[Closed] Thread w/ @sacrificeyourfreedom

[punybanner]

Characters: Bruce & Steve
Verse: Dark!Steve AU
Summary: Post-radiation Bruce is captured by a HYDRA-brainwashed Steve
Location: Russia
Warnings: Violence, torture, dubcon, noncon, etc.

After the accident, Bruce ran. He hadn't known what else to do.

First he went to Mexico, then further south, into Guatemala and Costa Rica and finally Brazil. He'd been alright there for a time, but mounting civil conflicts and a generally unstable society - compounded by his own inability to afford a place outside of the crowded, noisy slums - led to his running further afield. He went to Europe, to the parts where he didn't need papers or passports, where the military couldn't find him. He ran as far as he could, away from everything he'd known and loved, away from civilization. Even after the distance was enough he kept running, because he didn't want to confront the truth: there was no cure. He couldn't fix himself. There was no going back to the Bruce Banner he was before.

By the time he was in Russia he was weary, run-down by the constant fear of being found, of hurting innocents, of losing control and seeing people die because of it - because of his own foolish ambitions. He cursed the project daily, wondered why they ever wanted to recreate a serum like that in an age like this. Sure, it could heal thousands of people, but Bruce had seen the glimmer in Ross' eyes during every meeting they had together. The serum was created to win a war, not to cure cancer. That was what it would be used for: destruction, not salvation.

So Bruce ran. If they found him, they would use him to give them what they wanted. He couldn't allow that future to come to pass. He was sure that here, in the farthest place from home he could possibly get, he would be able to rest.

But then HYDRA attacked.

He'd been staying in a small village, helping with farmwork to earn room and board. There was nothing strategic there, only agriculture of the lowest form, cows and goats and pigs, no real crops, no real economy. But HYDRA had come all the same, shouting their name over and over until it had burned itself into Bruce's eardrums like a brand. He was going to change, was halfway through tearing his rough, hand-woven clothing, but then something very hard and very heavy struck him over the back of his head and he was out.

When he awoke he was somewhere very cold and very dark, on a very hard floor that smelled of rust and iron. He felt too groggy to panic; his head still hurt, but he could think relatively clearly, which meant there probably wasn't any brain damage. He was in a cell of some sort, and he could hear voices but only faintly, like they were far away and behind a door or wall.

"Hello?" he called, his voice weak, knowing it was stupid and useless but feeling the need to do it anyway. "Anybody home?" Seemed like he could manage sarcasm even in the worst situations. There was hope for him yet.

Comments

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

"He is your mission," they say, when he is brought into the room with the chair. "You will find him for us. And you will bring him here.
His mission.
Kind eyes, he'd thought when he looked down at the first picture. Kindness means nothing in Hydra, means nothing to the Captain, but there is kindness in the man's eyes, in the way he smiles at someone who has been cut out. The Captain reads about the woman who helped the man in the labs and wonders if the smile is for her. They do not think the man has gone back to the woman, do not thing he could be so stupid, with all his degrees and years running from the military, but the Captain wonders if the smile is a mark of being that dumb.
Some people are.
The file says the man has no control over the monster he becomes. He reads of the damage done to Harlem and to the university, and he shivers, in a way the machines never make him do. There are photos of bodies, buried under the stone wreckage, and the Captain stares at them, the blood that clings to the skin, the crushed bones. He watches the video of the green monster tearing across the university campus, and the roar follows him throughout the entire day.
He has not been taught fear. A weapon has no fear. A weapon can not feel fear, and he is a weapon. But when he looks at the count of the civilians who died under the monster's rage, he images that this is what fear feels like. The shiver in his bones, the chill on his skin; this is what it must be to feel afraid of something. Something he can not see, something that is not there to beat him into death like those in the pictures, and something that makes his blood go cold. It feels a little like seeing the chair waiting for him after a mission.
He looks at the file as the helicopter flies over the Russian forest, feeling the thrum of the engines shake the metal under his feet. Rumlow comes to him, and he trades the file for a set of guns, added weight to those already pushing his body down. He can has carried more than this. "We've isolated the village. Banner's been staying in the farm on the northwest corner. bring him down, bring him in, soldier."
"да."
His feet hit the ground while the helicopter still hovers in the air, and he moves as the speakers blast out their message, running with the gun tight in his hands. He see see man in front of him, just beyond the building. His boots kick up dust in the air.
The first dart lands square in the back of Banner's neck. He's still turning green. The Captain lifts his gun to fire again, but he's already upon Banner, already too close to fire the toxin, and he swings the gun around instead, a club against Banner's skull.
The Hulk drops.
Whatever it was, the neurotoxin or the gun to the back of his head, the target stays out for the several hours back to Hydra. The Captain is told to carry him to his cell. The mission is over, the target achieved, but he is not sent back to the chair or the storage room. He is left standing in front of the cell, and when Banner begins to wake up, when the man calls out, the Captain is in front of the bars, with his hands curled around his gun and the grime of the battle still on his face. He blinks, and looks at Banner, and all the response he gives is a growl.

[punybanner]

The growl that meets his words sends a chill up Bruce's spine. It sounds like it came from a human, but what kind of human he doesn't know. Humans don't growl like that, low and rough, almost feral. He ignores the urge to press himself up against the corner the cell and instead moves forward, towards the bars, towards the source of the noise.

When he gets a few feet closer his eyes adjust to the darkness and he can make out the silhouette of a man, tall and built, holding a gun. Okay, a guard. That's not strange. But the look on the man's face - it's terrifying. There's no emotion or expression there, just a blank stare. Bruce has seen military men and soldiers many times, but they've never looked like this - like their brains and hearts have been removed, so that they could function without feeling.

"Hey," he says, knowing it probably doesn't matter; guards aren't supposed to talk to prisoners. Then he remembers he's in Russia and goes for that instead, his tongue clumsy, tripping over the unfamiliar sounds. "Привет. Меня зовут Брюс." My name is Bruce.

Will it matter? He has the distinct feeling that the people who captured him already know his name and what he can do. There's no one else in the cell with him; he didn't see the invading soldiers taking any other hostages. That meant they came there for him and him alone.

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

He blinks, and looks down at the man in the cell, and there's not a waver of emotion in his face. A normal man, a man who was not Hydra's first and shield, might worry about being so close to the Hulk; the Captain only blinks, and stares back at him. He is without his mask, taken after the end of the mission with most of his gear, and the expressions are just as blank as they might be without the gear there to hide them.
I know your name. He thinks it, but he does not say anything. He is not allowed to say anything; this is not his handler, nor is it within order to speak to a prisoner. He steps back, sliding to the corner portion of the cell's bars, where he can see inside with little obstruction, and watch the hallway as well, his blue eyes darting everywhere in rapid motion. The eye movement; his only bit of expression, the only clue to what he feels, where he looks. They ever shift, unable to stay focused on one point. It's a combination of the orders _{guard him keep him here}, and the fear that he won't see who comes for him, the energy that always keeps him keyed up, always keeps his toes bouncing inside of his shoes.
There's the echo of shoes on the floor, clipped steps marching, unhurried, towards them, and the Captain stiffens, though his posture is already in perfect straightness. The moments drag out before Rumlow steps into Bruce's view, dressed in similar black tactical gear to the Captain, with more guns on his chest and far more expression to his face. He sneers at Bruce, leering, and then looks at the Captain.
"Pierce just called. Wants you to see how far you can make the little man bend before big green comes out to play."
The Captain's eyes flicker to Bruce, then back to Rumlow. He nods.
"You need anything?"
"Knife," he says, and one is handed to him. Rumlow laughs as the Captain unlocks the door and enters Bruce's cell.
"You'll want to stay calm for this, Doctor. General Ross might have stopped at just using his daughter for bait, but we're willing to do whatever it takes. Order through pain."

[punybanner]

Even if there was anything else to look at other than the foreboding steel bars surrounding him, Bruce wouldn't be able to take his eyes off of the strange man guarding him. The way his eyes flickered around was even more unnerving than his lack of expression. He would've seemed afraid, but his stance was far too stiff for him to seem afraid of anything. Even from inside the cell Bruce could tell the man was stronger than anyone else he'd met; his muscles outlined the black clothing he wore. He was tall, too, with an objectively handsome face. How on earth did a man like that come to be in a place like this?

Not that Bruce knew where he was. When that other man appeared, though, fear instantly crept up the back of Bruce's neck. Unlike the blond man, this person had the eyes of someone malicious, someone who liked to cause pain just because he could. His words sent a shock through Bruce and the scientist's eyes widened in horror as he looked back and forth between them. Were they serious? Did they want to die?

He moved away from the bars when the blond entered the cell, glancing at the knife and trying not to think about what it would be used for. "This is a really bad idea," he said, his voice already tight with panic, his muscles tensing. He could feel the Other Guy inside of him, restless, as though he could scent the danger in the air.

"You don't know what you're dealing with." Not that he knew either, not really, but the point was the same. He continued to step backwards until he hit the wall of the cell; after that, all he could do was stare at his captors in disbelief.

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

"Not a mistake, Doctor Banner." Rumlow fiddles around in his pockets, dragging out the moment of terror. He turns the phone around, holding up the picture of Betty clear for Bruce to see, even as removed from the cell as Rumlow is. "Think of her as our insurance. You're too far away to save her. You keep the big buy in check, she'll live, I promise. You don't..... Well, some of my associates can be rather enthusiastic about these things." He leans back against the wall, the picture of casualness, and waves his hand. The Captain starts forward again, moving the knife between his fingers, and there's still no expression on his face, no pleasure like there is on Rumlow's features.

"Stay still," he orders, and it's the first words he's spoken to Bruce, the first moment they've interacted in some way that can even be considered an interaction, and it's to issue an order that's fulfilment is unlikely in the extreme. Strong fingers close around Bruce's shoulder, pushing him against the wall, pinning him there, as he raises the knife up.

And it's so wrong how the man without a weapon in his hands is out side the cell, looking so pleased with the looming violence, while the one with the blade and the wielder of that method of torture has only the slightly bit of annoyance on his face. The Captain has no response for how Rumlow grins or Bruce backs away in fear, no compassion or pity or even humanity in his eyes.

Rumlow chuckles, deep in his throat, and starts flicking casually through the photos of his phone, turning the smile on the still images of Betty Ross. "I'd do as he says, Doctor. Our Captain has a wicked way with that blade, but you wouldn't want to distract him while he's working."

[punybanner]

Bruce takes one look at the photo of Betty and that's it, he's done, he'll do anything they tell him to. She doesn't deserve this. He would take every ounce of torture in the world for her. He was the one who talked her into doing the project, who got her caught up in this ridiculous, dangerous world, who took her away from safety and security. He loved her, and because of that she was the one paying the price for his mistakes.

The problem was that he couldn't give them what they wanted - he couldn't stop the green guy from coming out to play. It just wasn't a decision he got to make. The hand that clutches his shoulder is like steel, relentless in achieving its goal, just like the man it's attached to. He doesn't struggle, because he knows any physical resistance is a) useless and b) a bad idea.

He knows he won't get anywhere with the numb-faced man in front of him, so Bruce flicks his gaze over to the other man, trying to ignore the hatred roiling in his stomach as he sees the guy staring at pictures of Betty. They could have already hurt her and he wouldn't even know.

"I'm trying to tell you - if you do this, you'll all die." He sounds more desperate now, pleading with these men who seem oblivious to anything other than getting what they want. "I can't stop it, I can't keep him from hurting people." He can see the knife closing in on him and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, has to pretend everything is alright when he knows it's going to hurt, they're going to hurt him and make him change and Betty will -

Breathe. He has to. It's his only choice.

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

"I know you were building control, when you stayed in Brazil. Breathing and heart rate, yes, Doctor?" The Captain holds back, not yet striking out with the gun, because Rumlow's words still feel like a negotiation to avoid the pain of the pain, and his training is such to defer to that. Wait for the explicit permission, wait for the warning and the begging to stop, and then he starts it again. Break him, Hydra's command was, and there's a breaking point in begging, in waiting. Less work if the prisoner talks themselves into a break down. The knife hovers in the air, a silver gleam in the light, and he's barely breathing, looming over Bruce and still digging his fingers in, as hard as the grip might be to hold onto.

Rumlow's laugh bounces off the stone walls of the cell. "Dont' worry about more blood on your hands. We're not taking any chances about the big guy getting away." Rumlow uses the phone to point above his head, where a small grate sits in casual simplicity in the wall. "Aerosol neurotoxin. Same thing that's been keeping you out long enough for us to get everything cleaned up." Now comes the gesture, Rumlow waving his hand, and the Captain waits for another single beat before he moves.

The knife moves in quick slashes, cutting away the shirt, exposing Bruce's chest, and the wielder has no regard for how he leaves bloody cuts on the skin, how the movement of the blade cuts shallowly into Bruce's skin. He uses the blade to push away the bits of Bruce's shirt that cling to him, exposing a canvas of skin. He pauses, his head tilting, just a little, as he considers the hairy chest before him.

The knife is brought down again, and the Captain watches as he draws it deep across Bruce's pectorals, digging the sharp blade in to pull apart the muscles.

[punybanner]

The press of the blond man's fingers against his shoulder makes Bruce wince, but he knows it's nothing compared to what's going to come. The knife gleams sharp and wicked in the low light and he can already feel his adrenaline spiking, can already sense the creature inside of him waking up. The promise that he'll be knocked out before he can change does little to ease his fears. All he can do is focus on his breathing and on Betty. He has to do this. It's for her. He would endure anything if it meant she was safe.

Then the knife flashes and suddenly his shirt is being torn apart, his skin is being slashed without regard for anyone's safety and he cries out before quieting himself, clamping down on his lower lip with his teeth to keep from giving into the pain and fear. He squeezes his eyes shut even though he knows it'll make it worse because, really, what choice does he have? Stare at the man-monster who's going to tear him apart? No. He'll take the darkness over that.

Men like Rumlow are frightening, terrifying even, but they're human. They have weaknesses and wants and they can be understood. The man who's attacking him - Bruce doesn't know what he is. They've done something to remove every bit of humanity from him. He's not human, not an animal - he's unlike anything Bruce knows, and because of that - because he will do anything they tell him without remorse - he is truly horrifying.

The pain eases for a moment and Bruce allows his eyes to flutter open just a tiny bit, to see why it stopped - but then it's back and it burns, it burns, it hurts more than he thought it could and he can't do anything but thrash against the arm still pinning him against the wall and scream out wordlessly. He feels like he's losing himself but he manages to hold on somehow, manages to keep the beast at bay - though for how much longer, he doesn't know.

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

Banner shakes and twists under his grip, and the Captain pushes him hard against the rough brick of the cell, letting the power that's held up in just one arm hold him down. It's not escape that Banner tries to gain in that twisting, but it's a form of resistance all the same. It's hard to keep bringing the knife down, but he straddles Banner's hips, bringing the weight of his body to use in pressing Banner back. He pushes with the knife as well, and the screams echoes in the cell, distorted even more than it is by the wordless nature of the original cry.

Rumlow's steps are barely heard under the noise of pain, but the man is approaching the cell. And while most don't take such outright pleasure in torture, even when it's something that they enjoy, but the man is adjusting his pants as he steps up to the bars, dark eyes gleaming as they travel over the blood that drips down to the floor and up over Bruce's chest.

"Well done, Doctor. Give him a moment to breath, Captain. This is a baseline after all, don't want to push him too far best his norms."

On queue, the man in black harshness pulls the knife back, though he gives Bruce little room to breath, with his body still there to press Bruce down like the pins pushing a butterfly down to a card. It takes another nod from Rumlow, after a moment of the commander enjoying the macabre scene, for the knife to be put to flesh again.

And so it continues, the press of bloody knife to muscle, peeling them apart to reveal the deeper workings of Banner's chest, torture halted only by Rumlow's words, started up again when the Captain gets the permission to go again. It's a dark twist of power, back and forth, the knife, the hand that holds it, and the brain to decide how much it is pressed in, how far Banner's control is pushed. Rumlow doesn't move from the cell bars, peering in at the spectacle, until there's green on Bruce's skin mixed in with the red of blood and muscles.

The sound of the man's knuckles bouncing against the metal bars catches the Captain's ears.

"Enough. Look at him asset, you've broken him. Such a mess. Make sure he doesn't die, the labs will want him tomorrow."

The commander leaves, leaving the hollow man in black to tuck his knife back into his belt and look at Banner, unsure what the vague orders mean in the context of the man who looks like he's already tilted past the line of control on his monster.

[punybanner]

When his back hits the floor Bruce's panic ratchets up a notch. He's trying his best to keep calm, but with the huge, heavy weight of the Captain pressing down against him it's growing more and more difficult. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to escape, and the telltale green tinge in his skin indicates that he's far too close to the edge of his own capabilities. He's so focused on trying not to change, on trying to endure this torture as best he can, that he doesn't even notice Rumlow's presence, much less the man's apparent arousal at the situation.

When he's given a moment to breathe the green retreats back into his skin, but the moment is cut short as the Captain continues. So it goes on, the intermittent breaks giving Bruce just enough space to clear his head, to hold on to the thought of Betty and the need to do what he's told to save her, just enough reason not to transform.

By the time the torture actually stops Bruce is so ready for it to begin again that he remains there on the ground, tensed up, trying desperately to push down every bit of Hulk attempting to escape him. He doesn't have to struggle for long, though. Once his brain realizes it's over, that he's supposed to be left alone, it does the only thing it's capable of: it makes him pass out.

When he awakens there's pain racing through his entire body and he can't sit up. A cautious exploration of his fingers reveals fresh bandages on his chest; at least they seem to want him to live. He swallows, his throat dry, and tries to put himself into a state of meditative mindfulness - but it doesn't work. He's too afraid, too tired. He can hear boots approaching and he squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that this is just another nightmare.

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

The bandages are just enough to cover Banner's chest, enough to patch him up and ensure he stays alive like Rumlow ordered. The Asset is left behind in the cell with him, to bandage him up, watch him. Prisoners have faked passing out before, and they can't lose this one. The door locks behind him, and the Captain sits on the bed, looking down at the figure on the floor. He looks even less like a threat now, stripped of his shirt, his chest wrapped in bandages, bits of blood seeping through in patches where the cuts had been particularly deep.

He has no thrill of completing his mission. This was not one of the expected tasks, this was not a moment to celebrate in completion. He is a silent sentinel sitting on the bed, looking down at the unconscious man on the dirty floor.

He still has the knife in his hands when Banner starts to stir. The eyes flicker first, and he knows that sign, the way the movement changes, how it's the approach to waking up. It's strange, waiting for a man to wake up when there's no standing order for the process to speed up. Normally, he has questions he needs to ask, orders to follow. Now, it is simply keep him alive and it's so open ended he does not as Banner comes to the world again.

He turns the knife over in his fingers as Banner groans and tries to sit up.

The footsteps are the delivery of food, a tray of soup and simple bread, water bottle and some slices of meat. The Captain gets up to take it from the scared kid, because Banner makes no move to take it even when it's clearly for him, and he puts it down by the man's side with a glare meant to stir him into action. Lying around on his back isn't what Hydra wants from anyone.

The bed shifts when he sits back down on it, like taking his weight is now too much.

"Eat."

[punybanner]

Bruce opens his eyes when he senses movement near his head, and he has to suppress a groan of disappointment when his gaze falls upon the Captain. Somehow he'd thought he'd at least be left alone. It seems they want to continue his torture as soon as possible, though. He should've expected that.

The scent of the soup is enough to make him stir, his rumbling belly appeased at the thought of sustenance so close by. He shifts onto his side and groans for real this time, feeling at least a couple of his wounds reopen with the movement. Ignoring them for now, he digs into the food, not caring if it's poisoned. If he can have at least a little respite before they go in on him again, he's going to make the most of it.

He manages to finish most of the soup and bread, but the meat makes him feel sick. The scent and sight of it reminds him of what happened the day before, of the way his own flesh was sliced apart so easily. Instead he takes the water bottle and chugs down half of it before collapsing back onto the floor, his face screwed up with pain.

"There," he manages to say, some measure of his old self returning thanks to his full stomach. "I ate. Happy?" He even brings himself to look directly at the Captain, his hatred stronger than his fear in that moment. If they're going to torture him anyway, what has he got to lose? Besides, taunting them might expose some sort of weakness, something he could take advantage of and use to escape or make contact with the outside world.

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

The Asset watches, and though it's been hours since he was feed himself, long enough to make his stomach pained with hunger, but the food hasn't been brought for him, it's been brought for Banner, and though his stomach grumbles at the smell, he doesn't reach for it in return. The meat is discarded near his feet, but it's left there, and that's it. Left there. Abandoned by both of them.

He would shrug, the man he used to be would have shrugged, but that's been burned out of him, and his mind is left free of that, and all he does is stare back down at the man on the floor. No emotion, no reaction. The attempt to goad him into reaction is useless; there's no emotion left for the Winter Captain to react to, nothing left to react out of. To rise to bait he would need enough of a mind left behind to rise out of, and there is nothing there but ash.

He blinks, and keeps looking down at Banner.

"Calorie intake insufficient." It's a comment on how much he ate, without the meat being eaten as well. It's not a demand, not a response for him to eat the rest. The Captain's been told to deliver the food, not to enforce it's consumption. That might come later, if the prisoner choose to reject the food over his own health benefits, but it has not happened yet. All that's left is delivering the food to the prisoner, that was the end of his structure.

"Optimal intake is two hundred more."

The Asset is programmed, out of design or experience, to know right away how many calories are in a piece of food, how many are offered by a piece of bread or a cut of meat. Knowing his own limits and needs, knowing the levels of how much food needs to given to a regular person. He can look at the remaining meat on the plate, and knows how many more calories that would supplement his intake, how it would push Banner over the count of his own.

"Not going to make you," he clarifies, because that could go the wrong way, and he offers it out of sympathy. They're both prisoners of a sort here, trapped by orders and bars. He won't over reach his orders to do something that his handlers haven't told him to do.

[punybanner]

The reaction isn't at all what Bruce expects, but he supposes that's what he should have expected. Thus far he hasn't come close to being able to figure this man out. He's like a machine, a robot of some sort, barely human. The way he speaks is so emotionless that Bruce wonders if he can even feel pain. It's terrifying to think about - being torn to pieces by someone so unaffected seems wrong. Being hurt by someone who enjoys it is better, somehow, because then Bruce can focus his anger somewhere.

Instead he almost feels sympathetic. What possibly could have been done to this man to make him this way? It's nowhere near normal - even soldiers, hardened by years of conflict, aren't inhuman. He knows it's useless and silly to be sorry for someone who can and will hurt him, but the thought sticks in his head anyway. It's not as though he has much else to think about, aside from the pain this day is sure to bring.

A frown creases his forehead and tugs his lips downward. He thought for sure the food would be forced on him. That, or his meal privileges would be taken away entirely. But nothing had happened except a neutral expression of statistics. He leaned back down against the floor, supporting himself on his elbows and gazing curiously at the imposing man above him.

"Why not?" he asks, wondering if he'll be given an answer or simply ignored. This might give him some kind of leverage, something he can use to escape. "If I don't eat it, what will you do?"

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

The Asset shrugs, and leaves his shoulders hanging like that. Even with the question, the probing search of wanting to know why he's behaving like this, why he's making these choices that seem so different from everything else that he's done. Beaten the man, tortured him, been the one to capture him and bring him in in the first place. He is the most direct captor, the one here in the cell, when the other guards wait in offices, watching them over the cameras. The others might give the orders, but the Asset is the one who carries them out, and still he has none of the emotions that would drive normal person.

A person like Rumlow.

People don't make it in Hydra without taking pleasure in their work. It isn't an organization that gets anything but bastards who like seeing others hurt, weep, beg for mercy. And no doubt if one of those guards had been tasked with giving Banner his food, something like that would have happened. Not for the reason of too little calories being consumed, none of them track those like the Asset does, but just for the pleasure of making Banner eat.

The Asset shrugs instead.

"I have no orders. I don't know."

He'll wait for his orders. Like everything else, he'll wait, and until then, he'll watch Bruce in the cell. He looks down at the bed he's sitting on, and then at Bruce.

"Do you want the bed?"

[punybanner]

The response just messes with Bruce's head even more. Was he being offered comfort by the man who'd cut him apart just hours before? A thought came to him: perhaps this was just a game, something to trick him into letting his guard down, so that when they hurt him again it was all the worse for the meager scraps of gentleness they'd given him? But somehow that didn't seem right.

Whoever this man was, he seemed to be sincere about the whole following orders thing. Even when he'd been cutting Bruce up he'd only been doing what the other man told him to do. He didn't enjoy making people hurt, it seemed, so he had no reason to trick Bruce - unless he'd been told to do that, in which case there wasn't a whole lot Bruce could do, anyway.

He paused, looking first at the man, then at the bed, then back up at the man. He narrowed his eyes, considering, before he finally responded, "When are you going to hurt me again?"

Truth be told, he'd rather just get it over with. If they wanted to torture him, they should take away every bit of comfort afforded to him thus far. He preferred it to be all or nothing. If they gave him food and a bed it would only remind him of what he was being kept away from. If there was nothing but pain, he could lose himself in it entirely.

Literally cries over how long replying has taken me

[sacrificeyourfreedom]

"Unknown."
Where emotions and the capability to guess at his own future had been, was now nothing. A lesser man would have smiled, would have threatened, would have kept Bruce on his toes. A greater man would offer sympathy. But the Asset is only the man the chair made him to be, and the chair gives birth to so few men. He has no condolences to offer, no half-lies of platitude and kindness. What there is instead of pity or pleasure is a brutual, blunt, honesty.
"Agent Rumlow is no longer on base. Return within week unlikely."
It is the closest he has to an answer.
Banner looks up at the Asset, and the expression is his eyes is unfamiliar. The Asset is used to fear, to hate, to pleading. After he has tortured men to the point of passing out, there is little room in their bodies for pity or curiosity. But the look in Banner's eyes seems to pass some level of brilliant planning, and move ever closer to ideas of questioning and answers, and the Asset has no experience with that sort of look.
Emotions are a very strange thing.
It is a good thing the Asset has none, the Asset thinks, and it is not pride in his bones.
"Do you want the bed," he asks again, in case Banner did not understand the first time. He shifts on it, leaving space at the head for Banner to sit. "The lab technicians start work in four hours. You need rest.",