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Three steps across the cell, three steps back.
Cot, window, wall.
Back and forth, the Asset paced.
When he first comes out of cryofreeze, after he defrosts and goes in the chair, he can be still. He can stand for hours. Days, if necessary. Once his mission is finished, he undergoes any repairs required by his body and equipment, and then closes his eyes for another day. Year. Decade.
Time can pass unremarked by the Asset. He is a tool, brought out and shined up when needed, and then put away.
This mission was a disaster, with bad intel that led them across three continents and concluded with a need for significant repairs. The plates of the arm needed to be ground back into alignment, his ribs needed to be wrapped, his leg needed stitches. And because they were on the wrong continent, they were in a random base that hadn't been used in recent memory, and there wasn't a chair ready for calibration.
So the repairs were made, and then the Asset was led to this cell, while the few remaining members of the team ran around trying to get scientists and equipment ready for Asset storage.
The Asset was not looking forward to the storage experience, which told him all he needed to know about his mission readiness. The Asset did not expect things for himself. He did not anticipate events, beyond risk assessments for mission success parameters. 19 days had passed since he defrosted this time. After his most recent meal was delivered, the Asset could hear the Commander, agitated on the phone in the hall outside the cell, trying to get a scientist here now because "the longest popsicle's ever been out was 14 days, who knows what he'll be like if we wait another week!"
Cot, window, wall.
In another week, the Asset may anticipate more things. Maybe he'll care what his next meal tastes like. Maybe he'll watch the light cross his cell from the window with more than apathy. Maybe he'll rip the Commander's head right from his shoulders—
No, he will not do that. The Asset clutched his head between his hands, cool metal fingertips pressed to one temple while warm, smooth flesh lay flat on the other.
From down the hall, footsteps. It was too soon for another meal. The Asset straightened his shoulders and stood in the corner farthest from the door, hands loose at his sides .
Soldiers flooded the doorway, a man bound and limp between them.
A gag bit deeply into his cheeks, pulling his mouth white-rimmed and taut.
He hit the floor with a muffled oof, fists clenching where they were cuffed behind his back. The soldiers behind him laughed and the Commander leaned against the open door, arms crossed.
“Have fun, stay safe,” he said finally, a leer tugging at his lips, and the door clanged shut.
The Asset listened to the laughter, the bets, the footsteps marching off down the hall. The persistent hum of cameras filled the silence left in their wake.
The man was on his knees now, legs spread, peering up at him from under rumpled, sweaty blond hair. A bar of light sliced across his face from the small window in the door. It should have looked submissive, but his eyes were like fire. Not the flickering flash of heat from a candle, nor the playful tongues which leapt from a campfire; this was the steady, molten blue which lay patient at the center of a flame.
The man’s head cocked to the side as the moment dragged and the Asset remained standing, unmoving, in the corner of the cell.
A huff of breath whistled through the crooked nose. Probably broken, the Asset thought.
The man raised his hands, cuffs suddenly dangling from one wrist and blood dripping from the other, to his face and pulled the gag from between his teeth.
The gag left red tracks across his cheeks, a gross parody of pillow creases after a good night’s sleep. The lines crossed over purpling bruises and dried blood. The Asset found his eyes tracing them from the corner of those bloodless lips, across sharp cheekbones, to the man's golden blond hairline that shone dully in the low light.
“Goddamn,” the man said, stretching his jaw. “Rumlow packs a helluva punch, Nazi bastard.”
The Commander was a bastard, but the Asset never heard anyone say so. His flesh hand twitched slightly but he betrayed no other indication of his surprise.
The man’s gaze dragged up and down the Asset’s body, bloody hand still gently massaging the hinge of his jaw.
“Guess you already knew that,” he mused. “I knew he was a bastard, too. Worked together for a long time, me and Brock.” He spat the name like the taste of it was a film across his tongue. “Nazi part is new though.”
The Asset remained quiet, eyes flicking up to the solid red light on the camera in the corner.
The man turned, following the Asset’s glance, and chuckled before blowing a kiss at the camera.
“Nazi bastards,” he grumbled again, and sank back onto his ass with a sigh instead of kneeling up on the concrete floor.
“Some accommodations you got here,” he went on, seemingly happy enough to fill the silence for both of them. “They often send prisoners down for you to have fun with?” He put up air quotes as he said the words, obviously catching Rumlow’s insinuation.
“No,” the Asset said. “You’re the first.”
“Lucky me.” There was a pause. “I’m Clint. Who are you?”
“The Asset,” said the Asset.
“Aw, Hydra Kool-aid, no,” the man, Clint, said. “C’mon, man, what’s your name.”
The Asset paused. “They call me the Winter Soldier. Or Soldier.”
Clint rolled his eyes. “Yeah, the metal arm was a dead giveaway. Not subtle, hey? It's just. Ya know. Not a name.” There was a pause as Clint’s eyebrow tried its hardest to climb up into his hairline.
“I don’t have one,” the Asset said finally.
Clint shoved himself back across the floor to lean against the wall, his hand leaving a thin bloody trail across the concrete. “Guess I’ll come up with one,” he mused. “Given the lack of other entertainment, unless you have a stash of Playboys hidden under that mattress?”
The Asset looked at the cot, which would show a bulge if so much as a pea were placed beneath its thin pad.
“No,” he said again. “Sorry.”
“Hey, no problem, not like you were expecting guests. Hmm. How's Mike? Jones? Bob?”
The Asset’s lip twitched. “No.”
Clint shrugged and tilted his head back to lean against the wall, shoulders relaxed, hands easy in his lap. His eyes drifted half closed, though a sliver of blue remained clearly visible.
He had purple plastic behind his ears that the Asset could see now that he was facing the side.
The camera continued to hum.
“Should sleep,” the Asset said finally.
“Go ‘head,” Clint said, waving his hand magnanimously toward the cot. “Don’t let me put you out.”
The Asset shifted his weight. “We could both fit.”
That blue fire gaze landed hot on the Asset’s face. “You’re not fucking me, pal. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”
The Asset pursed his lips. He’d already spent too long looking at the man’s mouth to outright deny attraction.
“There’s only the one bed.”
“Practical,” Clint agreed. “No thanks. I’m good.”
The Asset was not going to lay down in an indefensible position on the cot with this man across the room. He wished he could pace again. He stood still.
Time passed.
Clint’s eyes stayed half lidded, his body unmoving. If not for the regular flexing of his hands, one finger at a time, then all five at once, the Asset would have thought he was asleep.
The Asset had to admire his ability to stay ready in such conditions. The bruising across his face deepened from red to purple to black over the hours, pooling under his skin like a patchwork quilt. The collar of his shirt was ripped, and the Asset could see the colors extending down his chest and across his forearms. Defensive bruises. The ease with which he’d gotten out of those tight cuffs spoke of experience in tight spots. The torn knuckles were offensive.
Something in the Asset stirred at that realization, that Clint gave as good as he got. That he hadn’t gone down without a fight, that they’d needed a gag to shut him up. Maybe he’d bitten them. The Asset could vaguely remember using his teeth to fight back, once. They’d forced him into a muzzle before they froze him, that time, and the memory of cold metal against his cheeks as his blood slowed in his veins made him shudder. He hadn’t tried again.
Footsteps echoed down the hall and the Asset stiffened, standing ready in his corner. Clint just lolled his head back, a grin spreading across his face as the Commander slammed the door open.
“Morning, Brock,” Clint said cheerfully. “Been awhile since I woke up to your Nazi face. Got any coffee, this time? Gonna make me breakfast?”
“Come, Soldier,” the Commander said without so much as a glance down in Clint’s direction.
The Asset pushed himself forward. Heel, toe, hip, soundless movement that crossed the floor and led him out the door beside the Commander.
The door clanged, a sharp ringing of metal on metal as it shut behind them.
They walked down the hall, footsteps echoing off the walls from heavy boots. The Asset imagined how it must feel to Clint, the hollow thumps and the vibrating thud as each foot hit the floor, less and less as they moved farther away.
They turned the corner, and the alarm began to blare.
“That fucking carnie—” the Commander swore, pivoting sharply and running back toward the cell. “Don’t let him get away from you!”
The Asset squared his shoulders and outpaced the Commander, reaching the gaping cell door before the next shrill peel of the alarm could even ring out.
The cell was, of course, completely empty. The Asset’s eyes ran over the small space for less than a heartbeat before he turned to continue up the hall, where Clint must have fled.
He’d taken just two more steps before he felt the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor through the soles of his boots, and he turned in time to see the Commander’s hand fall against the ground next to his head with a splat, blood already puddling where the back of his head had, apparently, exploded.
Well.
The cell was unoccupied, the Asset was certain, and sightlines in and out of the room were poor, so he ducked inside before he could follow the Commander to the ground. He wasn’t sure if his skull would regrow damage of that extent, and he was unwilling to find out under these circumstances.
He pressed his fingers to the small overhang above the door and swung his feet up to press against the opposite wall, holding his body tight to the wall so he could peer out from the door as high in the opening as possible, limiting his exposure to anyone seeking a target from outside. The alarm continued to sound, vibrating through his fingertips, through his chest where it pressed against the concrete, blending with the tremble of his muscles as even with the serum his body struggled to maintain his position with no additional support. More footsteps rounded the corner, and he felt the thunk, thunk, thunk as they, too, collapsed to the ground. Glass shattered.
Silence. Clint must have broken the alarms.
“Fucking Nazis and their fucking bases,” the Asset heard, and one more flump as someone, presumably Clint, fell to the floor.
He curled his metal fingers around the doorframe, much easier to repair than the flesh, and waited.
“C’mon out, Ben,” Clint said. “Won’t shoot you yet. Promise.”
Reassuring. Might be worth it to get shot rather than go back to the chair, anyway.
The Asset stepped out from the cell, muscles breathing a sigh of relief even as his chest tightened in what was,perhaps, adrenaline as he prepared to follow the Commander’s final order. "My name isn't Ben."
Clint stood on one leg in the middle of the hallway, looking at the treads of his boot with distaste. “Yeah, no you don't really look like a Ben to me either," he said, distracted. "You know how hard it is to get the blood out of these?” he asked. “And the dust—bet you never get up in the ceilings, do ya? Well, it’s a mess up there, Joe, I’ll tell you.”
"Not Joe, either," the Asset said as his eyes flickered to the ceiling where, yes, a tile was shoved aside. It hadn’t been that way when they’d turned the corner in their rush back to the cell, which meant that Clint could move much faster than the Asset would have anticipated.
“Brock never even took his own trash out, how could I have expected that he’d keep his super secret villain lair clean,” Clint continued to mutter as he tore strips off of his shirt and wrapped them around the freshly bleeding wound on the wrist the cuffs had previously dangled from.
The Asset looked more closely at the Commander’s head and—yes, somehow Clint had thrown a link from the cuffs fast enough that it had gone right through the Commander’s skull and out the back. The other soldiers down the hall appeared to have suffered the same fate, although one of them had the cuff itself embedded in his jugular. That seemed—unreasonable, actually. The Asset squinted at Clint. The Commander wouldn’t have missed a gun, would he? Clint hadn’t been armed the whole time, had he?
Clint was now rolling his neck and stretching out his shoulders, and the Asset took the opportunity to look at him appraisingly.
He didn't look enhanced, although the Asset couldn't be sure. He had no belt. No shoelaces. No necklace or tie. Nothing he could have used to propel metal through the air at a speed great enough to do this level of damage.
There was, however, a thin strip of fabric dangling from the ceiling tile. It was heavily wrinkled and browned, old blood spotted its surface. Clint couldn’t possibly have used the gag he pulled out of his own mouth, could he?
“So,” Clint said finally. “Figure you’re probably not actually a Nazi, what with, like, how you don’t have a name, and you haven't tried to kill me yet. If I’m wrong though…” he flipped the other cuff up into the air, the teeth flapping uselessly on the hinge. “Would rather not take you out if I don’t have to. So. Chris. You gonna check me out all day or you ready to blow this popsicle stand?”
The Commander’s orders rang through the Asset’s head.
Have fun—stay safe—don’t let him get away from you.
Surely if the Asset went with Clint, even if just to investigate how he’d managed to do this, he would still be following orders. Besides, he needed to get to a new base, find command, report on what happened here. He’d just bring Clint with him. Easy enough.
“My name isn't Chris," the Asset said. "But I'll come.”
“Great!” Clint’s smile lit up his face, and the Asset found himself caught like a moth in the blue flame of his eyes.
They picked over the bodies for knives and guns, and then headed for the stairs. Now that they were armed, leaving the facility was easy. Each time they came across soldiers, they killed them. The Asset was careful not to let any of them speak, shooting through throats, shattering jaws, kicking out their air before they could give him any orders. He could ride his current orders right out the door, finally escape—
Not that the Asset was escaping.
Have fun—the Asset was certainly having fun. With every body that hit the floor, every spatter of blood, the grin across his face grew.
Stay safe—no one had managed to kill either of them yet, and—the Asset stopped a bullet headed toward Clint's back with his metal hand, letting it ping down onto the ground. He ripped the gun out of the offending soldier's hand, pistol whipping him with it and then shooting him through the head—they wouldn't, if the Asset had anything to do with it.
Don't let him get away from you—Clint was well within arm's reach, ducking and weaving as if they'd been fighting together for years, rather than just the last five minutes.
Clint dropped the last soldier, a bloody smile splitting the man's neck from ear to ear. "This how you show a guy a good time, Timothy?"
"That's not my name," the Asset said, wiping his own knife on the shirt of the soldier laying on the floor in front of him. "And you'll know if I'm trying to show you a good time."
The Asset closed his mouth with a snap. Very abnormal behavior—but still covered by his orders, he reassured himself. Have fun. He could do that. He would be the best at that.
Clint's eyes narrowed, but he didn't mention the Asset's sudden silence, and he turned to frown at the darkened glass of another vacant lab. "What's all this equipment for? D'you know?"
"Weapon calibration," the Asset said shortly.
No more soldiers blocked their path, and soon the big warehouse door of the base loomed ahead of them. They were both covered in blood and dust, and the Asset's metal arm was under a long sleeve but his hand would still catch attention. They needed somewhere to regroup, and Clint didn't seem willing to stay inside the Hydra base to do it. Without breaking stride, the Asset broke through the lock with one quick jerk of his metal hand.
"Convenient," Clint noted as they shoved their way outside.
Noise burst over them and the Asset did not flinch from it, his eyes landing instead on passages through the bustling crowds to quieter streets and alleys.
"This way," he said, starting forward. Warm fingers rough with callouses closed around his wrist.
Idiot, a voice in his head said. No self preservation, no caution, just running head first into every goddamn situation—
"I'll get us out of here," Clint said, and his words may have been meant to reassure, but the skin around his eyes was tight and narrowed, flames banked low and ready to be fanned into a blaze. He tugged and the Asset followed. No need to rush to the next base. And maybe if they just, never found a base, the Asset wouldn't need to go back into the chair.
Clint released the Asset's wrist when it became clear that he wouldn't insist on taking charge, and they wove through the crowds.
"Damn," Clint said suddenly, grabbing the Asset again and yanking him toward the street. Instinct warred in the space between heartbeats—tear away from the grip, go limp and pliant—
He jerked away, and Clint immediately put his hands up and ducked his head, just slightly, just a jawline barely dipped instead of strong and clenched. "My bad, man. I saw a payphone—didn't even know places still had those."
The Asset nodded slowly and followed Clint across the street to where Clint fiddled with the phone for a moment until the Asset could hear tinny ringing from the receiver.
"Nat," Clint breathed when the call connected.
"Where are you," a woman's voice demanded.
"Bangkok," the Asset supplied when Clint glanced over at him.
"Bangkok," Clint repeated.
"What the hell are you doing in Bangkok?"
"You'll never guess—remember our buddy Brock?"
Silence from the other end of the line.
"Turns out he had his fingers in all sorts of octopus pies."
A scathing noise.
"Yeah, no, I know right?"
"I'll call you a ride," she said finally.
"You're a real pal."
"Do you need medical?"
"Only like, a tiny bit. I can do it myself, even, with the 'jet's kit."
"I'll send Sam."
"Well…"
"Don't argue with me, Clint."
Clint grimaced, then winced as the expression pulled at his nose. The Asset raised a brow and Clint made a what can you do face with the receiver pinned between his shoulder and the side of his face, the purple plastic digging into his ear just behind it.
"There's also. Um. I made a friend."
The woman on the phone could say a lot with silence, the Asset learned.
Clint fidgeted with the phone's cord. "So, uh. Tell Sam we'll have a passenger."
A sigh. "Who's your friend, Clint."
"Um. You know, just a guy. With a metal arm?"
The woman cursed. "Are you with the Winter Soldier right now?"
"He hasn't even tried to kill me!"
"Commander ordered me to keep you safe," the Asset muttered.
Clint stared at him for a moment. "Did you just rules lawyer yourself around Hydra orders?"
The Asset allowed his mouth to form a smirk.
"Keep your head down until we get there," the woman said, each word infinitely crisp. "Just because he hasn't killed you yet doesn't mean he won't, and if anyone from Hydra finds you they will give him different orders, orders which he will follow."
"Jeez, alright, alright," Clint said. "You didn't see him take out all those Hydra goons just now though—"
"One hour. And I'm bringing Cap."
"Aw, disappointed face, no," Clint said.
"Keep out of sight. Don't let any Hydra agents give him any other orders. Can you stay out of trouble for one hour?"
"Nat, I'm wounded," Clint said, one hand coming up to his forehead in a swoon that the phone could not convey.
"Durak." The voice was fond, despite the word, and the call disconnected.
Clint hung up the phone with a soft click and sighed. "Well, we've got an hour to kill," he said. "Any ideas, Jack?" He looked around, not waiting for a response, nose in the air like a dog. "Coffee," he said dreamily, and the Asset saw his eyes had nearly closed as he wandered down the sidewalk toward a shop which, yes, smelled strongly of ground beans.
"My name isn't Jack," the Asset said to Clint's back.
The shop was empty but for a single attendant, small barstools at the counter against the window, two small tables and a booth filling the center and back wall.
"Coffee, large, no milk, no sugar," Clint was saying to the harried man behind the counter. "What d'you want, James," he asked, turning slightly to look at the Asset.
"Chocolate," the Asset heard himself say.
"And one hot chocolate," Clint said, not missing a beat.
"For here or to go," the attendant asked, already turning to scoop coffee grinds out of a huge bag at his side.
"Uh…" Clint turned to look at the otherwise empty space, and the Asset clocked the moment he spotted a table near the back which would give them sightlines to the door, windows, and the space behind the coffee bar. "Here."
"You gonna make your friends come in and get us?" the Asset murmured.
Clint shrugged and handed the Asset a cup of something that smelled heavenly. "They'll figure it out. Nat's gotten me out of worse places."
17 minutes had passed since Clint hung up the payphone. They sat in silence while Clint swallowed the steaming hot liquid without so much as a flinch and the Asset lost himself in the smell of chocolate wafting out of his cup.
Clint's mug hit the scarred tabletop. "So much better," he moaned, satisfaction softening the lines of his face. The Asset hid his expression in his own cup.
Have fun—it would probably be fun to put that look on Clint's face himself. Almost certainly. The Asset wondered how he'd do it.
"Okay. Names. Just stop me if any of these sound good."
The Asset listened in bemused silence as Clint started listing off names in an order the Asset could not parse. Jason, Bruce, Steve, Anthony, what about Tony? Peter, Henry, Charles? Chuck? No? You sure? Okay what about—
The chocolate got thicker towards the bottom of the cup, and the Asset swiped a spoon from the next table over, scraping at the porcelain to extract every last drop.
"None of those," he mumbled around the spoon. Clint's blue flame eyes dropped to the Asset's mouth, pupils expanding as the Asset licked the spoon clean.
Bang.
The door to the coffee shop blew open, and a red haired woman the Asset had never expected to see again strode in, Captain America at her back, stars, stripes, and cowl straight out of the pages of the Asset's last briefing. The shop attendant dropped his phone to the counter with a squeak.
"Nat!" Clint said, standing and spreading his arms wide. "You'll never guess where I woke up this morning—"
The Asset's eyes were locked with Captain America.
"Bucky?" he said, and the Asset could hear the curdled mix of awe and horror in his voice.
Words fell from his mouth as if by rote. "Who the hell is Bucky?"
“Bucky?" Clint said incredulously. "Seriously? Okay, yeah, I was never going to come up with that."
Deep in the Asset's mind the name settled neatly into place, smoothing burrs off the edges of something not right.
Bucky.
Yeah, that could be it. He could learn to be that guy.