When the Winter Soldier kneels down, he gets the first hint that something’s different with Tony Stark. He hadn’t clocked it at first, because there had been the trigger words, the book, the impact of the scalpel slicing into the man’s thigh as more immediate concerns to occupy himself with.
Now that he’s crouched in front of him watching silently as Stark hesitates, as his whole body seems to stiffen and lock up in place and he has to visibly make an effort to force it to relax, he’s starting to see…inconsistencies. For example, he thinks there should be more of a bulge in the crotch of his jeans: there isn’t. When Tony awkwardly wriggles his way out of his pants, his face tight and jaw set as the motion aggravates his recent injury, the Asset’s eyes dip back down to fix on his now visible underwear. Again, what should be there seems to be missing. Vague confusion flits across his face and in his tired blue eyes, his head tilting.
For a second he might even puzzle it over.
Then he decides that it’s irrelevant to treating the stab wound. Ultimately nothing’s changed: Friday’s order was help Mr. Stark and fixing his sloppy attempt at a dressing seems like a start.
The Winter Soldier settles himself between Stark’s spread knees as he opens the first aid kit. It mostly looks normal. There’s a sterile wash, butterfly closure stripes, bandages and gauze and medical tape, among other things. He holds up a little plastic package with an SI logo on the side, squishing it experimentally between metal forefinger and thumb: Stark Industries - Topical Anesthetic is printed on the other side of the square. Probably a cream or gel. Setting it aside, he begins to peel off the bandages crudely wrapped around Stark’s thigh.
Fresh blood wells out, dribbling in red trails along Stark’s thigh. He grunts “don’t move” and then his head bends down as he studies the weeping injury for a second, his left hand coming up unconsciously to tuck back hair that’s started to fall into his face behind his ear.
Considering he’d stabbed Tony, nearly strangled him and held him hostage all in the span of one day, the Winter Soldier can be surprisingly gentle when he needs to be. Sure, his bedside manner is nonexistent, but when he begins to flush the wound and uses two titanium fingers to smear anesthetic gel around the injury, his touch is soft. He’ll wait until the gel dries and absorbs into Stark’s skin before he begins applying the butterfly closures, followed by two pads of fresh gauze that he presses firmly into place with a self-adhesive wrap securely wound several times around the other man’s leg.
Finally the Winter Soldier leans back, still kneeling in front of Tony.
“Does it still hurt?”
It shouldn’t, he thinks, if the gel actually works. The Asset’s eyes lift to lock onto Stark’s face to search for signs of pain in his mouth and behind his eyes. Stark still looks like shit if you ask for his assessment but at least he isn’t running around with a subpar dressing anymore.
no subject
Now that he’s crouched in front of him watching silently as Stark hesitates, as his whole body seems to stiffen and lock up in place and he has to visibly make an effort to force it to relax, he’s starting to see…inconsistencies. For example, he thinks there should be more of a bulge in the crotch of his jeans: there isn’t. When Tony awkwardly wriggles his way out of his pants, his face tight and jaw set as the motion aggravates his recent injury, the Asset’s eyes dip back down to fix on his now visible underwear. Again, what should be there seems to be missing. Vague confusion flits across his face and in his tired blue eyes, his head tilting.
For a second he might even puzzle it over.
Then he decides that it’s irrelevant to treating the stab wound. Ultimately nothing’s changed: Friday’s order was help Mr. Stark and fixing his sloppy attempt at a dressing seems like a start.
The Winter Soldier settles himself between Stark’s spread knees as he opens the first aid kit. It mostly looks normal. There’s a sterile wash, butterfly closure stripes, bandages and gauze and medical tape, among other things. He holds up a little plastic package with an SI logo on the side, squishing it experimentally between metal forefinger and thumb: Stark Industries - Topical Anesthetic is printed on the other side of the square. Probably a cream or gel. Setting it aside, he begins to peel off the bandages crudely wrapped around Stark’s thigh.
Fresh blood wells out, dribbling in red trails along Stark’s thigh. He grunts “don’t move” and then his head bends down as he studies the weeping injury for a second, his left hand coming up unconsciously to tuck back hair that’s started to fall into his face behind his ear.
Considering he’d stabbed Tony, nearly strangled him and held him hostage all in the span of one day, the Winter Soldier can be surprisingly gentle when he needs to be. Sure, his bedside manner is nonexistent, but when he begins to flush the wound and uses two titanium fingers to smear anesthetic gel around the injury, his touch is soft. He’ll wait until the gel dries and absorbs into Stark’s skin before he begins applying the butterfly closures, followed by two pads of fresh gauze that he presses firmly into place with a self-adhesive wrap securely wound several times around the other man’s leg.
Finally the Winter Soldier leans back, still kneeling in front of Tony.
“Does it still hurt?”
It shouldn’t, he thinks, if the gel actually works. The Asset’s eyes lift to lock onto Stark’s face to search for signs of pain in his mouth and behind his eyes. Stark still looks like shit if you ask for his assessment but at least he isn’t running around with a subpar dressing anymore.