Initial Masquerades & Eternally Iron Made

Cold. It's warm.

He doesn't know the process; he doesn't care. But he knew more than the scientists that wake him from his slumber. He knew that his body woke before his mind, and the cold sets into his bones. He could feel the pain; the burning sensation where metal met skin and the pull on his back, set across the back of his shoulders.

There's no pain, only warmth.

He could hear them: the thick buzz of their voices as they read out statistics and reports. Their faraway voices as they poked and prodded; as they assessed any left over damage and previous repair. He could hear them as they edge around him. He can could hear their fear, their worry as if they timed it wrong and he awoke too soon; to fast.

It came to him slowly: a buzz, a hum, the blur and distance of those standing too close. It took time for his mind to process, for their voices to come together and form something he could understand.

But he could hear them and it was overwhelming.

"—I refuse to let you go …even when you're gone. I don't regret any days I spent, nights we shared …" The voice was soft, a whisper of words under a man's breath. He could hear the bass, a faint background nose to go with the voice and the song. It was soothing …he doesn't know the song, but the voice …he knew that voice. It was like a warm blanket, the way it washed over him.

His arm always came online next: cold, sound, arm. It's a heavy weight on his side, and sent pins and needles to his shoulder, his neck ...running down his spine. He could taste it on his tongue. It came online with a whirl, the soft buzz of futurist technology that has been updated and tested while he slept.

There is nothing but the semi-foreign weight of an object where it shouldn't be and the soft hum. But he can feel – he could…he could, he could feel! He could feel the soft blanket, the heat seeping into his skin. He could feel the softness of a …

He's soaked to the bone after they released him from the chamber: his eyes hurt, his jaw tightened, and he refused to shiver under the weight of their gaze. But they knew, they could see how out of control his body was.

But not this time. This time he was warm, he was dry, there was no pain and there was no ambush to his senses as he woke.

His eyes fluttered: he's stiff, the soft ache of a body that hasn't been in use has settled in. But he's comfortable. He doesn't need to be comfortable. He doesn't – they don't – he is the asset. A weapon they use when needed.

It's wrong. Everything was wrong.

There's a hand in his, flesh on flesh.

He's the means to the end, a weapon that was designed to help shape a new future; a work of art and everything was wrong.

He doesn't want to open his eyes, he doesn't want to crawl out of the rabbit hole he fell in.

The hand squeezed his, their fingers coming to lace together and it's decades of practice that kept him from going tense. It must have been a trick a of his mind, or a test. They would never let him wake with a blanket, a pillow that smells like home -- what is home? – and the comfort of another person so willing to sit there with him. He isn't a person.

He's a weapon.

"Wake up, Yasha." Fingers danced along his forehead, light to the touch and calloused. He caught a whiff of the same scent from the pillow beneath his head, of smoke, of acetone …it brought a barrage of hazy memories, broken and lost to the forefront of his mind. "Yasha, Yasha, Yasha." The voice chanted, body leaning into his space.

Who the hell is Yasha? He had no name, he is the Asset, the Amerikanskiy.

But he opened his eyes: the lights had been dimmed, throwing shadow to the wall and over the machinery that had been pushed to the side. He was on the floor, bundled up on a makeshift bed and the man beside him. He wasn't really a man at all, but he wasn't a boy either.

Unabashed, he stared at him…shaggy dark hair that fell over his face, soft brown eyes that stared right back through the lens of his glasses. He was someone that kept little to no facial hair, the dark shadow of a four days growth on his face. He had something chalky smeared on his face, greens and reds and without a thought, he lifted his metal arm.

The grin that was thrown at him was so big, so bright, and so damn open that he didn't know what to think. He could see the trust, the love, and the yearning on the other's face. It was honest.

"Yasha."

"I …I do.." Angechka. "Angechka."

If possible, his smile grew, "vash, vash angechka." His accent was rough yet silky smooth, so obviously not a native of the mother county, but one who had spent years trying to adapt to her. He spoke with the patience of one who had had the conversation a million times and didn't care that he was having it a million and one.

"Who are –" Angechka, Raffaello, Jase, Angel.

He knew him, his angechka. He knew that smile, how his lips curved and what it looked like when he was forcing it. He knew what he looked like sleepy and just awake, relaxed and just fucked. Sheepish and troubled, full of laughter and confusion, uncomfortable and obnoxious.

Heknewhimheknewhimheknew … "You shouldn't be here, it isn't safe."

His mouth was dry, his words caught and felt foreign. He wasn't needed to speak, he rarely ever did.

Except with him --- with Jase.

"The past week has been insane." Jase pushed into his side, burrowing under his metal arm. His head fell to his shoulder with an easy comfort that he -- Yasha, he was Yasha -- had a hard time understanding. "Ophelia pulled some strings to get us some alone time, we don't have long …they want you for a mission."

"Is there any other reason why they would wake me?"

"No," Jase muttered bitterly, "but we can worry about that later. Are you hungry? I brought something for you to eat."

"Did you do your homework?" It was familiar and safe, the constant argument that he didn't quite understand, but knew was something he asked. Yasha didn't know how or why it was something he did, but he knew it was right when the other laughed.

"I did."

"Did you bring me lasagna?"

Jase snorted, "of course."

Yasha nodded and looked at him: boundless, youthful energy – someone who had sat at his side and woke him with love not hatred.

He didn't fully understand, he still felt weak from waking. But time would grant him what he lost and for what it didn't …well, time always brought him back to this place. He knew Jase and that was all that mattered.