For morethanashield

[disassembling]

Who: James "Winter Soldier" Barnes & Steve "Captain America" Rogers
When: Months after initial capture
What: AU - Both Steve and Bucky fell from the train. Both were captured and forced into service of HYDRA as their weapons to shape the world.
Warnings: Maybe violence?


The pain was momentarily numbed, though it would return along with his orientation of his surroundings now that the days experimentations were over. For the first time, he was stable enough to be moved from being trapped and monitored in the medical wing (he assumed it had a name though didn't know it) and shifted to the cells where only a guard was required to keep watch over numerous subjects in their small cages side-by-side. The room was kept colder than normal to prevent them from moving around much or thinking too hard about escaping.

His head was fuzzy and his vision wavered as he was settled down in the middle of his new cell. There were whispers (always were), but his head was too drained of anything to grasp onto any one detail. This was a test apparently. Perhaps to see if he could survive the rigors of the illusion of freedom in a small cold cage left to his own devices. They left, clicking the door shut with too much noise that he twitched where he lay.

At first he lay on his right side just drinking in the air, orienting himself on one aspect of his surroundings before adding another. He allowed his ears to focus next, the sounds of moaning prisoners, the mutter of a disgruntled cold guard making rounds, the shuffle of cold experiments trying to find that one warm place that didn't exist. His sense of touch was next, feeling the rough cement under his arm, and the cold wash of sensation from the left side of his body where heavy bandages covered some recent modification to where his arm should be. At last, he allowed his eyes to pick out things, but it was the current weakest of his senses, fallible and blurry as he dragged himself across the floor.

He didn't know where he was going, didn't know he was being watched keenly for what direction he chose to go when there were four options for him. One had no other prisoner, the other three did. He pulled himself towards the right, and though he didn't know it, towards where they were all very excited that he would go. To him. He nestled against the bars in the corner, breathing hard from the excursion but slowly curling up. There was a source of familiarity nearby. He chose to be close to it.

Comments

[disassembling]

For him, he needed no compliment on the skills that he had displayed nor was he moved by the pointless show of obedience to have a weapon tarnish in the grounds over some petty failed accomplishment, as if one weapon was better than another. He was to do his job to the best of his abilities, but he was not allowed to enjoy it. That sort of sensation was reserved for people who were function on a level that he was not to even step close to, and his harsh mental treatment and conditioning kept those possible glitches from occurring to him.

His reward was not a bed to lay in or food to pretend like it was something more than he needed. It was this right here, the soft words but more the shift of weight against his side. This was his reward, the only one he needed. A chance to be close to the source of the hooks in his mind, the easing of an emptiness to calm acceptance.

"They didn't warm you long enough," he whispered back. "You were disadvantaged by the cold sleep." He slipped his flesh arm around the other weapon's waist to keep a hold of the other while they leaned on each other in this simply companionable manner. It was the only aid that he could provide without going against rules that were unsaid.

The few people left took notice of their closeness a moment later. Most looked uncertain, some looked nervous and one walked away to report it. He didn't move, his head bowed subserviently waiting for orders.

[morethanashield]

"That shouldn't have mattered." That was what he had heard them say when one of the technicians had brought this up as a possible explanation for failure. So that was what he said, because if that was what they told him then it was as good as true.

But the words were...good to hear, all the same. If only for the reassurance, such as it was, that he was not irreparably broken. That he could improve, and keep surviving. Somehow, the other weapon's opinion mattered. Maybe only because they were equals, in as much as they could be anything.

More than that, this, all of this - the closeness, the contact, the words - felt like a reward, not a punishment. So much of a reward, in fact, that his wounds and bruises and blood seemed a fitting price to pay to earn it. It was a sense that was only reinforced when he felt his counterpart's flesh arm ease around his waist, taking more of his weight and in a way that could not be so easily hidden or brushed aside from the technicians.

So he allowed himself a soft exhale of relief, a moment of genuine weakness. And he moved his other arm around the other man's waist, keeping a hold in turn. If they were going to toe the line, risk punishment, they might as well do so together. He would make it clear that if this was wrong, that they were both misbehaving.

Otherwise, he merely waited, head bowed subserviently, waiting for orders and allowing himself to believe that he would still be standing when they came. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men go off to ask what should be done. No one seemed to want to risk pulling them apart.

They would be allowed a couple of hours or so to stand together before a couple of guards came to take him away for surgery. For one flash of a dangerous moment, he wasn't sure he wanted to let himself be taken away, but an angry throb from his injured leg insured his cooperation in that, at least.

So it was a relief, almost a blessing, that they informed the man with the metal arm that he was to bring Steve to the surgery rooms, with the air of men conferring a great honor. This was his "reward" for a good fight, after all.

[disassembling]

"Your muscles haven't softened enough if you don't have the time," he said simply and softly. He had not been told that he couldn't speak to the other weapon and right now didn't seem like it would change with all that was going on around them. He had seen the less lucid movements, and their fight had been quick off the start, forcing a strain on the body that was compounded with the deicing. "They will blame you, but the error is theirs. The team assigned to prepare me was speaking on it."

When they weren't ordered or pulled apart, he settled into the current stance for the time that they were allowed to remain together. They were, of course, watched closely as if they might malfunction at any time when in one another's presence in such a way, but he remained calm, docile and stoic as he supported the other weapon's weight while they stood waiting for the surgery to be prepped. There was a part of him, small and greedy, that didn't want to ever let go, that didn't want the warmth that bled into his side to ever stop. He focused on that, searching out an answer internally.

And then it was time to move. He bowed his head a little as if receiving some kind of honour in being allowed this opportunity, but his arm tightened as he helped the other weapon along out of the combat grounds. It was slow going because he made it so, taking his time but making it appear as if they were putting every effort into these motions all so that he could hold the other man longer against his side, and no one felt the need to hurry them along. If anything, more people stopped to watch their progress.

His flesh fingers subtly massaged the other weapon's side as they made down the hallways that they were directed to. He took the weapon inside all the way to the table and eased the blond down carefully to it. He lingered holding the other perhaps a bit longer than necessary but the hard lines around his eyes smoothed as he attempted a smile for the other, even if his half-mask covered most of it.

[morethanashield]

They probably would have been ordered or pulled apart, had anyone heard what they were saying to one another. Heard that they were daring to agree that their handlers could possibly have performed an error that they were merely suffering for. But since there was no evident, physical sign of malfunction - since they stood there, calm and docile, since the other man's muzzle masked and muffled any signs of speech - the technicians unthinkingly spoke over them, sparing them only the occasional glance.

After all, their keepers were looking for ways to turn their persistently lingering affection to their advantage. There was clearly some small, deeply hidden part of the emotional center of the brain that the chair couldn't reach, like the instincts for pain and reward. So if those impulses were indulged in carefully controlled environments, it was thought that it would give both weapons, both soldiers, less reason to struggle against their new roles in life. The need for one another's company was somehow just that - a need - and so like their needs for food and water, it would be carefully managed and leveraged, to ensure performance and obedience.

He knew he would be punished further, later, but that wasn't the only reason he found he didn't want this moment to end.

When it was time to move, it took him a few steps to realize that the soldier was setting a deliberately slow pace. It took him a few steps more to realize why - after all, it couldn't be due to injury - and when he did, he bit the inside of his mouth in an attempt to keep from smiling, feeling a surge of something like joy at the indisputable knowledge that the impulses that drew him towards this man were understood, returned. They fell into step easily, and it felt right.

Still, it was something of a relief to finally be permitted to get off his injured leg. He made no sound to betray as much as he was gently settled onto the operating table, but it was there in every line of his body. He looked up at his companion one last time, just before he was released, and saw there the subtle signs that betrayed even an attempt at a smile.

It was an attempt he returned a little more easily, before the doctors came to shoo them both apart once more.

It would be a long while before they would be permitted to see one another again, but for that particular theory, at least, the test had been deemed a success.

[disassembling]

The Soldier was removed from the operating room by his current assigned handler and led back out, but if he turned his head to look back over his shoulder at the other weapon one last time, it was only his business. He was taken away, fed, watered, and praised for his performance and even some of the higher ups who were in charge but skeptical of the program to keep two of them showed up with razor smiles and crisp words of their expectations now that they had seen him in action. He was to perform well, or he would be considered a detriment. It wasn't words he thought much on because he was wiped clean and put back in storage within twenty-four hours.

His first mission came eight months later, though he would never know the difference in time. He was settled into a training for a week and then sent on the mission, a simple assassination by bullet from two hundred yards. It was to see how he responded in the field, but he was close enough to his last wipe that all of their precious conditioning held and he completed the mission without even toeing any line as if they expected him to. He was touted as being so obedient, almost docile.

He performed two more missions over the next two years, all of them relatively simple but important none the less. The second involved multiple targets in a expensive home in the upper echelons of Italy. He killed the family of six quietly in their own beds in the middle of the night, even suffocating the two young children with pillows. It was not an issue. He was praised; he was deemed a success.

The next mission came with a tactical error of the handler. He was sent into a fire fight when it was supposed to be a silent affair. His orders were simple: no witnesses. He had to take his time to kill every one; he even wiped out his entire unit sent with him, handler included. No witnesses they had said; no one who had seen him was alive when he was finished and stood silent, trembling and wounded at the extraction point. They told him it was a mess, but for some reason, they didn't blame him. He was still punished. They left the four bullets inside of him for the wiping so that the metal would make it all the more painful.

They took him to surgery after that, and it was deemed too risky to send him back to cryofreeze after major surgery even with his healing factor. He had a lost a lot of blood and needed monitoring, which involved a lot of laying down and drinking foul tasting fluids. When he could maneuver on his own without assistance, he was told he'd be settled for a few hours with another weapon. A visitation, they said. No one visited a damaged weapon, he thought.

Yet, in the small room with a soft palate for a bed for him to sleep in - more than he was usually given - he waited in a corner of the room, his torso and left leg still bandaged from the surgery.

[morethanashield]

He was given a few days to recover after surgery. It was an injury that should have permanently crippled a normal man, but of course, as they loved to remind him, he was far from ordinary. And though they never said as much out loud, though they never admitted their error in removing him from the ice too quickly, special time and care was taken to make sure that he'd returned to peak physical form after his first stint in the cryofreeze.

They told him at great length that his performance had been subpar, but that they still had high hopes for him. They were willing to give him another chance. He would have the chance to prove himself soon enough. Until then, there was more training, deliberately mindless and repetitive, to work out the last of the damage from the fight. After that...there was only the chair, and the cold.

His first mission came six months later - he was to join a small team in annihilating a squad of SHIELD agents that were settling too close to their mountain stronghold. They were to be dealt with by any means necessary, with absolutely no survivors left to tell the tale. He was to take a souvenir from each body to prove his compliance. He didn't know why, but in the end, he did as he was bidden. In the end, he barely needed the other HYDRA agents at all, and he was brought in for debriefing with blood spatters marring the pristine silver edges of his shield. The shield itself, however, was quite undamaged from its role in eliminating no less than ten trained SHIELD operatives.

He performed three missions after that over the next two years. Eventually, they risked dialing back the severity of the wipes. When they did, his abilities as a commander could be used as an asset, alongside his abilities as a warrior. Still, he also shared the soldier's burden of stealth, assassinations, though they were always up close and personal affairs in quiet corners and places where the target wouldn't even have time to scream. More to the point, he was often deliberately instructed to make them messy, traumatic affairs - nothing that could be construed as an accident.

All of this he did, without hesitation. He was praised, and it meant nothing, besides the fact that he would be brought out again another day.

So it was...odd, when they took him aside the very night after he returned from a mission, to tell him that they needed him to look after someone - another weapon, like him. The other had been injured, and
he was to ensure that he didn't injure himself further during recovery, reporting back to them on his physical progress.

The others were...odd, in their simplicity, in their apparent ease. Yet he went where they bid him, into the small room just off the surgical wing where his counterpart was being left to recover. A guard opened the door to let him in, and closed it behind him.

He stood, for a long second, leaning back against the door as he regarded the man with the metal arm. Yet, impossibly, his first impulse was to smile, to speak. "Hey. They sent me to keep an eye on you."

[disassembling]

There was nothing in the way of memories to indicate what sort of weapon might be coming to join him in this small room, what kind of weapon had the ability to observe him. He suspected that his keepers were looking for new signs that he was damaged from the mission, that he might turn on them if their orders weren't crisp and clean and focused. He had been punished after all and then surgery and now he ached softly despite being able to ignore it for the most part.

His blue eyes moved to the door of his small room when it opened and a man stepped inside with him. He was suddenly far more alert than a moment before when the drugs still tugged at his mind and limbs. Now, he was awake and peering the distance between himself and that strange warm wash of familiarity that his mind told him had never happened before but his flesh knew. He relaxed across his shoulders at the idea that this was the weapon that would keep an eye on him, would make certain that he didn't bring himself harm in the coming healing time.

The smile was so different from those that were given to him, like it was really meant for his eyes. It managed to tug a shy tentative one from him before his eyes darted to where he knew there was a camera keeping an eye on him. He turned his face aside to hide the softened expression from the prying lens, but his eyes avidly followed every shift of muscle from the man by the door.

"I'm capable of standing here for hours," he said in his own defense, though perhaps that was the problem. He wasn't resting, wasn't settling the weight from his leg or easing his body to lay down and allow maximum advantage of his healing factor. "Are you... really staying?"

[morethanashield]

He shook his head, correcting the other man gently. "I know you can, but they don't want you to stand here for hours." After a moment, the words coming from some deep, long-untouched and disregarded place inside his head, he added: "I don't want you to stand here for hours." And he didn't - he even surprised himself a little, at how much he meant those words. He didn't like to see this man pushing himself when he didn't have to, especially when it was obviously causing him pain. And especially when he was clearly already in pain from earlier punishments.

He knew that look from the mirror, even if almost all of his senses were telling him that he'd never seen it on this man before. Were telling him that he'd never seen this man before at all, in fact, but that...wasn't quite ringing true. It didn't sit right, like a bone badly healed or an order given carelessly.

When the soldier didn't seem to object his presence, when he seemed to relax at it instead, he moved across the short space between them to stand beside him. "I really am." He spoke the words like a reassurance, though of course neither of them should require reassurance. They certainly shouldn't need to be soothed, like people deserving of or needing emotion. At the same time, however, the words tasted very slightly...wrong. Like he knew them to be a lie, but said so anyway, because he personally didn't want it to be a lie.

Yet these were all emotions in the privacy of his own head, and in no danger of compromising the mission. In fact, it felt...good, simple and right, to just reach out and take careful hold of him, trying to give him a way to ease some of the weight off his injured leg. It felt familiar, even though almost every instinct was telling him it shouldn't. The rest was telling him that he...owed this man this much, somehow, for some reason. He was more than happy to comply in that. "Come on. You should sit." His heart skipped a beat as he added: "I'll sit with you."

[disassembling]

He went very still at the use of the word 'want' with regards to the other weapon, his gaze flicking over towards the camera and uncertain if there was sound to it as well. He knew that they would be watched together in case they had to be pulled apart again, but he had no intention and not particular inclination to attack the other man who was now trapped inside here with him for as long as it was deemed appropriate. It seemed strange that the sincerity came through with this weapon when it never did with the others who said those things, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders and arms in response to it.

He nodded slowly, watching the blond move over to him with ground-eating soft steps, and he didn't feel the least bit threatened by them. Instead, he turned his head to continue to observe even absently passed a hand over the white bandages that covered his chest and belly, the sharp reminder of pain having him sigh slightly. He was soothed even if he shouldn't be capable of it, but there it was.

There was a new flicker of familiarity when he was taken in hand and pulled slightly in one direction to ease the pain from his leg. He went willingly, which surprised him, but he leaned against the other weapon and even slid his metal arm across the blond's shoulders to help support himself. "I will only sit if you do," he agreed and allowed himself to be helped over to the large soft palate that actually had blankets and substance to it when he was lowered to it and he did more than sit but lay himself down on his least painful side and stretched out. "Do you require sleep?"

More, could they pretend to sleep and whisper things in the close press of faces to shoulders where they would not be easily overheard?

[morethanashield]

The makeshift bed was certainly more than he'd been allowed for himself in...possibly ever. Certainly as far back as his memories extended. The closest he could ever remembering coming was the operating table, and they were always in a haste to make sure he spent as little time there as possible. The longer he spent getting repaired, the less time he could spend improving his skills. He even found himself spending a moment just rubbing the material of the blankets through his fingers, almost wonderingly. The material was threadbare and rough, to be certain, but it was warm. It was something.

It seemed...strange, out of place, to expend this much effort on a weapon that was not only broken and wounded, but must have disobeyed or otherwise displeased their handlers. The signs of maltreatment and punishment, above and beyond the surgery, were evident to his eyes from long practice observing and experiencing. The bed certainly couldn't be for his sake - his only purpose here was to observe, or so they told him. His comfort in doing so was irrelevant, especially since he was unharmed.

Still, the man was...glad, of this allowance, especially as he sat beside the man with the metal arm and watched him slowly settle. He sat beside his newfound companion, unconsciously positioning himself between the other weapon and the cameras, the better to allow the wounded man to keep his back safely to the wall. He knew the other weapon would probably prefer that - he certainly would.

In an absentminded gesture, some lingering trace of muscle memory, he reached out to run his fingers gently through the other man's matted hair. He paused only briefly at the question, strange though it was.

The right answer, of course, was "no". He did not require sleep. He was permitted sleep. The ice was not the same thing. And yet, speaking like a man creeping over thin ice, he found himself saying. "I...only recently returned from a mission myself. It would probably be...best, to save my energy now."

With barely a darted glance at the cameras, he moved to do just that, stretching out next to the other man on the bed that proved to have a fair amount of room, especially to two men trained to take up as little space as they had to. No one came to stop them, so he could only assume that this was allowed, and that was...good.

[disassembling]

The foreignness of the palate with real blankets was one of the reasons that he had stayed away from it, but now that he was settled on it, he wondered why he had resisted at all. It wasn't soft or silky either, but it was more padding then he was used to, and it eased the ache of his wounds because he was putting less pressure on them. He was still tense as if the blankets might hold some sort of adverse effect to him, like this sort of comfort would be taken away because he had made use of it.

There was no pillow, but the blanket was enough as he shifted to the most comfortable position that he could find, keenly aware of how the other weapon settled in such a way to protect him most from the cameras view. It was no doubt done purposefully, and it gave him the sensation of rightness that this man would do such a thing for him. It allowed his abused healing flesh to soften as he stared at the other weapon with an avid interest that he showed nothing else.

The touch to his hair was not expected, and he stilled when it gave him the sensation of warmth rather than a precursor to pain. In response, he shifted closer, lining up their bodies so that the bed was not the only unique aspect of the current experience, his thighs pressing in and his metal arm finding its way subtly around the blond's waist.

"Yes, conserve your energy now for training when you are removed from here," he said softly, his blue eyes finding that of the other weapon. He had... never felt warm like his before, not that he remembered anyway. As close together as they were, it would have been easy to pull part of the blanket over them both, but he didn't take that step. It seemed too risky. "We are the same, you and I."

[morethanashield]

He was somewhat surprised, but not displeased, when the other man pressed in closer. By rights, he knew he should protest, or push away. It was unsafe, a bad habit, to allow anyone this close to him without anticipating an attack. Even the scientists kept as much of a distance as they could, clinical and cool as they fixed him back up. Like this, the other man could easily have driven a knife into half a dozen vulnerable spots.

But that...didn't seem likely, and after a second he relaxed. He wasn't sure what sense gave him that impression, but it was a powerful one, and he was happy to comply with it. This was close, and warm in a way that seemed to go above and beyond body temperature.

It was...nice. That was really the only word for it, even if he didn't think it had applied to anything else in his life so far. He certainly couldn't remember anything like this before.

So he settled into the closeness, wrapping an arm around the other man's waist in turn, bringing his other hand up to continue gently carding through his hair. Gentleness, even faint fussing, seemed to come easy, like some previously unacknowledged instinct, where this man was concerned. Normally, he treated everything that was set before him with a professional air and a careful detachment, from people to food. But not this man, and he even reveled in the sense of warmth, just a little.

"Of course we are. We're both weapons, made to serve Hydra."

But that...didn't seem to be what he'd meant.

[disassembling]

Tucked in as he was and his head settled on the padding, the Soldier waited for the companionable situation to be stripped from him. He waited for the door to open and for them to be pulled apart, and the idea alone scratched at an old scar. He thought that if he didn't move, if he was very small and hidden in the other weapon's greater width, this situation would not be taken from him and the old scar wouldn't be itched to irritation again. Never mind the fact that he had an arm curled around the other man; never mind that the man had an arm around him.

Injury dictated that in any kind of battle, he would lose. There was an ache in his flesh that he was ignoring, but when he considered the danger of being close to this far more deadly weapon, he would not stand much of a chance. He couldn't say that he would even fight back, not with the warmth of companionship and the trivial warmth of their bodies pressed together.

Yet, he simply tipped his head a little more forward at the fingers that pressed through his hair, smoothing out tangles and brushing the tops of his ears. The words were what was needed to be said, but they didn't ring with him as the normally would.

He raised his flesh hand between their bodies, his fingers smoothing over the curve of the other weapon's jaw. It was strong and hard, but the flesh was warm and smooth, and they traced features as his eyes followed the motions. "We are not alone," he whispered softly where only heightened ears could pick it up.

[morethanashield]

Logically, he saw no reason for them to be pulled apart. He was obeying the orders he had been given - to monitor the other weapon for signs of further damage, and otherwise to simply make sure he was healing well. That was what he was doing - in fact, pressed this close, he was made all the more aware of signs of pain and discomfort that had previously been masked even to him.

And they were...distressing. It wasn't just that he didn't want this man to be damaged further. He found himself caring, worrying about, whether he was comfortable, wanting to do what he could to aid his comfort in whatever small way he could. He felt sorrow, something keener than the usual disappointment of a failed mission, that the other man had been damaged. More than that, he felt sorrow that he hadn't been there to help.

There was no logical reason that they should be pulled apart - and yet, as he also grappled with this rush of unfamiliar feelings that at the same time were so familiar he couldn't breathe - it was a fear he also shared.

"No, we're not." Whispered back just as softly. They never were. They were always under surveillance, always being monitored somehow, in the base or in the field. They were doubtless being watched here. It was just...a fact of life, if what they had could be called a life.

He shook his head, trying to chase that thought away, but it clung like a burr. Still, he at least tried to focus on the task at hand.

"...you should sleep. I'll stay here."

[disassembling]

His fingers still traced the contours of the other man's face set before him, his eyes following each motion of his fingers even as they caressed shapely eyebrows, rubbed on temples and glided over the smooth expanse of the other weapon's forehead. His fingers eventually dropped back down the slope of the blond's nose and traced lips as he peered up into those eyes which seemed more alive with emotion than he would have thought for a weapon like him.

It should have alarmed him how easily he could settle like this, ignore the unfavourable discomfort from his healing body and just bask in a familiar presence. He didn't think he had ever had an opportunity to do so before, and he certainly wasn't currently opposed to it. In fact, there was a strange twist of greediness at the fact that he had the other weapon to himself, despite them no doubt being observed.

It seemed strange to him that he hadn't reasonably known the other weapon existed, yet he had no memory to state that he should have. When they met like this, he had the sensation that something had been taken from him and it was not alright for that to have happened. "We have each other," he whispered softly.

He should sleep. It was logical that with his current injuries, he needed the rest. "I don't feel it is yet a requirement when you are here," he murmured, his arm tightening around the weapon's waist. "I just want to be here with you and warm for now."

[morethanashield]

"...okay."

He pressed his lips to the other man's forehead for a moment, before settling more comfortably against him, settling his arm more comfortably around him. He knew he should insist - the Soldier needed to rest, had been ordered to rest. By rights, that should include sleep.

But he didn't. The other man had made his choice. They didn't have choices, not really, beyond how best to obey. But when it was just the two of them, here, what was really the harm? The fact that he had made this choice, expressed a want, seemed inexpressably important, something that should be honored rather than stamped out. Maybe only because he didn't have the authority to order that. They were...equals. Not just in strength, but in being, in existence. That seemed to matter, here and now, far more than it should.

They...had each other. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he liked the sound of it.

So he settled in for as long as he would be allowed, smiling faintly, fondly, as the other man apparently tried to memorize his face by touch alone. It was more touch than he thought he'd ever experienced before, but it was nice, that someone wanted to remember him.

He just held the other man, one arm around his waist, the other hand pressed against the back of his head. He hummed a melody that wasn't quite tuneless but that he didn't properly remember, and there they would be allowed to stay for a little while.

((ooc: Interestingly enough, it seems like Bucky's remembering easier than Steve does - maybe he's the reason they get out, ultimately. What do you think?))

[disassembling]

They weren't pulled apart. In fact, he was closer to this man than he had ever been to anyone, not that he remembered all those moments. This warmth was something that piqued his interest but also eased a part of himself that was always on guard for some form of punishment, some part of him that could never ever relax. This weapon would not abandon him or bring him to harm unless ordered to do so, and if that happened, he knew he wouldn't fight back against that order, especially cuddled up and nestled in as he was. There was no need to fight. He was warm and even cozy.

Yet, it was the tune or an attempt at one that had his eyelids drooping and then shutting out the rest of the world. He nestled his face into the other weapon's chest, metal arm still tucked tightly to hold him in place as the last of his guard dropped and he went to sleep. He breathed soft and slow, but he didn't dream for any of the time that he was unconscious and resting. The closest thing to a dream was his mind occasionally reviewing skills and nothing more.

He woke slow and warm and comfortable in the same position that he had slept in, but when he shifted to nestle more into the warmth in front of him, pain flared dully along his frame. He inhaled sharply and cracked his eyes open to peer up at the young face that twinged something deep inside of him.

(OOC: It does seem that way! When do we want them escaping and running away?)

[morethanashield]

((ooc: I was thinking after the (modified) events of TWS? Maybe they both go down with the helicarrier, and Bucky refuses to let them go back to HYDRA after its all over and done with because they'll both obviously be killed for their failures, even if they can still only mostly manage to care about one another rather than themselves? But I was thinking maybe they could wind up on a mission together, first? Or forced to punish one another for their disobedience. One horrible thing or the other.))

By the time the Soldier awoke, he had shifted slightly where he lay, but only to a more relaxed, more companionably, and slightly less desperate position. In the span of those few hours, he had slowly come to let himself believe that this arrangement would be allowed to last without being abruptly ended, and so he had settled in accordingly. Now he lay on his back, the other man's head resting on his shoulder, that same arm curled around his shoulders, the other hand crossed over his stomach to rest lightly on the other man's hip. His companion's breath was warm on his neck, the sounds deep and slow and gratifying.

So he felt it immediately when the other weapon started to stir, to wake. Yet he only continued to lay there peacefully, moving only to run his fingers along the Soldier's cheek to coax him fully into waking. His reasons were the same reasons that probably left the other man wincing.

"Hey. Come on, try to stand up. You've been asleep too long - you need to stretch out a little."

It was a practice he remembered plenty of times from his own surgeries and repairs. So he would gently go to work helping the other man back to his feet, the better to help him work out muscles that might have been left cramped and sore by sleep and healing.

[disassembling]

(OOC: I can definitely see an alternate ending, though who the heck would be able to stop both Cap and WS from winning over the world? I also see them being sent on a mission together to see if they are capable of working together well. There is nothing wrong with horrible.)

He had not expected to change the position in which he slept and not realize it until he came awake. He normally wasn't allowed to move at all, contained with restraints or not on anything large enough that was safe to move too much. It was very novel to know he had gone to sleep on his side and ended up curled up on his belly, his face warm and pleasant when resting on the other weapon's strong shoulder.

The hold on him was secure, arms tucked around him to keep the new position, and his metal fingers flexed against the waist that they had lazily been settled on. He still grudgingly opened one eye at the caress to his face, surveying the other man but making no motions to remove himself at the present time.

He stretched his legs and bit down a noise at his stiffness, and it was really only the blond that coaxed him to move. He was slow and awkward as he normally was fresh out of cryofreeze, but he managed to get to his feet and slowly stretch his arms and back even when the motions pulled at the healing surgery lines on his body. "Was I unconscious for long?"

[morethanashield]

((ooc: I figure Fury would have a slightly better idea at just how badly outmatched SHIELD would be and would arrange for some or all of the other Avengers to be called in - or maybe Sam, who was probably made an Avenger in Steve's stead, calls them in. And later on tries to find them both and points them towards the Smithsonian.))

"Maybe a few hours?" He didn't sound entirely certain, however, because he wasn't. This was because, as he admitted with an almost sheepish smile: "I think I may have slept for a time, too." Normally, that would have been an unforgivable lapse in focus, a wavering in his attentions when he was supposed to be keeping guard. But no one had come in to wake him. Maybe the punishment for that lapse would come later, but it hadn't, yet, and so he found himself enjoying these moments and this impromptu rest all the more.

Moving almost without thinking, he moved to help the other man work out the aches of hard sleep. He had an intimate knowledge of every pressure point on the human body, but when he dug the fingers of one hand into the muscles on the Soldier's back, it wasn't for the sake of causing pain, but helping ease it.

"What matters most is how you are feeling now."

The other man would need to eat and drink, soon, if he was to continue healing. If the wait dragged on much longer, he would have to seek out a meal for him.

[disassembling]

(OOC: That's very true and having a Hulk in your arsenal kind of makes everyone else moot too. LOL they will probably camp in the Smithsonian. XD)

His expression shifted at the sheepish look, surprised to see such a human expression on another weapon. Again, his hand reached out to trace it, to touch where he was unable to respond in kind just yet. Yet, his expression softened as he gazed almost fondly at the other weapon, despite the fact that he was stiff and uncomfortable when he moved. For some reason, that aspect mattered little to him when compared to the blond in front of him. "Perhaps you required the rest as much as I did."

He stood for the aid in getting his muscles to loosen up and stretched into the other man's skilled hands, even releasing a small groan as he found he was able to move easier. The surgery sites were still sore, but he could ignore them. "I can move easier and more freely then when I woke up." He shifting his shoulders side-to-side before turning to regard the other weapon. "Less warm now that we are not laying together."

His stomach gave a noisy contribution to the conversation, and he rubbed a hand across his abdomen. "My blood sugar may be dropping as well."

[morethanashield]

"It seems likely. You've been without food for a while, now." A momentary flicker of concern passed over his face, before he managed to smooth it away. "If it's much longer, I'll go and find you something to eat." They couldn't protest him doing that, could they? After all, the Soldier would need to eat to heal, even given how rarely they were permitted to eat in general. They could function on very little food, but that was under carefully controlled circumstances. Injuries like these could only be controlled so far.

Still. For the moment, at least, he would coax the other man to sit down on the mattress again, and he would sit beside him with his arm around his companion's shoulders. The other weapon could lean against him without fear of loss or punishment...for a time, at least.

Because when food finally did arrive, it arrived only for the Soldier, and they were pulled apart at last. All for the sake of allowing for some cursory but purposeful physical examinations, and as a result, it was declared that he was recovering well enough not to need to be watched quite so closely anymore.

He felt...a deepseated, near physical pang of loss, at this. He even tried to speak up. "I could stay with him a little longer. It doesn't matter." But it did matter, it mattered to him, and he didn't want to be anywhere else."

But what he wanted never mattered, and for him to speak out so brazenly was unacceptable. But why should they dirty their hands disciplining a malfunctioning weapon when there was another one in the room?

Without looking up from his clipboard, one of the other doctors ordered the Soldier to hit him.

[disassembling]

There was an innate knowledge that he would be fed, that perhaps his new wakefulness was the precursor to being provided nutrients that would fuel his body to heal faster. He hummed softly and didn't put up much of a fight to sit down again, cuddled up against the other weapon's warm side and his cheek shifting over to rest on the broad muscled shoulder nearby.

It didn't seem to him that he was resting there long before the door opened and a meal had arrived, though he noted there was enough only for one. He still pushed himself to his feet and padded over where he was directed to in order to be checked over briefly and then ordered to eat in the relative isolation of the corner of the room. It wasn't more than a thick drinkable substance, but it was apparently formulated for him.

Once fed, there was another small cursory little exam that determined he was capable of being left alone. He dropped his eyes to the floor and said nothing against it, though he felt the impending loss more keenly than he would have thought. He would had preferred to have more time with the other weapon, to be warm and comfortable, but he had been trained early on to keep his mouth shut.

At the order, he looked over at the other weapon before shifting a step and hitting the blond with enough emphasis for it to be a blow but reigning in his strength. He made certain that it sounded hard even if it wasn't that bad where it impacted in the other weapon's side. It was also a very easy excuse to stay close to the blond.

[morethanashield]

He was already bracing himself for the blow when it came. Protesting was unthinkable, wouldn't have accomplished anything but getting him and possibly his companion into deeper trouble. When it came, the hit was hard enough to send him staggering, ears ringing, trying to shake his head to clear it. But he could tell, after a moment's self-assessment, that it had done no more than bruise.

Yet, in that moment, there was no immediate way to tell that he'd gotten off easily. He shouldn't have - by rights, the hit should have drawn blood. But it hadn't. That had to be deliberate.

He looked at the Soldier for only a second. He gave no acknowledgement of that small mercy, because to do so would have been to invite further punishment for them both. Yet for just a moment, there was a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, meant only for the other weapon, and fortunately seen by no other.

All that done, he dropped his eyes docilely down to the floor, otherwise standing at attention and ready to be directed. The doctors were pleased by these twin displays of obedience, and he was ordered out without any further difficulties.

The next time they encountered one another would be over either side of a comm line.

[disassembling]

The Soldier spent the next thirty-six hours alone, his injuries monitored as well as his behaviour now that he had been separated from the other weapon. He was even plied with questions about his association, why he had slept, how had he felt, who was the other weapon present. They pressed him to answer, and whatever he said appeared to please his team. Bonded and secured to one another but not with the added troublesome memories that would cause resistance.

He was put back into the cryofreeze when the stitches were removed, and time passed before he was thawed and given a mission. He was to take out a terrorist cell in China funded by the government and was apparently distinctly against HYDRA. The cell had fifty high-level members and their guards in together for a meeting, and he was to take them out.

Only the need to make the destruction complete and a presentation of the might of the hidden organization, he would not be working alone. He was being sent with the Commander, a weapon much like him but more advanced in running missions and able to achieve maximum destruction where he was more subtle in his workings. He was to follow the lead of the Commander, he being assigned as the Soldier.

He parachuted to the drop zone and read the mission debriefing once more before doing an equipment check. He set the communicator into his ear, hidden under his lengthening hair that now hung to the bottom of his ears and had a distinct shaggy look. He flexed his shoulders in his uniform and settled to wait for the arrival of his Commander.