More difficult to control. That's become obvious, cementing in that initial assessment when the Winter Soldier first laid eyes on him in the training room and saw the beard - now that same beard's slicked with sweat and glistening tracks of drool from the bite guard. It should be shaved. But he can hear the faint whine of the mag cuffs as they're tested, can spot whitening of knuckles as the other man's powerful hands curl into fists and he knows that the risk of even a small blade around this man is too dangerous, can be used as a weapon if he gets hold of it.

"Not yet."

The orders will come, as they always do.

The Soldier can't feel pity. He can't identify the seeds of unsanctioned curiosity, stubbornly sprouting in the dark, unused, locked away corners of a ruined mind. But he does know when kit doesn't work, when equipment is faulty and it doesn't matter if it's a test or an accident.

"This," the Winter Soldier circles back to the beard.

Chrome fingers reaches out to grip it, forcing the stranger's glazed eyes to focus on him and only him.

"This is a liability. It shouldn't be here."

So why is it? is the unspoken question. You shouldn't be able to resist.

He leans in, studies the other asset. The mask of pain and exhaustion isn't new - he has felt it before, sometimes seen it in scratched medical mirrors angled to the side. Seeing it reflected in the stranger's face, sweaty and etched with pain and tears and drying saliva, isn't out of the ordinary - it means that the chair has done its job. Even so, the Winter Soldier is still careful to watch this other man, to keep an eye on his body language in case he has been biding his time, faking it and waiting for a moment to jerk his body forward - a headbutt, maybe, or the mag-cuffs aren't as secure as they're supposed to be. In the very unlikely even that happens, the Winter Soldier's programming would take hold in the form of immediate retaliation.