It isn't a truce and it definitely isn't peace. At most it's a temporary ceasefire. Problem is, Friday reinforces the ceasefire just by existing, by being there entrenched inside a skyscraper and networked to the underground parking lot like a spider casting its electronic web, a silent, oppressive presence hanging in the air that the Winter Soldier's conscious of at all times. As far as he knows he can't escape. At least, not before the AI traps him - maybe not in a car like last time, but in an elevator, an emergency stairwell, a ventilation shaft, the bathroom - and Friday could easily shotgun the trigger words to "encourage" him back to compliance before he could make it outside to fresh air. To the blue sky.
Tony's right that he might not join him immediately in the workshop.
The Winter Soldier prowls about the skyscraper for hours looking for an escape, restless in the absence of an additional order to update Friday's deliberately vague one to "help Mr. Stark". He's constantly checking for weaknesses in the security systems. Hyperaware there's always an AI watching him that doesn't need to eat and sleep as he does, that it's primed to enforce his obedience with a speed and efficiency that HYDRA wishes it could've emulated. It's well past midnight that the Asset finally makes his way to Tony's workshop. He's...tired. Hungry; thirsty - he doesn't know when he last ate or drank - and so far he hasn't figured out a way to sneak past Friday just by manually scoping out the building. Friday hasn't said anything since the incident in the sports car. It doesn't need to speak, because it already said enough. Because in all likelihood, it's still there, watching. Waiting.
At this point the Winter Soldier's exhausted his immediate options. So he rides the elevator down and down and down, trying and failing to ignore the obsidian glint of Friday's camera lens in the corner until the doors open with a faint ding.
At 3:31 AM the door to Tony's New York workshop slides open, the Soldier entering with his shoulders hunched forward, his face still mottled with bruises from when Tony shot him out of the sky not too long ago. Even those are already starting to fade thanks to the serum's advanced healing, the black eye's swelling reduced. Physically he's probably doing better than Tony, stepping inside the workshop without limping, without favoring a leg that just got introduced to the business end of a scalpel. Outwardly the Asset looks like he's fine.
But the Soldier needs to eat and drink. There's just no getting around his accelerated metabolism and he tells himself that if Stark's serious about keeping him prisoner "welcome to do his own thing", that probably entails keeping him fed and hydrated.
He finds Stark at a worktable, sitting on a tall bench, and glancing at the other man, he can see he's attempted to treat the stab wound on his thigh. There's a hint of bandages winding around his leg that deforms the fit of his pants, a quarter-sized dark splotch where blood has seeped into the denim.
"You're bleeding again," the Winter Soldier suddenly says. He's standing only a few meters away from Tony, blue eyes flat, his face seemingly blank as usual even though his hands are balled at his side and his jaw's tensed like he's clenching his back teeth.
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It isn't a truce and it definitely isn't peace. At most it's a temporary ceasefire. Problem is, Friday reinforces the ceasefire just by existing, by being there entrenched inside a skyscraper and networked to the underground parking lot like a spider casting its electronic web, a silent, oppressive presence hanging in the air that the Winter Soldier's conscious of at all times. As far as he knows he can't escape. At least, not before the AI traps him - maybe not in a car like last time, but in an elevator, an emergency stairwell, a ventilation shaft, the bathroom - and Friday could easily shotgun the trigger words to "encourage" him back to compliance before he could make it outside to fresh air. To the blue sky.
Tony's right that he might not join him immediately in the workshop.
The Winter Soldier prowls about the skyscraper for hours looking for an escape, restless in the absence of an additional order to update Friday's deliberately vague one to "help Mr. Stark". He's constantly checking for weaknesses in the security systems. Hyperaware there's always an AI watching him that doesn't need to eat and sleep as he does, that it's primed to enforce his obedience with a speed and efficiency that HYDRA wishes it could've emulated. It's well past midnight that the Asset finally makes his way to Tony's workshop. He's...tired. Hungry; thirsty - he doesn't know when he last ate or drank - and so far he hasn't figured out a way to sneak past Friday just by manually scoping out the building. Friday hasn't said anything since the incident in the sports car. It doesn't need to speak, because it already said enough. Because in all likelihood, it's still there, watching. Waiting.
At this point the Winter Soldier's exhausted his immediate options. So he rides the elevator down and down and down, trying and failing to ignore the obsidian glint of Friday's camera lens in the corner until the doors open with a faint ding.
At 3:31 AM the door to Tony's New York workshop slides open, the Soldier entering with his shoulders hunched forward, his face still mottled with bruises from when Tony shot him out of the sky not too long ago. Even those are already starting to fade thanks to the serum's advanced healing, the black eye's swelling reduced. Physically he's probably doing better than Tony, stepping inside the workshop without limping, without favoring a leg that just got introduced to the business end of a scalpel. Outwardly the Asset looks like he's fine.
But the Soldier needs to eat and drink. There's just no getting around his accelerated metabolism and he tells himself that if Stark's serious about keeping him prisoner "welcome to do his own thing", that probably entails keeping him fed and hydrated.
He finds Stark at a worktable, sitting on a tall bench, and glancing at the other man, he can see he's attempted to treat the stab wound on his thigh. There's a hint of bandages winding around his leg that deforms the fit of his pants, a quarter-sized dark splotch where blood has seeped into the denim.
"You're bleeding again," the Winter Soldier suddenly says. He's standing only a few meters away from Tony, blue eyes flat, his face seemingly blank as usual even though his hands are balled at his side and his jaw's tensed like he's clenching his back teeth.