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The Winter Soldier wasn't programmed for emotions; he—it was molded as a weapon. A monster. An assassin. A soldier. And that's what it was. Their pitch-perfect mutt of death.
When it got out, that's when things went wrong. Even though it was James Buchanan Barnes before the monster that was created, it never fully understood that. It only understood that it might have known Steve before and you were some kind of caretaker for this strange "man" that looked like a wet cat in the rain.
It was late, far too late to be woken up. The sound a scratchy whimper and a slight clawing at your wooden floor from your main room summoning you awake at this hour. When you went to investigate, you found the cause of the pathetic noise. The Winter Soldier sitting on the floor, knees up to its chest and its hand sloppily wiping its face, metal hand trying to grip the floor. Puffy and red and tear-filled, its cheeks curving the tears rolling down. The moonlight seeping in from the window, making its metal arm glisten and the wet tears shine.
You processed the sight, letting the sounds of its breath hitching and its sniffling sit before you slowly walked over, kneeling down next to it. It looked at you, cocking its head to the side, silent questioning before for once speaking without permission, without asking, without having to be told.
"What is happening to me—what is this?"
It whispered, voice raspy and shaky from the crying and the usual lack of speaking, its tone almost pleading and desperate as its eyes poured into you—stared at you like you'd be able to give it every answer it'd ever needed.
It was lost and confused. These emotions—this physical reaction, all of it was unknown to it. It was scary. It was used to being an emotionless subject. A controlled thing. This was a thing that never happened, never even threatened to appear, not to the Winter Soldier. It was a new, never-stepped-in territory for the lost mutt.
Its confusion broke your heart, squeezing and twisting. The soldier was crying, and it was almost scared by this new and strange thing. It was lost. This visual reaction of tears was unfamiliar. It didn't like this—obviously.
"They're tears, Winter. Crying."
You state simply as if it'd even explain anything. The comrade simply stared, head tilting more as its hands kept using its palms to sloppily wipe the tears, rubbing them across its cheeks. Its eyes told you it didn't understand.
"It's not bad—I promise. It's a reaction to emotions. It happens sometimes."
You try to explain softly, your hand moving to gently hover over its shoulder, not initiating anything fully physical yet unless told otherwise, which also confused the poor guy. All of this newfound free will, all of this fresh air, all of this care. It was free, and it was scared.
It blinked at you, its blinks a little rapid as it tried to get the tears away. It was warm and wet falling out of its eyes and falling onto its skin; these weird feelings almost hurt worse than any mission it's taken, any physical blow that's ever landed on it.
It nodded hesitantly at you, and you moved, causing it to tilt its head at your absence before you reappeared with a few tissues in hand, moving gently to wipe and pat at the physical show of liquid sadness away from its cheeks. It sat and let you. It always did. It never did anything, never fought back, never tried. It moved and acted like a machine. And now that machine was crying.
You sighed; you would try to ask what caused the assassin to cry, try to ask for a reason, but it's already so lost and scared, you doubt it'd be able to even try to communicate what happened and how it feels.
So instead you ran a hand through its hair for comfort, your fingers moving gently as it went through its greasy and untamed locks. It seemed to appreciate the physical affection, though, the way it leaned into your touch, giving you that answer.
It was pitiful to see a person so confused about something so simple. Confused about tears—about sadness. You didn't know how to comfort it—hell, it didn't even know what comfort it needed. All it knew was that it just wanted this to stop—needed it to. It hurt. It scratched its throat and made its face wet and eyes go blurry and spill this weird salty liquid.
This feeling felt like it was choking—like it was drowning. It felt like pain. It was horrific. It was uncomfortable. New things were not anything it got; it wasn't anything the soldier understood.
Sure, you've lost sleep, but you'd rather stay up with a confused and upset mutt of a person than leave it to be by itself, suffering with overwhelming emotions puzzling it.
"Make it stop?"
It mumbled after the silence, voice wavery, its tone pathetic. These feelings almost hurt it—suffocated it. It wasn't taught to deal, only to fight. Only to obey. Only to listen. To be the loyal mutt to HYDRA. To never complain.
You blinked at it, that plea so pitiful, the soldier acting as if you could do anything to stop these sad tears leaking. Your brows furrowed, and you frowned, slowly shaking your head.
"I can't make it stop. You have to—I don't know—ride it out."
You whispered softly as you kept your hand moving through its hair. It looked down at the drops on its knees and made a weak whimper before staring at you.
"It... hurts."
It tried to reason as if you could still make this painful feeling stop. It felt like these emotions were squeezing its throat, causing its eyes to leak, its nose to sniffle, its chest to feel heavy.
You swallowed and sighed, moving a bit closer, your hands gently resting on its shoulders. You blinked at it, your whole expression a show of worry.
"I know—I can't stop it, though, Winter. It's human."
You whispered softly with a small nod as your thumbs rub gentle circles on its shoulders.
Human was a word that caused it to stare and process. You called it human. You've been treating it like a human. It was used to being a pet. A weapon. A soldier. Not a human. Never a human. And that realization, the processing it just went through, made it stare at you dumbfounded, but the tears got worse. They spilled more, and you heard the pathetic little breaths and sniffles coming from it as it tried to fight back the need to wail out sounds.
God, this whole thing was heartbreaking. Pathetic and pitiful. How can you comfort someone who doesn't even know what the hell it's like to be human? You can't do more other than spew some bullshit explanation in hopes it understands and give it some physical love. That won't stop this mysterious pain and these unknown tears from drowning it.