Chapter Text
They put it in a cell for a while, which it didn't hold against them. It wasn't a danger to its handlers, and under normal circumstances it would have been insulted, but the Avengers were still getting to know it and couldn't be expected to trust it, not when they were barely acquainted. They didn't beat it or starve it or say cruel things to it, which tended to confirm its suspicions about the sort of people Steve (!) was likely to befriend, and it showed them the perfect courtesy it would demonstrate toward any new handlers, to put them at ease. When they didn't like that—ah, shit, no, please get up, you don't have to, accompanied by the awkward gestures and pained facial expressions of social discomfort—it recalibrated, and showed them the easy respect of long familiarity. You're doing great, they told it then, and it was pleased in response to their pleasure, as was natural, but underneath its satisfaction was the ache of regret. They'd found it bleeding and broken on the riverbank, and brought it home, which made it theirs by right of salvage. They were fighters, and it was an engine of war: once they were confident of it, they would put it to use. The exhaustion and horror it felt at this prospect was no more than the exhaustion and horror it had felt down all the bloody years since it was carved from the living corpse of a man named (it now knew) Bucky Barnes. Its early trainers had exerted themselves to render it effective, efficient, and pleasant to work with, and it could hardly disappoint them by intimating to its new owners that their looted weapon was tired of killing. The Avengers had not yet found occasion to correct it, and while the need would doubtless arise as it learned to suit itself to new preferences, it was disinclined to hasten any education in the means and methods of their disapproval. Thus, it met the news of its agreeable performance with a quiet good to hear, and when the one it rather hoped they'd pick to reward it when it executed its missions with special brilliance said that there was no reason not to go on and let it out, it smiled in the way that sometimes made him smile back at it and said, ready when you are.
When they transferred it, Steve (!) brought the scary one along for backup. That was sensible: individually, it might best either one of them, but together they could take it down. It kept its hands loose at its sides, its face politely attentive as they pointed out the interior geography of the Tower. When they reached its assigned quarters, it froze on the doorstep. We'll put you in a room just like this. "Problem?" the scary one asked. It shook its head, and forced itself across the threshold with a murmured apology on feet gone abruptly numb. There followed an explanation of schedules and services, an introduction to the AI in the ceiling, an invitation to join the team at their next appointed mealtime, all of which it noted and answered as appropriate while its heart pounded in its ears. When they left it alone, it removed the soft civilian clothes from the dresser and closet to examine them, and carefully put them back. It stroked the white towels in the bathroom, the long robe of the same material hung from a hook in the door. It turned the water on and off in the glass shower, and uncapped the little bottles arrayed by the side of the claw-foot tub to sniff their contents. Then it sat down on the edge of the bed, in the room that was mostly a bed, and buried its head in its hands.
Alex hadn't said it every time. It was enough, more than enough, to be rewarded at all, to be touched and pleasured and allowed to give pleasure, rocking deep and slow into Alex's familiar body or savoring the press of his cock inside it, driving it toward orgasm and reminding it of how good it had been, how well it had done. Sometimes, though, when Alex was feeling sweet, he'd tell it about one day, tell it while he ran his beautiful hands over its scarred flesh until it closed its eyes and shivered with longing. You were made for this, Alex would say, and one day it's all you'll be good for. You've been fighting a long time, and there's a long war still to come. But wars end. One day, we won't need you anymore. How it had loved his gentle fingers in its hair. You know what happens to things people don't need? To tools, when they wear out? It would nod, then, knowing the story well but feeling a delicious twinge of fear all the same. That's right. But not you. Where you're concerned, we might be a little bit sentimental. Relief, every time. And in its wake, contentment. We'll take away your guns, your knives and armor: everything that makes you what you are. Except this. A playful caress of its spent cock, the curve of its ass. And then we'll put you in a room just like this one, where we can use you whenever we please. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Quiet laughter at its fervent nod. Yeah, you would. A hand under its chin, tipping its face up for a kiss. You will.
Slowly, it let itself sink back into the multitude of pillows. Alex hadn't been the one to reward it in years, and now he was dead, and it wasn't even Hydra's to dispose of anymore. Was it possible—did it dare to think—that he had managed to keep his promise? Or that the Avengers had somehow arrived independently at a similar conclusion regarding its utility? The enormity of the idea pressed down on it like a fist, until finally, with a strangled breath suspiciously like a sob, it rolled over, burrowing into the marvelous softness of the bed. It couldn't be. Whatever this was, whatever happened to it now, surely it hadn't lived to see one day come round at last.
Or had it? Against its better judgment and bitter experience, it felt hope stir. How else to explain this room that was mostly a bed, so like the opulent suite where Alex and the others after him had rewarded it? How else to explain the civilian t-shirts and jeans, the absence of tac gear? The gargantuan tub, comically disproportionate to its hygienic needs but perfect to soak in while it leaned back against a handler's chest, enjoying a hand curled teasingly around its cock, another brushing lightly, maddeningly over the peaked buds of its nipples? The one with the nice smile, maybe, or the very large happy one, or even— Somewhat ridiculously, it felt, under the circumstances, it was beginning to get hard. A conditioned response to the luxurious setting, perhaps, but hardly an appropriate one, not when it had yet to earn a reward. Unless there were no more rewards, because there was no more work to be done. Unless one day had arrived after all, and this was what it was for now, here in its big clean bed, its body primed for the giving and taking of pleasure. Where its new owners could use it whenever they pleased. All right: not helpful. With an effort of will, it redirected its thoughts.
Steve (!) had been kind to it, in the cell. It struggled to speak to him, though; could barely think of him without that dislocating jolt, like touching a live wire. The one with the nice smile, the one it had hoped might be chosen to reward it, if it was good enough—he was kind as well. He wouldn't strike it or even laugh at it for a legitimate question about its status and intended function, not when protocol and indeed common sense dictated that it seek clarification. It would ask him.
It remembered the schedule and the invitation. Almost time, then. It stripped to the skin, ignoring its half-hard cock, and washed itself with care, relishing the faint roughness of the shower's rose-and-grey tile against its calloused feet. It smiled as it pulled on the soft new clothes that would do nothing to protect it from cold or damp or the slash of an enemy's knife, that hid no clever pockets for weaponry of its own. Clothes that would be nice to touch, if anyone were so inclined, and simple to remove. It checked its appearance in the mirror, and shrugged: it looked the same as always, and Alex had sometimes called it beautiful.
Unwise and irrepressible, hope lightened its step as it headed down to dinner.