Chapter Text
“From the personal journal of Major General Vasily Karpov—September 1983:
Against advice, I have taken Codename: Winter Soldier to the Middle East as my personal bodyguard. I am getting old and I know there are only a few years left for me, so I wish to spend them watching this twisted creature defend my life.
I almost feel sorry for him, as he tenses up whenever anyone approaches, ready to dive in front of a bullet for me.
It will never make up for what he and his people did to me in the war, how they shamed me in front of my own men, but even after all these years, it still makes me smile to see Captain America’s partner serving Mother Russia.
Let us see what kind of damage he can do to his country’s efforts in the Middle East. These next few years should be amusing. I am glad that Yuri transferred me. To hell with him.” (Ed Brubaker, Captain America volume 5 issue 11)
Two men walked through a bazaar, dressed in Western clothes. One was old, stooped, leaning on a cane with his broad, bald wrinkled head tipped forward. The other stood head and shoulders above him, watchful, dressed in a suit, sharp angles and unremarkable black: a bodyguard. Though out of place they passed insignificantly through the crowd, part of the background of the bustling market. Standing out more than their attire and pale skin was the way the taller man, the bodyguard, was visibly on edge. Shaded by dark hair, his eyes scanned the area constantly. His jacket hung on tense, squared shoulders; every so often a sight or sound made his head move, too quickly.
The older man showed neither anxiety nor interest in the vibrant surroundings, sparing an occasional glance for a bright-colored stall before returning his gaze to the dusty stone he walked on. His mind was elswhere, in a past filled with ice and blood, bitterness and vengeance.
He glanced up at his companion, noticed the tension quietly radiating off him, and rolled his eyes irritably. “For God’s sake,” he snarled in accented English, “you can’t have forgotten something as basic as a low public profile. Stop twitching like a damned amateur.”
The Winter Soldier looked him in the eyes the moment he spoke, then dropped his gaze to the ground. Karpov watched as he raised his head with a fixed gaze, took a long deliberate breath in through his nostrils, and then visibly forced the rigidity from his posture and the edge from his eyes. In a moment he changed from a guarded animal inches from attacking to a normal, relaxed man walking the market; one who looked like he had a name, a family, a home, people he smiled for. Bizarre, Karpov thought, watching a person force themselves with an iron hand into such a natural-looking false front. Impressive.
The Soldier did some security work in the past, but Karpov had long known that he was neither intended nor properly suited for this kind of work. The Soldier’s augments, both physical and mental, made blending into the civilian world for extended periods difficult and risky. The arm, if seen, was distinctive and memorable enough to pose a serious danger to any cover. And the memory wipes, conditioning, and programming meant he was only reliably stable under specific circumstances. The risk of erratic behavior while in public was considerable.
So far, however, he had been handling his assignment as constant guardian with surprising aptitude. Karpov being his original handler probably had a lot to do with it. It had only been a week since he learned of his degrading reassignment: cleaning up messes in the desert, clearly meant as both semi-retirement and exile. His status may have fallen in most Party and even military spheres, but he was still a Major General, one of the founders of Department X, and the author of the Winter Soldier program. It was not difficult for him to sail over the heads of the other program directors, to requisition this specific weapon for his personal protection, even with an indefinite timeline.
They were all instruments of Mother Russia, but the Soldier was his. And the brainwashed assassin gave every indication that this was true, following Karpov and his every word like a perfectly trained dog, letting nothing escape his notice while maintaining cover at all times.
The edginess exhibited today was the first departure from perfection, and it would need to be addressed. There were not the usual resources, manpower, and equipment for ensuring total compliance here. He would have to rely on his expertise and the authority he knew he wielded over the Soldier’s mind. It was unthinkable to be afraid of something that was no more than a tool, but just like any weapon, the lethal potential of the Winter Soldier was something he respected and never forgot.
They reached the entrance to the hotel and Karpov ascended the stairs with his usual difficulty. What an insult this decrepitude was. He was aware of the Soldier two steps below, keeping closer behind than on the flat road, clearly to protect from the possibility of a fall. The Soldier’s hearing made going ahead to clear the apartment unnecessary, but he couldn’t help feeling bitter, to have his escort judge a senile stumble a greater danger than an assassin lying in wait.
The accommodations were spacious, air- and light-filled, with high ceilings, detailed tile work, and a large balcony. Karpov poured himself a vodka from the small bar, and a large glass of water for his shadow. Nodding at the wooden stool near the table for the Soldier to sit, he reclined on the sofa and sipped his drink while watching his bodyguard closely. They both caught the tremor in the right hand as he reached for the water.
The Soldier’s brows drew together at the sight. His gaze flickered up to his handler and then returned to the hand closed around the glass. He lifted it and drained it.
“Soldat.”
He put a crisp tone of command to his words. The assassin seated across from him immediately straightened and met his eyes. Ready to comply.
“Full status report on your physical condition. Now.”
Shifting his gaze away and back and swallowing, he obeyed with a voice like a rusted pipe.
“Physical condition acceptable but not optimal. Experiencing the following symptoms outside acceptable operating parameters: Fatigue. Decreased stamina. Increased acute head pain. Tremors in right hand. Dizziness.”
He hesitated there, eyes downcast and roving. He was afraid to report all his symptoms, but incapable of evading the direct order. “…Confusion. Anxiety. Mood instability.” The old handler’s eyebrows raised. After another reluctant pause, the Soldier reported, his voice now barely audible, “…Hallucinations in peripheral vision. Flashing lights. Reason for impairment unknown.”
Report finished, the Soldier let his gaze fall to a fixed, faraway point on the ground, his face full of apprehension. Karpov observed the pale, slack features; the bloodshot eyes sunk into vivid purple sockets.
A bell had begun to chime in his mind already, forestalling the fear of dismemberment by a killing machine gone erratic and unstable. There was a small cot near the entrance to the apartment, not private but at least set off from the General’s quarters. He had jerked his head towards it before turning in each night, and seen the dim outline of the Soldier standing by the door or sitting on the cot as he fell asleep.
“You haven’t slept.” It wasn’t a question. The Soldier’s eyes returned from their faraway place, and as his face regained expression his eyebrows quirked upward in an uncertain frown. He offered his explanation without prompting:
“Mission details did not include backup to allow for shift change. Compromise in security unavoidable.”
The words were confident enough, but his face betrayed such uncertainty that Karpov began to wonder if he even recalled the concept of sleeping. Christ, the general thought sourly. The asset had never been so incapable of independent function in past decades. His attempted rebellions and subsequent wipes and reconditioning over the years had deteriorated his mental state to the point where it was sometimes difficult to anticipate what normal aspects of human function were blank spaces in his mind. Karpov knew he ate at least once a day, availing himself of a large stock of flavorless nutrient bars made specially for the Soldier’s metabolism, and made use of the shower, albeit with no concept of either modesty or hot water.
Neither of those activities necessitated a pause in his duties, however, which seemed to be what made him unwilling to sleep. The Major General had, unknowingly, been remiss in maintaining the function of his most essential and deadly tool.
(Too subtly for Karpov to notice, the Soldier’s breath had begun to quicken. A word floated across the surface of his mind— broken, and made fleeting connection with a rising feeling of distress for which he could not find the source.)
The part-laugh, part-sigh huff of the handler interrupted his descent into panic. He raised his eyes to meet his master’s. He did not understand the look in the old man’s eyes, or the wry twist to his mouth.
“Pathetic creature,” muttered Karpov. Then speaking more clearly, he said, “Add this to your mission parameters. Your body, including your brain, will not function without sleep. Four hours is sufficient. Four consecutive hours,” he added as an afterthought. “You will develop contingencies to minimize the security compromise. Whatever additional risk remains is acceptable. You will sleep now, before you collapse, and in the future at whatever time of day or night is convenient and compromises my security detail the least.”
The old man’s gaze and voice became even harsher. “This mistake or another like it will not be repeated or tolerated. You are the Winter Soldier, not a stupid child.” The Soldier failed to hide the way he shrank and flinched as though already experiencing the punishment that the tone implied.
He stood, broadcasting submissiveness, walked through the door frame to the cot in the foyer, and slowly removed his body armor and boots. He placed a few holsters of weaponry next to the boots but remained armed with at least one gun and two knives. Sitting on the edge of the cot, hands clenching and unclenching on his knees, he chanced one more look through his hair towards the only person who could give him any guidance as to what to do next.
The General debated throwing the heavy water glass at the idiot thing’s head. His patience won out, surprisingly, and he simply sighed and instructed, “Lay down and close your eyes. Let yourself fall asleep. I will be working in here. I don’t particularly care how it happens, but four hours from now you will be properly rested and back in optimal condition. Is that understood.”
“Da, General.”
Just before he turned to his correspondence, another thought struck Karpov.
“Don’t dream.”
FINAL NOTE: Hope you enjoyed! This might not work but if it does, it should take you to the page in the comic that this fic is based on that I'm rambling about in the Author's Note at the top. If I'm breaking any kind of copyright rules for the love of god tell me and I'll take it down.
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