Chapter Text
[Severe protocol violation. Mission parameters violated. Submit for disciplinary action.]
The Soldier kept pace with the commander back to the rendezvous point, at heel and on guard for any remaining enemy agents. Once the team cleared the area and the cleanup crew arrived, they began preparations for takeoff. It followed the commander into the transport. The other operatives filtered into the jet, giving it a wide berth. None of them were injured beyond simple abrasions. That might contribute to a less severe punishment for the Soldier, though it was unlikely.
Agent Wilson began checking over his winged flight suit, glancing towards the commander and raising his brows in some nonverbal communication. Agent Barton clambered over cases of ammunition and battered harddrives into the cockpit, and Agent Romanova followed close behind. She nodded to the Soldier as she passed, but it could not readily interpret her expression. It was not important. She was not a handler.
It slumped onto the floor in front of the weapons lockers, control of the legs failing for a moment. Perhaps the body was finally rebelling against the lack of pharmaceutical stimulants and cryostasis. The sleep protocol had become more difficult at the new base [codename: Avengers Compound].
There were so many unknown agents moving about the facility at all hours. The commander’s quarters were supposedly sound-proofed, but the noise of muted voices and pneumatic doors still trickled through the vents. Some nights, the Soldier was sure it could hear the technician’s clattering and the thumping of his strange ‘music’ at 0300, though his workshop was on the far side of the Compound.
[Severe protocol violation. Mission parameters violated. Submit for disciplinary action.]
It fought through the lethargy weighing down its limbs to begin weapons checks. Long-range rifle, disassembled, cleaned, stowed in its case. Submachine gun and handguns, emptied and packed. Ammunition sorted for inventory. Knives, wiped down and wrapped for later sharpening. One explosive device used during combat, noted for inventory, the remaining nine removed from the belt and packed away.
It initiated a full diagnostic cycle of the prosthesis, plates rippling from shoulder to wrist. [Eighty-two percent functionality.] Particles of debris and dried blood rained onto the floor, tinkling through the steel grates. Further decontamination pending arrival at base. Weapons check complete. It rested the arms at its sides, prosthesis fully relaxed, presenting neutral demeanor for inspection.
The commander watched it move through the post-mission routine, his features somewhere between expectant and assessing. He seemed to be waiting for a misstep, but the Soldier had gone through each function without error. Unlike the mission today. For that, it knew it was still due punishment.
[Severe protocol violation. Mission parameters violated. Submit for disciplinary action.]
It tried not to anticipate what method he would use. Guessing at what would happen only made punishments worse. Despite months of malfunction and insubordination, the commander had yet to initiate disciplinary action. The threat grew more pressing with every ignored infraction.
It looked up towards his left shoulder, acknowledging its readiness. He gave a small, wry smile, but it quickly faded.
"Damage report.”
“Minimal damage, sir. Physical functionality: ninety-three percent. Abrasion to right upper arm. Minor strain in both knees. Shrapnel impact in lower left abdomen and left quadriceps. Expected recovery time: less than four hours.”
“Minimal, huh?” He let out a single sharp laugh, but he did not look amused. His brows knit, obviously trying to school his expression into something neutral but failing. The Soldier forced the heart rate to remain steady. “Why don’t you let me take a look?”
It followed the implied order, standing to remove the damaged tactical gear. All that remained were the nylon compression garments. Agent Wilson passed over a med kit. The commander steadied himself on its right hip as he bent down. He adjusted the clothing to inspect the damaged skin of its left side, then tsked under his breath, a sure sign of disappointment.
[Severe protocol violation. Mission parameters violated. Submit for disciplinary action.]
“You shouldn’t have to go to medical," the commander said. "I’m gonna get some gauze for the worst of this. Stay still for me.”
It did so, keeping the eyes fixed to the floor as he rustled through the kit. Avoiding the medical suite was ideal. The new facility was vastly different from those at which it had been held before, all high ceilings and wide windows. There were still technicians, with their false smiles and shining tools, but the commander never left it alone with them, constantly maintaining physical contact through the exams and tests.
It had been sure that his indulgent treatment would end once it was transferred to a real base, with strict SHIELD supervision. But, if anything, his generosity had increased. The Soldier was given a room in his quarters. There were more gifts, more blankets, more soft clothing. He continued the endless touch rewards and frequently shared his rations, substances so varied and flavorful they often made it disoriented. He had rejected its attempts at repayment for these gifts in the usual manner. For some reason, he found the secondary function distasteful. After its performance on this mission, surely that would all change.
He was kind, but it knew there was a core of steel in him. In combat, he showed none of this softness, taking down enemies at a pace that rivaled the Soldier itself. He had been patient and merciful through the worst of its malfunctions, never initiating discipline for its unconscious violations of protocol. He did not punish it when it said ‘no,’ or asked questions, or made suggestions in regards to tactics.
[Severe protocol violation. Mission parameters violated. Submit for disciplinary action.]
But the Soldier had never disobeyed him as it had today. It had not failed the mission, but that did not matter. It had done something unimaginable, and it could not even attribute the violation to a malfunction. It was supposed to have stayed in its vantage, outside of the facility, providing sniper cover. It was supposed to have used nonlethal force only. It had purposefully broken nearly every mission parameter, defying multiple direct orders.
Completely, entirely, utterly unacceptable.
Previous handlers had been swift to correct it for such behavior. It could distinctly remember the pain of shattered metacarpals after it delayed the elimination of a target, and the lash of the whip when it hesitated to execute a prisoner. It was not sure why it had done these things, but it knew it had. Today’s disobedience, at least, had been in service of team safety.
“Alright, this might sting a bit.”
Perhaps this was a prelude to the correction it was due. It held very, very still. The commander’s hands were gentle as always when he washed the Soldier’s side with disinfectant. There was no pain, no acrid smell of burning flesh. It barely felt the sting of the cleansing agent or the tug of the gauze used to wipe down the injury.
He removed a few remaining pieces of shrapnel, then applied clean bandaging, patted its leg and smiled up at it. “We’ll get the rest cleaned up back at base. I know that concrete dust has gotta be bothering your arm. Maybe Tony will let me try the canned air again, huh?”
It did not understand why he found this amusing. The last time had been a minor disaster, with the primary technician forcibly removing the compressor from the commander’s control after only four seconds. There was a great deal of lost paperwork, and none of the prosthesis had gotten clean. The Soldier had waited for him to reprimand the technician for his disrespect, but it never came. He was strangely tolerant of the other operatives’ familiar behavior.
[Severe protocol violation. Mission parameters violated. Submit for disciplinary action.]
Weapons check and damage report complete, it readied itself for mission report and disciplinary action. It replaced the torn pants over the bandages, leaving the bloodied tac jacket on the bench, and folded down from parade rest to kneeling, arms held behind the back. The steel grating of the floor dug into its knees. It focused on that sensation, forcing the anticipation of pain to the back of the mind. It kept the head forward but directed its gaze to the commander’s shoes. He turned from packing up the med kit and came to a slow stop directly in front of it.
“What’s this about, soldier?”
“Sir. This asset submits for disciplinary action.”
The commander shifted his weight, canting from right foot to left. The Soldier heard Wilson retreat to the front of the jet. Perhaps he was alerting the other operatives to its pending punishment. It was common for field agents to observe disciplinary sessions. Sometimes they would jeer and laugh, or suggest ways in which the handler might inflict more pain. It did not know how this new unit handled discipline. They had access to extensive experimental weaponry, but the Soldier had not yet been used for testing it.
“There’s no need for that,” the commander said.
His voice was firm and quiet. It did not look up to examine his facial expression. It knew what was required. He wanted it to outline its failures for him, to prove it knew exactly what it was being punished for.
[Severe protocol violation. Mission parameters violated. Submit for disciplinary action.]
“Sir, this asset left the assigned post and engaged with enemy agents against orders. The unit was without sniper cover. Multiple databanks were damaged by this asset’s actions. Materiel not authorized for the mission was used. Lethal force was employed in violation of mission parameters. Mission active time was extended fourteen minutes outside of given timeline. It submits for disciplinary action.”
The commander did not reply for thirteen seconds. The Soldier grew more tense as each one passed. Finally, he reached down to take its jaw in hand. He tugged gently, tilting its face up at him. It was not a direct order. The Soldier averted its eyes to his right ear.
“Hey.” His face softened, thumbs stroking along the Soldier’s cheeks. “You did well today. It was a rough op, and you made the right call. If you hadn’t come in after us there would have been more casualties, maybe even a major injury for the team. You saved our asses. Look at me.”
He tightened his grip, emphasizing his words. The Soldier met blue eyes clouded with worry, and the raw emotion rasped along its mind like a metal file. It did not know how to respond. The commander inclined his head, brows tilting upwards, expectant.
“S-sir?”
“Come on, Buck. Come back to me. You did good. No punishment, okay?”
It let out a breath it had not consciously been holding. He was being sincere. This handler did not lie.
“Da, ser. Nakizanya net.”
He smiled and stroked its face one last time before he directed it up onto a bench, running his hands over its shoulders as he sat down beside it.
“We’ve still got a few hours before we get back home. Want me to read something?”
[The Asset does not want.]
“No preference, sir,” it said quietly.
He took up his tablet, opening up the latest book he had been narrating to it. Something about an unmarried woman struggling with employment and unrequited affections. The Soldier did not pay much attention to the content of the story, letting the commander’s words wash over it. When he reached up to guide its head down to his shoulder, it let itself be moved, leaning into his side. It could feel the heat of him through the heavy cordura tac suit, and the wall of muscle beneath. It should not lose awareness with the other operatives so close, but the fatigue was undeniable now. They were allies. The Captain was here.
As it slipped towards unconsciousness, its last thoughts revolved once again around how unbelievable his leniency was. He was consistently kind and patient, but it had failed him on its first official mission. After waiting months, enduring hundreds of hours of testing and evaluation and maintenance to re-attain active status, it had disrespected his orders in front of the entire unit. The softness could only last so long.
It woke suddenly as the jet lurched, stiffening to alertness from its slouch against the commander’s side. The hand on its thigh squeezed gently.
“It’s okay, Buck, we’re just landing.”
The Soldier scanned the hold, taking stock of the position of the other operatives and its supplies. It stood quickly to gather the jacket and weapons cases. Agents Barton and Wilson made to disembark, laughing and knocking their shoulders together as they exited down the ramp. Agent Romanova hung back when the Soldier followed the commander toward the complex, her gaze heavy on its back.
It carried both the commander’s supplies and its own across the landing bay, depositing the cases in the designated weapons lockers and handing off the jacket to one of the service bots. It chirped in a pattern that the Soldier had come to understand meant ‘thank you.’
“You’re late!" Stark’s voice echoed off of the high walls. "I thought this was a simple smash and grab. Why do you all look like you lost a fight with the sidewalk? And where’s that data I asked for?”
He was angling for the drives Agent Barton carried. The Soldier disregarded him. There was little meaning to be found in most of his chatter, and the commander would alert it to any necessary interactions. It made a conscious effort to avoid dragging its feet as it returned to the commander’s side, exhaustion still weighing it down.
[Severe– Submit–]
“The server room was on the other side of the base,” the commander reported. “Those schematics were outdated by at least two years. Bucky had to drag our asses out of the sub-basement. We would’ve been screwed without the backup.”
A soft smile stole across his face. The Soldier decidedly did not stumble as he thumped its shoulder, his attempt at praise feeling more like a wallop from a cinderblock.
“That so, huh? Well, glad your little experiment with field work turned out. I’ll update the betting pool on when the Soviet Slushie here loses his shit all over unsuspecting HYDRA goons.” The technician turned from his investigation and looked the Soldier up and down. “On second thought, I think I just won a few bucks off of Preston.”
He might have been using sarcasm, but it did not waste cognitive energy assessing his words. It was already too spent to dissect this verbal exchange, and the commander’s touch sent its mind spiraling into heated static. Remain still, compliant. Present neutral demeanor. Assess position of extremities. It shifted the right leg minutely to reaffirm the placement of its best knife in the thigh holster.
The commander’s expression changed [frustration, exasperation]. “I don’t want to hear about any of that, Tony. It’s indecent to be gambling on our personal lives, and Buck’s stability isn’t up for debate.”
“Says the guy not currently covered in gore.”
“Tony.”
The commander often took this tone with the technician. Stark’s verbosity was tiresome.
“Yeah, yeah, take it up with the interns.” Stark flapped a hand, waving away the commander’s reproach. “I gotta keep 'em entertained somehow. Thanks for the bytes, boys. I’ll start dissecting this data, maybe find your murderbot some more basements to blow up. Ciao, Cap, Cyborg!”
He sauntered out of the landing bay, two bots following close behind with the hard drives and other equipment. One of them, U, chirruped at the Soldier as it passed. It subtly moved the fingers of the left hand in response. The commander’s hand, still firmly planted on its shoulder, rubbed back and forth.
“Sorry about that, Buck. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You were cleared for duty weeks ago, and you did what you had to do today.” [Severe protocol violation. Asset abandoned assigned post. Asset engaged with enemy agents against orders. Asset employed lethal force without authorization. Asset damaged mission materiel. Submit for disciplinary action.] “Come on, let’s get back and get some food.”
The Soldier determined a verbal response unnecessary and simply nodded. It should have been at heel behind the commander, but he guided it beside him as they made their way across the bay and into the elevator. He raised a hand to Agents Wilson and Barton, but did not pause to debrief. Perhaps mission reports were to be delayed until the team had cleaned and obtained rations.
Agent Barton performed a completely non-regulation salute, raising his voice just enough to carry. “Thanks for lookin’ out, Barnes.”
It opened its mouth to acknowledge the address, unsure of what it was meant to say, but the commander replied on its behalf. The Widow joined Barton at the lockers, leaning into his side and speaking too softly for the Soldier to hear. She looked towards it as it followed the commander. For some reason, it expected her smile to be sharper [familiarity, pride, fatigue]. It was unsure of the origin of this emotional feedback, but the passing glance was cut off by the dinging elevator before further information could be gathered.
Once in the familiar space of their quarters, the Soldier’s vigilance waned, though it was still awaiting reprimand for its failures.
“Status report?” the commander asked, stepping in front of it.
His stance was relaxed, his face open and unassuming. It averted its gaze to his boots. Dust-covered hair fell into its field of vision.
“Functional, sir. Physical functionality: ninety-three percent. Cognitive functionality: ninety-two percent. Prosthesis functionality: eighty-four percent. Damage healing at expected rate, less than one hour until optimal condition is restored.”
“Good. How are you feeling? There was a lot more heavy lifting today than we’d prepared for.”
“This asset…” It paused, unsure how to describe the new sensations. Both the commander and the secondary technician had insisted on this new report, an assessment of the vestigial emotional responses. As if they were useful data, instead of a malfunction to be corrected. “This asset is experiencing … moderate fatigue, sir.”
The commander reached out to pull the Soldier closer to himself, leather and nylon squeaking as their chests met. He ran his fingers through its tangled hair, careful to avoid pulling at the snags. An exhale gusted from the chest. It had to devote additional energy to attending to his voice.
“I’m glad you got some rest on the jet," he said. "Are you still having trouble sleeping?”
“Four point two hours achieved during previous rest period, sir, interrupted by sudden waking.”
“Oh, honey. If I’d known I would have helped you get back to sleep. We’ll try something different tonight, okay? Maybe one of Bruces’ teas.”
He continued moving his hand from the nape of the Soldier’s neck down across its right shoulder. It sagged slightly, leaning into the commander’s warmth. Maintaining cognitive discipline was becoming very difficult.
“Yes, sir,” it breathed.
“C’mon, we’re both filthy,” he huffed, then stepped away from it.
It followed in a daze of exhaustion and nonstandard hormonal responses. Such altered states had become extremely common in the presence of this handler. He insisted that they were not detrimental to the Soldier’s functioning, but they were disorienting.
The tiny secondary technician claimed that these states were a recovery of previous emotional functions, but it could not recall ever being subject to such frequent shifts in mood and cognitive abilities. Its episodic memory was limited, however, and it had to take the commander and technicians at their word.
[Severe– Submit–]
He led it into the large cleansing facility, all shining chrome and pristine white tiles. It kept its eyes on the floor in an attempt to minimize input.
“You know the drill,” the commander said.
It complied quickly, stripping out of the dirtied tac pants and compression garments. Previously, it had made an effort to limit the contamination of the floors from its boots and gear, but the commander had just laughed and tossed his dusty boots into a pile by the door. He relied heavily on the Compound’s automated cleaning systems. Never was one to wash his own socks. [Cognitive error.] It shook its head, trying to focus on the task at hand. The commander was waiting.
He carefully removed the gauze covering its upper quadriceps and guided the Soldier into the oversized shower stall. It was capable of performing its own cleansing routines, but this handler had initiated shared showers early in their cohabitation. It was not irregular, except that all previous handlers had used this time for recreational purposes as well. The Captain seemed only to take satisfaction in thoroughly cleansing the body, as one might perform maintenance on a valuable rifle. A fitting comparison, if it had not jammed and misfired today.
He preferred his showers dazzlingly warm, a comfort befitting his rank. The routine had been the same for months, but the Soldier was surprised by the indulgence each time. It always felt like a reward. It had not earned any reward. It began working the cleansing agent into a lather over each limb. Grit sluiced away from skin and metal, turning the water a murky gray. Once it had completed the cycle, it turned to allow the commander access to its back.
He ran both hands across its skin, scrubbing at certain places that must still have been contaminated. He spent a few long minutes on its scapulae, massaging deeply across muscle and embedded titanium. The body shuddered in defiance of its internal imperative to remain still. The static in its head grew louder, completely overwhelming all cognitive processes. It devoted its remaining energy to remaining upright while the commander tended to it.
"Head back."
He nudged its torso to better angle it under the falling water. It obeyed, craning the neck and shaking the loose hair off of its shoulders. The scent of the cleansing agent filled its nostrils, rich shea butter and biting citrus drowning out all other input. The commander’s nails ran across its scalp in small circles. It slumped backwards, the body going involuntarily slack, and a soft sigh left its lips. He laughed as he caught it, allowing its upper back rest against his chest.
"I've got you, Buck. Just relax, we're almost done."
He reached for the wide-toothed wooden comb – another gift from Romanova; she claimed this was customary when moving to a new home base, though it had only ever experienced ‘welcoming parties’ involving recreational use – and gently worked out knots from the ends of the hair to the roots. The Soldier let itself be guided under the water once more to rinse the suds away. Another wave of fragrance hit it as the commander applied the second substance, ‘conditioner,’ into the hair. Shea and cocoa butter, hints of vanilla.
It could remember operating protocols from all of its previous handlers, and never had it been treated to such luxury. The Secretary had allowed it to use his private shower only once. The Captain did so every single day. The water was always so warm. It had been in his care for almost nine months, and, even when they relocated to a proper base, his methods had not changed. It was treated like a prized possession, a pampered pet.
Commander Rumlow had often spoken about his plans to make it his personal fucktoy, but this was not like that. It was allowed training and fieldwork. None of the team had been permitted to make use of it. Though the Captain was free with his touch, it was limited to his hands in the hair, firm corrections, or direction of the body during training. He was unthinkably good to it.
[Severe– Submit–]
The Soldier roused from the cluttered thoughts, finding itself outside of the shower. The commander's hands guided a lush towel to blot the water from its skin. The stomach sank when it realized that he had been addressing it. It snapped to attention. Twice now it had lost focus, not attending to his orders. There was no excuse. It was fully functional. Even this handler’s leniency could not allow for such behavior. Especially not after its infractions on the mission. It attempted to read his expression, but there was no sign of anger or impatience.
"Sir, malfunction." It lowered the head. "Please repeat orders, sir?"
"You’re fine, honey." A warm hand on its face, lifting the chin. It focused on the wall to the left of the commander’s shoulder. "I just asked how your arm was doing. You got a lot of concrete dust in there."
Angling the left arm away from him, it initiated another recalibration cycle to shake off the excess moisture.
"Minimal interference from external debris, sir. Minor damage in the lower joints."
"Alright. We'll wait on Tony to take care of the rest, then. How'd ya like pierogi for dinner?"
"The Asset has no preferences, sir."
"Sure," he said with obvious sarcasm. "That's why I didn't have any egg drop soup left last week. I'll get a coupla different kinds. Why don't you get dressed while I put the order in?"
It was not a real question. He often phrased orders like this, softening his language with ‘how would you like..’ or ‘I think we should…’ But the Soldier understood. They were still orders.
"Yes, sir."