"When you reach 18 you stop aging until you meet your soulmate" I feel this would make a lot of things easier/less sad.. Also, thanks for writing all these awesome things. Seeing you post is literally the best part of my day.
Um. Less sad? ¬_¬ I... may have failed at that one. So thank you SO MUCH for the lovely comment, and I’m just - I’m sorry...?
There are tally marks all over the walls, and he has made assumptions about what they are for, but they don’t allow him to retain that knowledge. He does not know if they are his or if he is one of a line of soldiers; he doesn’t know if he has remembered to scratch a line on even half of his days.
All he knows is the narrow cot, the weight of his arm, the Mission. All he knows is his first thought every morning is the hope that someone will kill his soulmate today, that his bones will start aching and his hair start graying, that he will slow and stumble and be allowed, finally, to fail.
He sits and watches the walls in the semi-darkness. Distractions are, of course, not permitted; he will be fetched when the hunger is gnawing at him, will be fed, will be taken to the concrete-walled conditioning room where there are machines for exercise and training. On good days there might be men there to fight, and sometimes some of them have aged, visibly, and the asset is out of practice with emotion but envy he knows.
The boots echo earlier, this morning. There are no timepieces for his use but the routine is familiar enough that he tenses when it is changed. He scratches a tally mark into the wall and stands to face the door, feet braced apart and hands clasped tight behind his back, as is expected, as he has been trained to. The man who appears is unfamiliar, but he expects nothing else. He has never before seen a reaction so strong, though, and he curiously regards the pale face, wide blue eyes, softly open mouth.
“Who the hell is Bucky?” he asks, voice rusted almost to nothing with disuse.
“Step back,” the man says, and the asset - used to following orders without question - does so. The man lifts one red-booted foot and kicks at the cell door; there must be something impossible about him, like the asset, because the door only holds out so long before it buckles and bends.
“Follow me,” he says, and the asset hesitates.
The man smiles, somehow still sad, and his eyes wrinkle a little at the corners, and the asset hates him.
“I’m, um. I’m Steve?” his voice is uncertain, unsteady. “I’m here to rescue you.”
The asset considers this, then nods. He follows the man - Steve - through familiar winding corridors, then those that are not so familiar, although the sense of dread and the stomach-twisting sense-memory of pain suggests the lack of familiarity should be appreciated.
Eventually they reach a room which has a hole in the wall, a room which is filled with an unfamiliarity of warm light. There are bodies on the floor, men tied up in the corners, but the asset only has eyes for the outside, walking over on stumbling feet. He blinks, feeling off-balance and unfamiliar fear as he tries to adjust to the light; the men who approach him he braces to face until Steve’s voice - already somehow familiar - calls out.
“So winter soldier,” one says. “The man, the myth.”
“Hey,” says the other, and the asset cocks his head a little at his voice. It’s unfamiliar - most voices are unfamiliar - but still somehow tugs at him. “So Tony’s an asshole,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”
He holds out a hand and the asset mirrors him, automatic.
“I’m Clint,” he says, and the asset’s eyes are finally ready to see the pretty lines of his grin. Their fingers touch; something settles into the asset’s bones and sets to aching there.
