“It doesn’t matter what you call me,” says the Winter Soldier after a pause, like he’s getting used to Stark making up for his earlier silence in the car. Now the man’s all chatty. “I don’t have a name.”
He knows he must’ve had one at some point. Obviously. Probably just aliases, depending on the mission. But they’ve been rendered irrelevant for who knows how long and he hasn’t worked out if he’s comfortable with being issued “Barnes” or “Bucky” or even “James” as placeholders: all three sound almost familiar but they also feel wrong, too, like trying to reassemble a pistol with parts from different manufacturers. At the idea of a name, the Soldier’s lips press together in a ghost of disapproval, the corner of his mouth splotched purple with a healing bruise.
For a second he looks like he remembered how to frown.
He’s hungry. He’s thirsty. He doesn’t know what his takeout preference is and it shows from the blank look he levels at Tony.
The order to help Stark doesn’t exactly tug at him like a leash collaring around his throat and brain, like it usually does - probably because it was fairly open-ended, because Friday is his primary handler and the AI hasn’t seen fit to issue new, more specific orders. But there’s still a vague urge to assist Tony Stark in some capacity, the Asset’s blue eyes dipping once more down to fix on Stark’s injured thigh and his clumsy attempt at first aid. The man’s pretty mobile, all things considered, scooting around his cluttered workshop on his wheeled stool, but when he wheels himself back, the blood stain’s only grown.
Glancing around the workshop, for a second the Winter Soldier feels…something. Alarm, maybe? The workshop’s positively covered in trip hazards between random junk and wires strung along the floor and seemingly every surface, ranging from finger-thin to cords the size of his calf, humming and pulsing, and that isn’t going into the fact that there’s all kinds of hard edges between the tables and the crates and the half-built shapes of armor and gear the man started work on, clearly got bored or distracted, and moved onto something else more interesting. If Stark happens to get woozy there’s a high chance he’ll brain himself on any and all of it. For a second the Soldier’s gaze lingers on the fridge, his stomach deciding to grumble and twist in on itself as if he needs the reminder that he must eat before his combat readiness is impacted.
Stamping it down, the Winter Soldier’s head swivels back toward Tony to pin him down with a flat stare. He can’t let the other man keep bleeding like this, so:
“Take off your pants,” he says without warning. “Or I’ll cut them off.”
He doesn’t immediately advance on Tony with a knife or whatever sharp object he decided will work just as well. But he does stalk over to the wall, toward the white plastic box of the first aid kit with a red cross splashed against its front like a target sign. Cracking it open, a quick glance tells the Asset that the kit should be fine for his purposes. Tucking it under his arm, he approaches Stark, reaching out with one hand to steady him with a firm grip on his knee so he can’t roll away from him and pretend he’s “fine” when he clearly isn't. Metal fingers - the same cold chrome that had wrapped themselves around his throat hours ago - clench around his kneecap.
Instead of looming over Tony, the Soldier crouches down with deliberate care so that they're almost eye-level. "The dressing," he finally decides to elaborate. "It needs to be fixed."
no subject
“It doesn’t matter what you call me,” says the Winter Soldier after a pause, like he’s getting used to Stark making up for his earlier silence in the car. Now the man’s all chatty. “I don’t have a name.”
He knows he must’ve had one at some point. Obviously. Probably just aliases, depending on the mission. But they’ve been rendered irrelevant for who knows how long and he hasn’t worked out if he’s comfortable with being issued “Barnes” or “Bucky” or even “James” as placeholders: all three sound almost familiar but they also feel wrong, too, like trying to reassemble a pistol with parts from different manufacturers. At the idea of a name, the Soldier’s lips press together in a ghost of disapproval, the corner of his mouth splotched purple with a healing bruise.
For a second he looks like he remembered how to frown.
He’s hungry. He’s thirsty. He doesn’t know what his takeout preference is and it shows from the blank look he levels at Tony.
The order to help Stark doesn’t exactly tug at him like a leash collaring around his throat and brain, like it usually does - probably because it was fairly open-ended, because Friday is his primary handler and the AI hasn’t seen fit to issue new, more specific orders. But there’s still a vague urge to assist Tony Stark in some capacity, the Asset’s blue eyes dipping once more down to fix on Stark’s injured thigh and his clumsy attempt at first aid. The man’s pretty mobile, all things considered, scooting around his cluttered workshop on his wheeled stool, but when he wheels himself back, the blood stain’s only grown.
Glancing around the workshop, for a second the Winter Soldier feels…something. Alarm, maybe? The workshop’s positively covered in trip hazards between random junk and wires strung along the floor and seemingly every surface, ranging from finger-thin to cords the size of his calf, humming and pulsing, and that isn’t going into the fact that there’s all kinds of hard edges between the tables and the crates and the half-built shapes of armor and gear the man started work on, clearly got bored or distracted, and moved onto something else more interesting. If Stark happens to get woozy there’s a high chance he’ll brain himself on any and all of it. For a second the Soldier’s gaze lingers on the fridge, his stomach deciding to grumble and twist in on itself as if he needs the reminder that he must eat before his combat readiness is impacted.
Stamping it down, the Winter Soldier’s head swivels back toward Tony to pin him down with a flat stare. He can’t let the other man keep bleeding like this, so:
“Take off your pants,” he says without warning. “Or I’ll cut them off.”
He doesn’t immediately advance on Tony with a knife or whatever sharp object he decided will work just as well. But he does stalk over to the wall, toward the white plastic box of the first aid kit with a red cross splashed against its front like a target sign. Cracking it open, a quick glance tells the Asset that the kit should be fine for his purposes. Tucking it under his arm, he approaches Stark, reaching out with one hand to steady him with a firm grip on his knee so he can’t roll away from him and pretend he’s “fine” when he clearly isn't. Metal fingers - the same cold chrome that had wrapped themselves around his throat hours ago - clench around his kneecap.
Instead of looming over Tony, the Soldier crouches down with deliberate care so that they're almost eye-level. "The dressing," he finally decides to elaborate. "It needs to be fixed."