Author's Notes: Because apparently my ongoing WIP wasn't enough to meet my terrible-to-the-characters-I-love standards. Planning on one more chapter, in which Steve accidentally stumbles on the trigger words post CA:WS.

Conditioned Response – Chapter 1

"Don't move," they tell the asset, and they leave him standing naked in the center of the room.

The floor is polished steel; the walls are smooth, gleaming curves. At even intervals, bolts dot the metal, securing it in place. There is a single, circular window in the door that they pull closed behind them.

The Winter Soldier obeys.

He stands in the position they left him in; if he feels discomfort, he gives no outward sign. At the four hour mark, the asset's handlers confer, somber men in white coats, clustered around the sole window. They are pleased with the progress.

It is time for the next step.

The handler nearest the door, a balding man in round glasses, peers into the window. He observes the asset's posture and stance, and he manipulates the dials attached to the panel near the door.

Then he stands back to watch.

The metal room grows warmer at a rate of two degrees per five minutes.

When the asset begins to sweat, his handlers jot down the temperature. When he shifts his weight to keep his bare feet from contact with the hot metal of the floor, they note that, too.

At last the asset's voice rings out, in broken Russian, to see if anyone is there.

They retrieve him. Heat bakes out when they open the door, harsh waves of it. The Winter Soldier sways on his feet, and his hair is dripping.

"Come," says the man in glasses, and the asset obeys.

His steps are ginger. When he lifts his feet, the bottoms are mottled red, swollen with blisters.

He is presented with a cup of water. "Drink," says the asset's handler, and he obeys this, too.

They march him down a long hallway. He keeps pace, but stumbles twice, occurrences which are marked dutifully onto notepads.

When they reach the door labeled "Conditioning Chamber," the man with glasses sits the asset in a chair. The straps used to hold him are metal, and they fasten on top of skin gone red with the heat. Brisk hands disconnect the asset's left arm.

"You were told not to move," says the man in the glasses. "Your performance was unacceptable."

The Winter Soldier bows his head. "I will do better," he says.

"You will," his handler agrees. "Or you will come here again."

On the table in the Conditioning Chamber, there rest a variety of instruments. There are short ones and long ones, smooth and serrated. Some have wires. Some have clamps.

By the time the handler is finished, the Winter Soldier knows that he does not want to come here again.

"Don't move," they tell the asset, and they leave him standing naked in the center of the room.

Already, the walls are caked in ice; already, the hair on the asset's arm stands on end, rising up in gooseflesh.

They seal the door behind them, and they watch through a panel on the wall, one-way glass.

They note how he clenches his jaw and flexes his muscles, attempting to stave off the involuntary shudders brought on by the cold. They marvel that he goes so long before he begins to shake – before he brings his flesh arm in to press against his chest for warmth.

The asset's lips are blue when they retrieve him. His teeth clatter together.

"You disobeyed," says the balding man with glasses. When they lead the asset down the hall, his breathing picks up, although he should not remember this place.

They note the reaction on their paperwork, and they are pleased.

"Don't move," they tell the asset, and they leave him standing naked in the center of the room.

The Winter Soldier's face is gaunt and hollow. His hip bones are angular beneath skin gone pale and papery with malnutrition. Each rib is starkly evident.

In the interest of his conditioning, the asset's physical readiness has been allowed to reach substandard levels. After all, he cannot be deployed in the field until they can be certain of his obedience.

But despite this calculated deprivation, the Winter Soldier stands steady and unwavering, as though he were in perfect health. The handlers nod together; they remark upon his resilience.

At the five hour mark, a young scientist with trim, neatly-combed hair enters the room with a tray. On the tray are a thick slice of brown bread and a bowl of chicken broth. The asset's eyes track the objects from the moment they enter the room. His throat bobs as he swallows, but he makes no move to abandon his designated location. He makes no move to disobey.

The scientist sets the food on the floor before the Winter Soldier. Then he exits the room and closes the door.

At the seven hour mark, they consult their notes to confirm the last time the asset was provided with solid nutrition. They check dates and times, confer with painstaking records. He has been presented with food since the previous wipe, they determine. His inaction is not due to incomprehension.

They can only conclude that his conditioning has survived the reset.

When the first shift ends, new handlers come into rotation. They speak together in hushed, excited voices, and they congratulate one another. Their compatriots exit the facility, relieved of duty.

At the seventeen hour mark, the asset sways on his feet. He staggers, corrects himself, and at last remains standing.

Fifteen minutes later, he falls to his knees.

They wait to see what he will do. They observe his movements, the way his flesh hand makes a fist at his side. They hypothesize that he will at last reach for the tray.

But the asset does not. He braces his metal arm against the floor, and he struggles to push himself to standing.

When he fails, they retrieve him for his session in the Conditioning Chamber.

"Don't move," they tell the asset, and he stands on broken legs.

"Don't move," they tell the asset, and he ignores the hallucinations that leave phantom touches on his skin.

"Don't move," they tell the asset, and the Winter Soldier learns to obey.