This is where if Tony Stark actually meant business, he would’ve used the book to ensure compliance. He doesn’t.
Instead he’s talking again to a literal captive audience, running his mouth off like he can’t help it, almost like it’s a compulsion, as if the alternative of silence is too much to handle. The Winter Soldier’s face slowly transforms to confusion and then to suspicion as he’s forced to listen to everything Stark says; the expressions are muted but still there, little twitches of muscles around his face and dulled blue–gray eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. He doesn’t know how much he believes, what the actual endgame is here because Stark’s right, it doesn’t make sense.
You don’t acquire an asset like him and not use it.
The Soldier starts a little when the book gets tossed onto his thighs, a flinch in his face echoed by the sudden rustling of his restraints as he instinctively recoils, his hands balled so tight that his right palm aches. His gaze jerks down to the red leather, creased and discolored with age and with the touch of who knows how many men and women opened it up and recited the words. The book lies there, looking harmless. Feeling his throat clenching, closing up, the Winter Soldier swallows thickly and jerks a glance at Stark, waiting for the man to reach over, maybe snatch it off his legs after dangling the mere possibility of freedom in front of his face. Maybe that happened before, years ago, with someone else, their face and name a ghostly imprint in his mind.
But the book stays. And Stark steps out of his armored rig.
Stark’s just a man.
The Soldier sizes him up anyway and he’s already mapped out all his vulnerable spots just out of reflex, a quick glance that highlights all the ways to maim and incapacitate, the most efficient ways to strike a killing blow without wasting unnecessary effort. It’s just an instinct, something he does on auto-pilot without really thinking about it. His eyes fix on the glowing light on Stark’s chest - no, embedded in it - and he adds that to the vulnerabilities list. The thing’s like a neon target sign, drawing him in.
He holds still, holds his breath, while Stark foolishly decides to undo the restraints. He only needs one off to free himself but all four would be the best case scenario. As soon as he feels that final one loosen around his ankle the Soldier bursts into action, grabbing the book off his thighs and surging off the bed in one motion. Silver fingers curl around Tony’s neck as he bodily drives him back to the chair, straddling him, and the Soldier’s heavy as he arches him painfully against it and pins the other man with his hips.
“Get your assistant in here,” the Winter Soldier snarls between his teeth, leaning over Tony, his tangled hair framing their faces as he leans over him and his breath washes hot over his features. “Before I snap your neck!”
Having the book isn’t a guarantee of freedom. In fact, Stark seemed to give up the thing way too easily not be a trap. The only thing keeping him alive isn’t even the fact that he might’ve memorized the trigger words: it’s the existence of this second person, of this “Friday” woman, who could’ve also done the same thing, who could recite them over the intercom at any point in time in the room, maybe even in the whole building. The Winter Soldier’s on edge and it shows, his breathing quickened, his metal fingers trembling slightly against Tony’s neck, pupils contracting to black points, the placid expression that’d previously been on his face slipping into one of rage and fear.
no subject
Instead he’s talking again to a literal captive audience, running his mouth off like he can’t help it, almost like it’s a compulsion, as if the alternative of silence is too much to handle. The Winter Soldier’s face slowly transforms to confusion and then to suspicion as he’s forced to listen to everything Stark says; the expressions are muted but still there, little twitches of muscles around his face and dulled blue–gray eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down slightly. He doesn’t know how much he believes, what the actual endgame is here because Stark’s right, it doesn’t make sense.
You don’t acquire an asset like him and not use it.
The Soldier starts a little when the book gets tossed onto his thighs, a flinch in his face echoed by the sudden rustling of his restraints as he instinctively recoils, his hands balled so tight that his right palm aches. His gaze jerks down to the red leather, creased and discolored with age and with the touch of who knows how many men and women opened it up and recited the words. The book lies there, looking harmless. Feeling his throat clenching, closing up, the Winter Soldier swallows thickly and jerks a glance at Stark, waiting for the man to reach over, maybe snatch it off his legs after dangling the mere possibility of freedom in front of his face. Maybe that happened before, years ago, with someone else, their face and name a ghostly imprint in his mind.
But the book stays. And Stark steps out of his armored rig.
Stark’s just a man.
The Soldier sizes him up anyway and he’s already mapped out all his vulnerable spots just out of reflex, a quick glance that highlights all the ways to maim and incapacitate, the most efficient ways to strike a killing blow without wasting unnecessary effort. It’s just an instinct, something he does on auto-pilot without really thinking about it. His eyes fix on the glowing light on Stark’s chest - no, embedded in it - and he adds that to the vulnerabilities list. The thing’s like a neon target sign, drawing him in.
He holds still, holds his breath, while Stark foolishly decides to undo the restraints. He only needs one off to free himself but all four would be the best case scenario. As soon as he feels that final one loosen around his ankle the Soldier bursts into action, grabbing the book off his thighs and surging off the bed in one motion. Silver fingers curl around Tony’s neck as he bodily drives him back to the chair, straddling him, and the Soldier’s heavy as he arches him painfully against it and pins the other man with his hips.
“Get your assistant in here,” the Winter Soldier snarls between his teeth, leaning over Tony, his tangled hair framing their faces as he leans over him and his breath washes hot over his features. “Before I snap your neck!”
Having the book isn’t a guarantee of freedom. In fact, Stark seemed to give up the thing way too easily not be a trap. The only thing keeping him alive isn’t even the fact that he might’ve memorized the trigger words: it’s the existence of this second person, of this “Friday” woman, who could’ve also done the same thing, who could recite them over the intercom at any point in time in the room, maybe even in the whole building. The Winter Soldier’s on edge and it shows, his breathing quickened, his metal fingers trembling slightly against Tony’s neck, pupils contracting to black points, the placid expression that’d previously been on his face slipping into one of rage and fear.
He isn’t free. He’ll never be free.