Mostly he finally shuts the hell up, the man's breath coming in panicked and loud and hitching in his chest, and he can feel his back trembling a little against him as they move together as one down hall after hall until they start seeing floor-to-ceiling windows and the Soldier can peer outside to reorient himself. Skyscraper surrounded by a manicured park with pathways winding around a decorative pond, the small dots of civilians milling around like ants. High enough he isn't confident he could survive that kind of drop without injury. Aborting that idea, the Winter Soldier's forced to take Stark's stammered suggestion, his grip tensing for a second against his throat, the metal warm now with his hostage's body heat and starting to get slippery with his sweat. His eyes narrow, sliding toward the elevators close by, their doors already open like a tempting invitation.
It's faster. But it's a metal box he could get trapped in and for a second fear shivers its way up his spine before he clamps down on it.
He's still got Stark. Friday so far has cooperated.
His jaw clenched so tight it hurts on the ride down, the Soldier enters the garage with every nerve taut, his knuckles white around the scalpel he's still holding angled close to Stark's neck, eyes glittering through the dark tangles of his hair half-hanging in his bruised face. His breath tickles warm against the shell of Stark's ear as he demands to know where his car is and as soon as he points, he'll be bodily hauling Stark over to the parked sports car so he can hand over its key fob. The vehicle's flashier than he would've personally picked, and he thinks it looks expensive without knowing why, but he figures it won't matter - he can ditch it once he's out of Friday's range.
With the key fob in hand, the Winter Soldier has no use for Stark. For a second he weighs the idea of slitting his throat anyway, feeling the other man's Adam's apple bobbing nervously against his palm's tactile sensors. It'd be easy. It'd be tying up at least one loose end, even if he can't do anything about Friday. His training, the need to get to Baron Zemo and free him, pulls at him like a leash in his mind, his core. He should do it. He should kill this man.
Instead Tony Stark gets spared.
And by spared, that means he gets suddenly stabbed in the meat of his thigh, the Asset making sure to twist and drag the scalpel, and then he gets shoved hard to the concrete floor. He looms over Stark, his chest heaving, his mismatching hands balled at his sides.
"Don't follow," the Winter Soldier growls, teeth bared, eyes wide with adrenaline. "Next time it'll be an artery."
While Tony sprawls on the parking garage floor, blood welling from his leg, the Winter Soldier peels out of the parking lot in his stolen coup. If he wonders later why he spared the man, he'll rationalize it, try to ignore why the thought keeps niggling in the back of his mind even as his fingers tighten on the steering wheel and he tells himself he needs to focus on extracting Baron Zemo from custody.
no subject
Mostly he finally shuts the hell up, the man's breath coming in panicked and loud and hitching in his chest, and he can feel his back trembling a little against him as they move together as one down hall after hall until they start seeing floor-to-ceiling windows and the Soldier can peer outside to reorient himself. Skyscraper surrounded by a manicured park with pathways winding around a decorative pond, the small dots of civilians milling around like ants. High enough he isn't confident he could survive that kind of drop without injury. Aborting that idea, the Winter Soldier's forced to take Stark's stammered suggestion, his grip tensing for a second against his throat, the metal warm now with his hostage's body heat and starting to get slippery with his sweat. His eyes narrow, sliding toward the elevators close by, their doors already open like a tempting invitation.
It's faster. But it's a metal box he could get trapped in and for a second fear shivers its way up his spine before he clamps down on it.
He's still got Stark. Friday so far has cooperated.
His jaw clenched so tight it hurts on the ride down, the Soldier enters the garage with every nerve taut, his knuckles white around the scalpel he's still holding angled close to Stark's neck, eyes glittering through the dark tangles of his hair half-hanging in his bruised face. His breath tickles warm against the shell of Stark's ear as he demands to know where his car is and as soon as he points, he'll be bodily hauling Stark over to the parked sports car so he can hand over its key fob. The vehicle's flashier than he would've personally picked, and he thinks it looks expensive without knowing why, but he figures it won't matter - he can ditch it once he's out of Friday's range.
With the key fob in hand, the Winter Soldier has no use for Stark. For a second he weighs the idea of slitting his throat anyway, feeling the other man's Adam's apple bobbing nervously against his palm's tactile sensors. It'd be easy. It'd be tying up at least one loose end, even if he can't do anything about Friday. His training, the need to get to Baron Zemo and free him, pulls at him like a leash in his mind, his core. He should do it. He should kill this man.
Instead Tony Stark gets spared.
And by spared, that means he gets suddenly stabbed in the meat of his thigh, the Asset making sure to twist and drag the scalpel, and then he gets shoved hard to the concrete floor. He looms over Stark, his chest heaving, his mismatching hands balled at his sides.
"Don't follow," the Winter Soldier growls, teeth bared, eyes wide with adrenaline. "Next time it'll be an artery."
While Tony sprawls on the parking garage floor, blood welling from his leg, the Winter Soldier peels out of the parking lot in his stolen coup. If he wonders later why he spared the man, he'll rationalize it, try to ignore why the thought keeps niggling in the back of his mind even as his fingers tighten on the steering wheel and he tells himself he needs to focus on extracting Baron Zemo from custody.