It’s sinking in that not only are the usual hoses missing, he doesn’t see signs of restraints. At all. No handcuffs? No collar to chain him to the floor so he can’t make a run at the guards? These are just basic security precautions and yet glancing around as Stark speaks and rambles on his tour of the unconventional shower, cold blue eyes roaming, the Asset feels something…off, tightening along his throat like the missing collar would under standard operating procedures. Is…is Stark saying he’s supposed to shower by himself? With his hands free?
He’s barely able to listen at that point, rushing blood rising to pulse in his skull like he’s been punched by another Winter Soldier.
The Asset’s teeth grit. “No questions.”
The idea of a free shower is already too much. The suggestion he could choose to shave, to chop off the curtain of tangled hair HYDRA didn’t consider worthwhile to address (and therefore he didn’t consider it either), is pushing it too far. The Soldier doesn’t wait for Tony to scuttle out of the oversized shower before he’s already shedding his clothes with zero self-consciousness. That’s the only thing that’s followed SOP so far, because after that’s when the restraints are supposed to click shut against his skin. The only sound he hears, though, is Stark beating a quick retreat with a curse under his breath, the man practically running out. The door slams shut behind him.
It’s his first shower alone like this and if it wasn’t for Stark giving him the rundown, he wouldn’t have known where to start. Usually the Soldier just stands there while they spray him with icy water laced with sanitizing compounds. If he’s exhausted or hurt, he’d get knocked to the floor and they’ll spray him down where he lies. But today there’s no cleaning crew, no guards to bark orders, and for a second the Asset stares at the daunting rows of bottles, unaware he’s feeling a rising sense of panic.
In the end he picks one and only one - the first bottle in the row that says “body wash”. Since there’s no hose, he has to work in the body wash with his own hands, rubbing the gel clumsily through his tangled hair and along his body; he can’t stop glancing over at the walls for the missing guards.
By the time the Soldier emerges from the shower, it’s been long enough that he’s either a) died in there or b) purposefully running up the water bill out of spite. While he’s at least dressed in a loose t-shirt and shorts instead of going commando, he’s currently dripping a trail along the tile as he pads out into the living room. Stark’s sitting on the sectional couch, head bent as he reads something on a semi-transparent tablet in his hands.
The Soldier drips to a stop in front of Stark’s legs. A puddle of soapy water forms, dangerously close to soaking the man’s designer shoes if he doesn't get them out of the way fast enough.
“I’m clean,” he says. “...You said there was food?”
no subject
He’s barely able to listen at that point, rushing blood rising to pulse in his skull like he’s been punched by another Winter Soldier.
The Asset’s teeth grit. “No questions.”
The idea of a free shower is already too much. The suggestion he could choose to shave, to chop off the curtain of tangled hair HYDRA didn’t consider worthwhile to address (and therefore he didn’t consider it either), is pushing it too far. The Soldier doesn’t wait for Tony to scuttle out of the oversized shower before he’s already shedding his clothes with zero self-consciousness. That’s the only thing that’s followed SOP so far, because after that’s when the restraints are supposed to click shut against his skin. The only sound he hears, though, is Stark beating a quick retreat with a curse under his breath, the man practically running out. The door slams shut behind him.
It’s his first shower alone like this and if it wasn’t for Stark giving him the rundown, he wouldn’t have known where to start. Usually the Soldier just stands there while they spray him with icy water laced with sanitizing compounds. If he’s exhausted or hurt, he’d get knocked to the floor and they’ll spray him down where he lies. But today there’s no cleaning crew, no guards to bark orders, and for a second the Asset stares at the daunting rows of bottles, unaware he’s feeling a rising sense of panic.
In the end he picks one and only one - the first bottle in the row that says “body wash”. Since there’s no hose, he has to work in the body wash with his own hands, rubbing the gel clumsily through his tangled hair and along his body; he can’t stop glancing over at the walls for the missing guards.
By the time the Soldier emerges from the shower, it’s been long enough that he’s either a) died in there or b) purposefully running up the water bill out of spite. While he’s at least dressed in a loose t-shirt and shorts instead of going commando, he’s currently dripping a trail along the tile as he pads out into the living room. Stark’s sitting on the sectional couch, head bent as he reads something on a semi-transparent tablet in his hands.
The Soldier drips to a stop in front of Stark’s legs. A puddle of soapy water forms, dangerously close to soaking the man’s designer shoes if he doesn't get them out of the way fast enough.
“I’m clean,” he says. “...You said there was food?”