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It had been bad before, but not this bad.
But then again, maybe it had. Maybe he just couldn't remember.
The electrocurrent was setting his head on fire, making the whole world turn into blinding light and intense pain. The asset's body was convulsing as every muscle tensed, forcing him against the restraints that held him in place. Both of his hands, the one made out of flesh and bones and the metal one, clenched so tightly into fists that his fingers felt like fracturing any second. He couldn't breath, his spine forced into an incomplete arch, pushing against the fixation. It was too much, even for a soldier. A machine.
No, his lips formed against the mouthguard, no, no, no. But the only sound his vocal chords could actually produce was a muffled scream, distorted by the shocks that were shaking his body. The world was going black, only to flare up again in pure white agony seconds later. The asset's thighs were cramping, feeling like something was ripping deep inside of them. He was on the brink of losing consciousness, only to be violently pulled back by the pain.
When the electricity stopped for a brief moment, every bit of strength left his body. He was collapsing into the restraints, his muscles twitching uncontrollable. Cold metal tightly pressed against his cheecks, his neck, leaving his head in a slightly tilted position that put an uncomfortable strain on his neck. He was breathing heavily, painfully, but just when he was about to fill his lungs with precious air, another wave of shock was sent straight into his brain, sending him back into convulsions that seemed to tear him apart from the inside. His jaws clenched around the mouthguard, hard enough to make it feel like his teeth would shatter into pieces. Just like his ribcage. His bones. His fingernails pushing into the palm of his right hand.
They wouldn't stop this time. It was a sudden realization, but the asset didn't question it. Didn't mourn it, either. They had made him, they could disassemble him any time he wouldn't be of use anymore. He accepted it the moment he understood, just waiting for the pain to finally fade away. Something in his body would rupture and put an end to this.
The asset was so sure this would be the last time, it was utterly confusing when the cramps finally stopped again and left him as a shivering mass of muscles, overstimulated nerves and skin soaking wet with sweat. Every gasp for air felt like he was breathing in tiny shards of glass. A sharp sound was ringing in his ears. Then, suddenly, a wave of nausea hit his aching body as the room started spinning in front of his eyes. And it hit him hard. The asset frantically tried to swallow, to calm his breath, but he had completely lost the usually perfect control he had over his body.
No. No, no, no.
This time the words just formed in his mind, unable to even move his lips. He was trying to shake his head, but the fixation was too tight. Drops of sweat were forming on his forehead, his wet hair was clinging to his temples, his cheeks. The asset's upper body was naked, exposed, a stark contrast to the guards surrounding him, all wearing heavy armor. Their rifles were still aimed at him, even though there was no chance he could stand up right now, let alone free himself from the restraints. But of course, security was top priority when handling a deadly weapon.
He just didn't feel like a weapon at all right now. He felt utterly pathetic. His stomach muscles contracted again, this time without the help of electric impulses, thrusting him forward against the metal that secured him. The sickness was overwhelming and, to his horror, he felt liquid coming up his esophagus, quickly filling his mouth. This was when he panicked. The asset desperately tried to spit out the mouthpiece, failing miserably. He retched, bringing up more stomach content he couldn't expel. The sour fluid was pushing out of the corners of his mouth, even his nostrils, burning like hell, but it wasn't enough. He would drown, drown in his own vomit. Just moments ago he had been ready to die, but not like this. His whole body started to spasm, frantically trying to free his hands from the shackles.
Finally one of the soldiers stepped forward, grabbing the asset's chin with a firm grip. He put pressure on the jaw joints to force them open, quickly pulling out the mouthpiece. It brought a surge of sick with it, splattering all over the asset's own chest, his lap, the machine. He wasn't shaking anymore, just shivering, too exhausted for any stronger motion. He moaned as his stomach tensed again for another heave. Still unable to move his head, the vomit was dripping down his chin, leaving him covered in his own body fluids. Even though his vision was blurry, the asset could see the look of pure contempt and revulsion on his handler's face.
He was weak. A disgusting mess. A broken weapon. He deserved every bit of punishment his handler gave him, but he wasn't strong enough to take it. The asset couldn't even remember what had happened before, what brought him here. What he did wrong. But there was no doubt in his mind that he had failed and that he was the one forcing HYDRA to set him straight again. After all, he owed everything to them. He was theirs, a machine not even worthy of the time they had to put into fixing him.
-
And then, completely unexpected, another sudden burst of electricity hit his head. Only that it wasn't an electric shock, it was something even more excrutiating. It lasted for a few unbearable seconds before the sensation shifted in the most drastic and confusing way he had ever experienced. It went from terrifying to... calming. Soothing. Feelings he had known in another life that didn't belong to him anymore. He had lost and ultimately forgotten about them in the shapeless decades he had been in and out of cryostasis. Sleeping. Waking. Killing. Freezing. The existence of a carefully tuned weapon. But in the midst of this empty void was a foggy image, a feeling that he had been here before. A voice. A slight chuckle. Not something that usually came out of people's mouth when he was around. Then fingers, gently running through his hair. A small hand rubbing his lower back in tender circles.
"There, there, Buck. You're doing great."
Once again, a wave of nausea was washing through his body. His eyes were sternly fixed on the ground between two perfectly polished shoes. His own, apparently, judging from the angle. Warm saliva was filling his mouth, making him swallow forcefully, repeatedly. A strained breath was escaping his lips, a gag, a small wimper that seemed so very unfamiliar, even though it vaguely resembled his own voice.
"It's okay. Don't fight it. Just let it all out, you'll be better in no time."
This voice was not his own. It was warm and caring and a little amused, but also quite worried. A combination that didn't even make sense. The one hand never stopped rubbing his back, but the other one was done stroking significantly shorter strands of hair out of his sweaty forehead. It was now wandering down to his stomach, giving just the tiniest bit of pressure. So weak, but enough to send him over the edge.
The vomit came out quickly and forceful. It was not starting with a slow, painful buildup of dry heaving and first sprinkles, it was more of a sudden explosion. His well trained stomach muscles contracted, making his body thrust forward against the gentle hand as a fountain of bitter liquid projectiled out of his mouth and splattered on the ground, staining the wall he was leaning against and his tidy uniform shoes.
"Wow. That was something."
The voice, again. Strange and familiar at the same time, now with a slight startle. The hand on his back was changing directions, starting to rub upwards towards his neck. As if these delicate fingers had some kind of mysterious control over his body, the motion brought up a second wave of vomit, thicker this time, even more unpleasant to expel. While the first outburst had been mostly liquid, this time it brought up half digested food. There was nothing he could do against it. He was completely helpless, feeling the chunky mess being pushed up his throat and out of his mouth. The stench of the puddle between and on his feet make him retch violently.
"Easy, easy there. You're fine, Bucky. It's okay. I'm here."
But it wasn't okay and he didn't feel fine at all. His body was shaking like a leaf, sweat forming on his skin, his legs almost too weak to support him any longer. Whoever was with him must have noticed, folding his slender arms around his waist and chest, trying to hold him up. The asset wasn't sure if these weak little things were able to catch him if he'd actually collapse, but he didn't have time to worry. A program had been started by his system, and it was far from being done.
Another strenuous heave sent him tumbling forwards, the whole mush splashing against the wall in front of him. Chunks of what had been a meal not too long ago got stuck in his mouth and he shivered with disgust as he was forcing them over his lips. The asset was desperately grasping for air, but even oxygen seemed too much for his body to handle at this point. He was instantly shook by several dry heaves, and just as he had a slight hope that it was finally over, that there was simply nothing left in his stomach to throw up, a sour gush of bile came up, clinging to his lips.
It was all too much for him. First his arms were giving in, then his knees. The only thing that kept him from falling straight into the puddle of his own puke were the arms that held him oh so tightly, firmly pulling him to the side. So he had been right and wrong at the same time. The other one wasn't strong enough to stop him from collapsing, but more than strong enough to pull him away from the mess he made and into a warm embrace. His head, way too heavy now, sank against the chest behind him. A handkerchief gently wiped the stains from his mouth, his chin. And then, with the most confusing sensation, a fleeting kiss was placed on his sweaty forehead.
"It's alright, Buck. The worst is over."
"I'll never touch alcohol again. Ever." A raspy voice, sounding like himself and a complete stranger at the same time, every word hurting his sore throat.
"That's what you said last time", the other voice whispered while the hand was caressing his neck, his hair, his cheeks. The cool touch felt so good. Comforting, even though his head was pounding and his stomach still turning, probably just too exhausted or too empty to bring up anything more. "But don't worry, I'll be right here when it never happens again."
"Sh'tup, punk", he muttered, slurred, trying to bury his face against the chest. He could hear a calm, steady heartbeat. It was singing him to sleep, right here in this dirty alley. He couldn't care less, he was too weak to get up anyways and he felt like he never wanted to leave these arms again.
He was a mess. He was disgusting. But at least he was not alone.
-
Only that he was. Of course. Alone in a cell and the arms that were wrapped around his body were his own.
The asset blinked, several times. He had no idea how he got here and couldn't make sense of the images he just saw in his head. At least he was clean again, his body naked and wet, water dripping from the long, dark strands of his hair. They probably hosed him down, but he barely noticed the cold drops running all over his skin. He was trying to cling to the already fading pictures in his mind as if they belonged to him. As if he was an actual person who could possess something instead of being the property. Those pictures were completely trivial, mostly unpleasant, but so radically different from the existence he knew. That couldn't have been him, but for a few brief moments, it sure had felt like it.
An unfamiliar rush of panic grabbed him by the throat. This was not supposed to happen. They had wiped him. Repaired him. Cleaned him, in every sense of the word. He needed to inform his handler immediately, ask him to repeat the process, more thorough this time.
And still... he didn't. He just lay there in silence, eyes closed, his forehead pressed against the cold floor.
The voice. The hands. The arms. The heartbeat.
They weren't his, nothing was his. So he locked them away in a part of his mind far below the surface. Once again, he would function. Obey. Comply.
But for the very first time, the asset decided to keep something, just for himself.