He may be asking out of curiosity. He may be asking to prevent the situation from reoccurring.

It is likely a combination of both. Rumlow is clever, and clever people are inquisitive.

The Soldier realizes that the phrase "the hell" will be erased from his mind before he ever comprehends its meaning. "I remembered Steve Rogers."

"Right after the wipe?" A tongue clicks against teeth, a little shake of the head. Another small, harsh laugh. "What, did he guilt trip you into remembering? Make a speech about the price of freedom? Cap's good at that."

Right after the wipe? The Soldier does not tilt his head, motionless and waiting as an asset is meant to be. He remembers waking in the chair and receiving the briefing on Steve before he was sent to the Triskelion hangar. He remembers nothing before that. Rumlow speaks as if the wipe and the remembering ought to be connected; was he remembering Steve before he heard his voice on the helicarrier? Was he hallucinating him even then?

Returning to HYDRA is supposed to empty his mind. If they cannot do that, what use does he have? It doesn't matter how perfectly a weapon strikes; if it is always on the verge of a malfunction, the weapon is worthless.

He cannot speak, bile rising in the back of his throat. Rumlow does not seem to mind. The Soldier thinks his questions were rhetorical anyway.

An asset must be perfectly loyal and focused. Willing to do whatever is asked, be it sacrificing one's self or fighting lions—what are lions?—without hesitation. What is he meant to do, return to HYDRA while knowing that he is broken and liable to jeopardize their operation, and simply hope that this time around, he will be better?

Assets do not hope. They do not laugh or smile or eat soup. They do not do a lot of things.

He should not remember those things to miss them. But if his memory of Steve was more than a singular programming failure, what is to keep him from feeling all the other losses? And if he remembers things he likes, what will keep him from knowing that he dislikes killing?

He imagines a life spent silent and obedient, hating every second of his time spent conscious. Perhaps hating every second altogether, if there are dreams in the cryo-sleep he is not remembering now.

It is no more than he deserves. If anything, the suffering is not sufficient. But he doesn't want to suffer, no matter how much he has earned it. It is not his place to want. There is another sound at the back of the Soldier's throat, this one signaling distress rather than relief.

"You okay, kid?" Rumlow asks.

"Kid?" Why is he being called a goat? Is it to remind him of his subservient position?

"Soldier," the commander amends. "You don't look your age."

Kid. Child. The definition slides into place. He is ninety-eight

[I am ninety-eight it is 2014 I no longer have missions I never have to go back]

and he is old enough to have sired Rumlow's father. But his body is at best two years older than it was when Barnes was declared dead at twenty-eight. He was an asset for seventy years and a person for not even thirty.

He has failed at both roles, but objectively the Soldier believes he is worse as an asset, given that he had more time in that position. And an asset's mind is simpler than a person's.

The average life expectancy for an American is around eighty years, he thinks. James Buchanan Barnes had not reached half of that age before he ceased to be human. James Buchanan Barnes was terrible and did not deserve to live.

But. The Soldier bites his lip until he tastes blood. But what?

But Barnes was little more than a kid. Is it possible to improve as a person now?

If not, there are razors or ice or immolation. Humanity is tempting. Far more tempting than the risk of regret in his mind while he is making the life fade from another's eyes. Yet he is not deserving: he is a liar, a killer, and a poor friend. He does not even deserve life as an asset; he deserves the coffin that may or may not be buried beneath Barnes's headstone.

People can choose, Sam had said. They can choose to be selfish. And selfishness is possibly the most minor of transgressions on the Soldier's soul.

Does he have a soul?

"Soldier?" Rumlow is speaking. His voice sounds far away.

The Soldier raises his eyes. His gaze is the only steady part of him; everything else has begun to tremble. He wants to stand, but he thinks his legs may give out. "I—I'm sorry."

"For what?" There is caution in Rumlow's voice and perhaps on his face as well, though the Soldier cannot see enough through the bandaging to be sure. It makes sense, his trepidation. Assets do not apologize.

"I c-can't—I'm not—I—" His fists clench as though the motion can wring words out. "I ain't goin' back."

"What?"

The words are foreign but they are also his own. They fit in his mouth as easily as his rifle slides into his hands. "I…ain't goin' back."

The Soldier stands. His legs do not give out. He is not sure if they are still shaking, because his body has gone numb. "I'm sorry," he says, because without him Rumlow will not be able to escape custody. He will not be able to return to HYDRA or avoid arrest for his involvement. "I—I'm really, really sorry, I am, but it's better this way, don't you see? I—I'm bad. I'm malfunctioning. You deserve better."

If Rumlow comprehends, if he takes any solace in the reassurance, it does not reflect in his eyes.

The Soldier turns his own gaze to the floor. "I can—maybe—amnesty? I know the Avengers—if I ask, they might…You're a good commander and would have been a good handler and if I ask, they might offer amnesty?"

"Soldier." He does not see the Rumlow's expression; he fears that if he looks back up, he will come apart. Rumlow's voice is firm and authoritative and part of the Soldier wants to snap to attention and obey.

"James," he says, moving, walking around the bed. "My name is James now, maybe. And I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—but I think I might be a person. And if I'm a person, I can't be your asset. I'd be bad at it. I'd disappoint you. And I—you're a good person, I think. I don't want you to be disappointed." His shaking fingers close on the IV lines he'd blocked off, removing the clamps. "I don't want you to hurt. Do you understand?"

He meets the man's stare then. Rumlow looks as if he wants to tear the Soldier's throat out between his jaws. The reaction is reasonable. The Soldier is being horribly selfish and he nearly kneels to enable the commander to strike him, but that would further aggravate Rumlow's injuries, so he stays in place. It takes what feels like an eternity for Rumlow to slip back under the influence of the drugs. The Soldier's hand twitches—maybe it is better as an asset, maybe he has this all wrong—but he does not replace the clamps on the lines no matter how strong the urge.

Pausing at Rumlow's bedside, he very gently strokes a hand through his commander's hair before he moves to the window.

"I'm not offering that asshole amnesty," Barton says. He is sitting on the stairs of the fire escape, just low enough that he was not visible from the hospital bed. "You can try making puppy eyes at Cap, if you want."

He pauses halfway out of the window, staring. Cap. He had almost forgotten Steve, almost forgotten all of them in the rush of potential humanity. "You said you wouldn't follow me."

Barton stretches his legs out before he stands. "I said I'd give you a head start. Stay there, let's go through the door. Car's closer that way."

"There are guards."

"Nat told them to take a break." Barton slips through the window, sliding it closed after him. He does not spare a glance toward Rumlow's sleeping form. "We figured this was probably where you wanted to go when you asked about DC. This, or some hidden base."

He had more stealth as an asset than as a person, he thinks. He was less conspicuous. "If I had decided to leave for HYDRA, would you have let me?"

"Hell no. But I told you you'd make the right choice when it came down to it."

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the bag of M&M's. "These are yours."

"The red ones are mine," Barton corrects, waving the bag away. "You eat the rest."

"Okay." James slides one of the candies, blue, out of the bag. It is sweet enough to bring tears to his eyes.

A/N: I hope that Winter's thought process here comes across as realistic; I stressed for a while over what I could use to bring him back toward humanity. I knew I didn't want him to be swayed by memories of Steve, but rather something that came from within. I also didn't want him to decide maybe it's better to be a person and instantly have everything fixed; his worldviews are still rather skewed, and even a decision as positive as "I want to be a person, not a tool" wouldn't resolve all that instantaneously.