#leximariefields

Suddenly the thought of confiding in someone seemed unbearably tempting. Simply not being alone, not being the only one to know…

He dug his nails into the palms of his flesh-hand, applying one of the asset’s methods of self-castigation t so suppress the urge. Order Through Pain. Even if she believed him, he would only endanger her more than he already did.

Of course the asset had accepted her offer, hoping she would give them the directions it no longer got from Hydra, but Bucky knew better than the stunted creature living within him. He would take her things and bring nothing but danger to her home instead. But the more humanity he reclaimed, the more human needs he learnt he still carried around with him.

Warm water and actual, clean clothes…

A shower alone was too good to pass up and he decided he could use one without indebting himself too much. During his time with Hydra, he’d actually forgotten, that showers existed. Or at least that he might ever be in a place to use one. The few times he’d spent a night at the local homeless shelter, they had become his favourite luxury. Even in his childhood warm water hadn’t always been a given.

He decided that he’d find a way to repay her for her generosity. He’d listen and pay attention and find out what she needed and he’d make sure that she got it. If nothing else, it would be a good practice to relearn human interaction.

“I’d like a shower.” Way to go in the interaction-department. Very smooth.

@leximariefields

A soft groan left The King’s lips as he shifted in the seat. If he was correct, it’d been about 46 hours in the same position - hands caked with blood, back aching, boredom seeping from his pores. 

The damn Winchesters.

This whole business was getting ridiculous. He craved a drink. He’d even take their crap whiskey if it meant he could feel the burn down his throat.

Just a stretch of the legs would be nice, even.

A loud thud brought Crowley out of his thoughts and he raised his chin, squinting to make out who finally came to chat.

The asset was trained to analyse its surroundings in a matter of seconds and Bucky instinctively scanned her apartment for any blind spots from where he might expect an ambush, shelter for the case of a shootout and how much of the street he could observe from a single window. Not ideal, but enough to work with.

She had offered him a room, and he didn’t know how to answer.

The idea of spending a night in an actual bed with actual pillows was temping, but at the same time he felt the conditioning injecting him with a sharp stab of guilt that was not its own. The asset was still there, the programming swimming just below the surface, reminding him that he wasn’t supposed to occupy more space or resources than strictly needed. It was a matter of simple efficiency.

After weeks of sleeping rough in the streets, he had felt out of place the moment he had set foot into her apartment, standing out like a stain.

Pierce was the only handler who’d ever taken him home with him – not that the asset had ever understood or questioned why. His house had been nothing short of a mansion. But he preferred this, preferred the lack of anxiety coiling inside his stomach that he felt every time he thought of what had happened inside Pierce’s house.

He lingered by the door, pulling back the hood and stuffing the hat in one of his pockets, pushing back the stands of hair that were falling into his face.

She wanted it to speak about itself. None of its handlers had ever asked it to speak unless asked, much less about itself. Punishments had been severe. It had learnt that it wasn’t meant to speak.

The only longer exchanges it had for the last decades were status reports, after missions. They wanted to know whether it was injured (it wasn’t now), hungry (not significantly), thirsty (not dangerously) or whether it had left behind any evidence that they’d need to make disappear (she knew already about the unconscious man lying in the alley behind them). But even if it had had something to report, it suspected it was not the kind of conversation she wanted.

Maybe it could draw things out; avoid speaking about it until the fog inside its head cleared, until it could make sense of things again.She had said it could ask her anything. There were only one question on its mind. She’d already said she had been in a similar place, but that didn’t make sense, it couldn’t be.

It needed to know-

“Why are you helping me?”

The asset considered.

anything you want me to make

It shouldn’t matter what it wanted. It shouldn’t want anything in the first place. The only thing that should matter was what it needed to function.

It was functioning. It didn’t need food. Not after it had just eaten. Even with its enhanced physiology, it could go days before the weakness and the hunger pangs would become so unbearable that they’d severely impact its performance.

But…

anything you want.

The thought was enough to make its head swim and its stomach produce a wistful noise.

No.

She’d be angry, if it wasted resources it didn’t need to function.

But the part of the asset that knew people - the human-part, the person-part - was slowly returning and suggested that she was offering more than food.

That made sense, it decided.

It hadn’t missed the subtle tilt of her head at its question. Consideration. And she hadn’t said no. Maybe she wanted to give it its assignment in private.

She’d be a suitable handler, even if only temporary. She seemed even-tempered. Not even angry that it was taking so long to think.

“We didn’t make you to think - we do the thinking for you and you obey.”

It didn’t remember why the Other One - the Sergeant, he was a Sergeant! - had been so hesitant about doing what she said.

When it had escaped from Hydra, it had been its other self that made the decision, the one who had all the memories, all the reasons – the one who knew the man on the bridge. Its life was harder now.

What she said made sense – food in exchange for protection made sense, it made more sense than anything had in a long time and the asset was desperate to cling to that. It had only been given solid food when it had been exceptionally good. They knew it loved everything it wasn’t fed through the gastric tube, but fresh fruit worked better than anything.

She’d even said thank you. Its conditioning rewarded it with a vague sense of bliss that it never felt when it had names and memories and faces. From what it could gather, it mostly felt miserable the more details it could recall. In this state, the knowledge that it had pleased its handlers was enough to make it content.

Usually the lives it took were of little interest to the subject. No reason to extend their suffering for longer than necessary, unless specified otherwise by its handlers.

But for once it felt if not joy then at least a sense of satisfaction watching the man struggle. The asset’s memories were contorted and its sense of morality bare existent, but every fiber of its being screamed that this man deserved it.

“Please…don’t kill him. Just, knock him out…or you can take him, and I won’t say anything about this.”

It turned towards her without loosening its grip, considering.

The only times it could remember being called off were the times it had turned against its handlers – attempts that weren’t ended with questioning, cautious words but…

Pain. Anguish. Punishment. It could feel its hand trembling around the man’s throat.

This man was not a handler. He was a Target. Targets were Targets.

But she said to knock him out. Maybe she wanted to interrogate him. It didn’t want to think about the punishment for killing someone who was still needed.

It turned back towards the man in its grip who was beginning to lose consciousness as it was, eyelids drooping and the increased pulse of its jugular becoming slow and shallow underneath its fingers. It wouldn’t take long now, it would be simple to just end him, but instead…

The asset found himself releasing the man’s throat, the unconscious body dropping to floor in a motionless heap.

Didn’t look much different from a corpse. He still might die. Might choke on his own tongue or his heartbeat might stop. But that wouldn’t be the asset’s fault, it tried to convince itself. It had obeyed. No one had reason to punish it.

Not that that had ever stopped them.

It turned towards the woman.

It wasn’t easy, vanishing from a crowd focussed on him, but disappearing from the radar was what he was trained to do.

What the asset was trained to do.

He tried to keep focus while he watched from safe distance as the woman who’d helped him - helped him - turned, walking her way. It didn’t take long for the man in the sun-bleached leather jacket to follow, hand still fumbling in his pocket but his motions determined and conspicuous. No training. A common street thug.

Hood drawn deeply into his face, the asset - he had a name, somewhere underneath the protocols that kicked in, he’d known it just seconds ago. It would return, he just couldn’t quite recall it at the moment - headed the same way.

It was another faceless figure in the crowd, almost invisible in the shadows of the smaller alley they had turned into, taking cover behind dumpsters and in house entrances. It knew how to keep its footsteps soundless as it followed as fast as it could without drawing attention.

And yet it was too far away when the man grabbed her, whispering something he couldn’t make out.

Fights in back alleys stirred up memories somewhere beneath the surface, but the protocol was clear and straightforward regarding any Target. Charging at him the asset no longer bothered concealing its steps and the Target turned around in time for the asset to grab the man by his throat and slam him into the nearest wall.