Work Text:
“Steven Grant Rogers is alive,” the Asset thinks as its body thaws. The Asset does not have its own thoughts, so it understands that this is programmed data that will be relevant to its assignment. It does not understand who “Steven” is, but it is clearly critical mission information. It will be remembered.
At the completion of the mission, upon going back to the tank, the Asset still does not know who Steven is. The information must not have been of import, but it might be later. It will be remembered, filed away amongst all of the other programming.
Steven Grant Rogers is alive.
“Ready to comply.”
* * * * *
“I can’t just keep calling you ‘The Winter Soldier’ all the time; it’s a mouthful,” his partner complains. “Don’t you go by anything else?”
Of course he did. That was just his codename. It’d be a hassle if everyone had to call him that big long name all the time. His handlers all called him the same thing, for the most part, so he replied, “The Asset.”
His partner snorted in an extremely undignified way, not befitting a spy at all, but something about it relaxed the Asset’s body, the muscles in his face becoming lax, leaving him with a feeling of calm that was unique to this place, to this partner.
“I’m not calling you that either,” the man said. “It’s… dehumanizing.” His partner’s face contorted in a way that he was used to seeing. Anytime he mentioned things about his training, his programming, his partner would make such expressions. It appeared as if the man was in pain, but knowing that he had killer regenerative abilities and hadn’t gotten injured in the last few minutes, the Asset knew the pain was not physical.
“Is there anything else?” the tiny man asked.
He had not been programmed with any other recognizable titles, so he shook his head.
His partner’s face did the thing again, as if a lemon (?) had been placed on his tongue (Query: lemons – a very tart fruit, citrus, used in delicious drinks usually imbibed when the weather is warm, namely summer). The expression morphed abruptly into one of amusement, his partner having come up with an idea.
“I could give you a nickname, if that’s ok,” the man said, eyes bright with excitement.
(Query: nickname – a name assigned by others as a replacement to one’s true name, akin to a codename, typically used in an endearing fashion)
“It’s ok,” he parroted back.
His partner spent a few moments in thought, but his lips suddenly quirked into a grin and he exclaimed, “What about ‘Grant’? How’s that sound?”
The Asset almost reeled backward, hearing that name, the one he now remembered was part of what he’d told himself each time he awoke. Was his partner using this as a trigger word? Was it a passcode? He would have believed it to be so, except… it was not quite the same. He knew the name from his programming was a full name, that Grant was a middle name. Without the other parts, it could be any other name. “Grant?” he echoed, to ensure he heard correctly.
“Yeah,” his partner chirped, seeming amused by the nickname. “Grant. What do you think?”
The Asset did not get to think. It was programmed. But with this partner, protocols were different. He could have his own thoughts, and the ones he had now were only warm, the bright expression on his partner’s face giving the nickname only positive connotations. He wouldn’t mind being programmed with a new name, even if it was startlingly close to the mission information that was more meticulously programmed into him than anything else.
With his muzzle on, he knew his partner would not see his mouth make a smile, but whenever his partner smiled, the small man’s eyes would smile too. So he did a smile anyway, feeling his eyes crinkle at the corners, and his partner seemed delighted by the miniscule amount of emotion that he’d expressed. “Grant is good,” he told his partner.
The man was positively beaming at him, the glittering white teeth almost blinding. “Ok. From now on, I’ll call you Grant.” He giggled then, honest-to-god giggled, and he – Grant – was almost tempted to pull a gun on the man, since the spy had clearly been replaced by an evil twin. Spies didn’t giggle.
Grant would have done it too, except his partner surprised him by saying, “You can give me a nickname too, if you want.”
Grant blinked. Did he... want his partner to have a nickname? Something in him did, he knew immediately, but he wondered if the information was mission critical. Which… perhaps it was. His partner was so often in disguise, that a nickname could be used as a trigger word, to see past the disguises.
Still, Grant did not know the protocol for choosing a nickname. Surely there was a method by which a name was chosen. Not knowing the protocol, not wanting to fail, and knowing that his partner was perpetually gentle with him (unless there was sparring involved), he felt safe to ask, “What do I call you? Source of nickname is unclear.”
“Source?” his partner laughed. “C’mon pal, just pick whatever fits.”
(Query: pal – a slang term generally used to address males)
Codenames usually involved factors that related back to the thing being addressed, and nicknames were like codenames, were they not? So “whatever fit” could include visual cues referencing the source. Keeping that protocol in mind, Grant quietly said in Russian, “котенок.”
His partner’s face was blank for a moment, and for that short span of time, Grant worried that he had chosen poorly. But he knew his partner never punished him, so the tension evaporated, more so when his partner chuckled in what sounded like mirth rather than anger.
“Really? Kitten?” he rolled his eyes. Before Grant could apologize or provide an alternative, his partner sighed and said, “Fine. Kitten it is.”
Relieved that the nickname was well received, Grant’s face made another smile. So did Kitten’s face. Grant had done well.
Still, if the name irritated his partner, he did not wish to use it, even if it met the nickname parameters. “Does it bother you?” he asked, to make certain.
Another snort escaped his partner’s lips, and Grant braced himself for a giggle too, just in case. “No, not at all. Not the worst nickname I’ve had, believe me.”
He did. Grant would always believe this partner.
“Besides,” Kitten said, punching Grant lightly in the shoulder, clearly meaning it as an affectionate gesture, not one provoking him to violence, “friends always give each other the most trouble, don’t they?”
(Query: friend – an individual to whom one is very close emotionally, a relationship in which there are exchanges of trust)
The Asset did not have any friends. There was no one it trusted, no one that trusted it. It was a tool, meant for specific purposes. Grant and Kitten clearly had a slew of their own unique protocols. Perhaps their relationship equated to that of friends.
Still, the sentence Kitten had spoken had slightly vague tones. Perhaps he hadn’t been alluding to the two of them at all. To be clear, Grant asked, “Are we… friends?”
Kitten looked him in the eye. The man had more than a dozen weapons on his person, but he was not touching any one of them. He was reclining comfortably, in a position that would take at least 0.6 seconds to stand from. His guard was down. These were displays of trust. Kitten trusted that Grant would not attempt to harm him. And the exchange of trust was in the fact that, while Grant had seventeen weapons of his own, he was not touching them either. He was not as fully reclined as his partner, had his back to the corner and his eye on the door at all times, but this was a part of his programming. He was giving back what trust he could. If a friendship was made up of exchanges of trust, Grant was sure that was what they had.
Then, Kitten’s eyes grew watery, though a smile lifted his lips. The confusing expression was one Grant was not familiar with, but the smile was brighter than the tears, so he assumed Kitten was still happy. He had not upset him.
“Yeah, Grant,” he said, reaching through the space between them, touching Grant’s knee with his fingertips in the least threatening way possible. “We’re friends.”
* * * * *
“Steven Grant Rogers is alive,” the Asset thinks as its body thaws. “Steven Grant Rogers is alive, your nickname is Grant, and you are friends with котенок.” Grant knows this is all mission critical information.
It will be remembered.