The tower would take a few days to map out manually.
Under normal circumstances it would, except FRIDAY provides him with a map shortly after Stark settles down to work on the prosthetic arm. Or, more precisely, the AI sends one of Stark’s low-tech drones to roll up with a tablet clenched in its manipulator claw, beeping, and then settling for bodily poking the Winter Soldier in the hip until he takes it. The uploaded map’s probably edited knowing he’ll be looking at it. Flicking through it, learning how to use the tablet, and it confirms what he already knows: the tower is a maze and there’s no feasible escape without FRIDAY knowing about it.
Aside from that, no new orders.
Unsure what to do without those, the Soldier wanders. A few times he makes it back to Stark’s workshop and while the…mess is still there, all the trip hazards that are probably more dangerous to the man than his scalpel ever was, the music volume blaring through the speakers is noticeably lower than before, just loud instead of bone-shaking, head-pounding loud. Even at a lower, more reasonable volume the music’s still somehow grating, the Soldier slipping out after a few minutes, unaware that he might just be missing something more sedate like the Andrew Sisters or the Ink Spots instead of another round of A/C’s guitar riffs.
But Stark holes up in his workshop long enough that the Soldier returns, back music or no music, because standing orders were to assist him and he can’t assist him if the man worked himself into a coma because he forgot about eating and drinking. He isn’t sure where the food comes from - delivery again, maybe - but FRIDAY’s voice had filtered through the walls, through everywhere, seemingly without a source, and the AI had requested that he make sure Stark ate. Not exactly an order.
Might as well be.
It’s easy to sneak up on Stark, like every other time. The Soldier walks in with the delivery, has time to set it down and retrieve a streaming mug from DUM-E and there's time to set that down too. In fact, he can stand right behind Stark’s chair, easily within arm’s reach that he could’ve snapped his neck or slipped a knife between his ribs, and still Stark doesn’t seem to register he’s there.
The Soldier doesn’t move when Stark’s head shifts and then bumps into the firm planes of his stomach.
“It’s 2:34 pm,” the Soldier says quietly. “Over twenty four hours. You should take a break.”
He doesn’t move away. Not at first. Leaning over and minding Stark’s head, the Soldier reaches for the mug and then maneuvers it into Stark’s hands with surprisingly gentle care, his palms briefly fitting over the back of the other man’s hands.
“Drink. Then eat. You can give a status report while you’re doing that.”
no subject
Under normal circumstances it would, except FRIDAY provides him with a map shortly after Stark settles down to work on the prosthetic arm. Or, more precisely, the AI sends one of Stark’s low-tech drones to roll up with a tablet clenched in its manipulator claw, beeping, and then settling for bodily poking the Winter Soldier in the hip until he takes it. The uploaded map’s probably edited knowing he’ll be looking at it. Flicking through it, learning how to use the tablet, and it confirms what he already knows: the tower is a maze and there’s no feasible escape without FRIDAY knowing about it.
Aside from that, no new orders.
Unsure what to do without those, the Soldier wanders. A few times he makes it back to Stark’s workshop and while the…mess is still there, all the trip hazards that are probably more dangerous to the man than his scalpel ever was, the music volume blaring through the speakers is noticeably lower than before, just loud instead of bone-shaking, head-pounding loud. Even at a lower, more reasonable volume the music’s still somehow grating, the Soldier slipping out after a few minutes, unaware that he might just be missing something more sedate like the Andrew Sisters or the Ink Spots instead of another round of A/C’s guitar riffs.
But Stark holes up in his workshop long enough that the Soldier returns, back music or no music, because standing orders were to assist him and he can’t assist him if the man worked himself into a coma because he forgot about eating and drinking. He isn’t sure where the food comes from - delivery again, maybe - but FRIDAY’s voice had filtered through the walls, through everywhere, seemingly without a source, and the AI had requested that he make sure Stark ate. Not exactly an order.
Might as well be.
It’s easy to sneak up on Stark, like every other time. The Soldier walks in with the delivery, has time to set it down and retrieve a streaming mug from DUM-E and there's time to set that down too. In fact, he can stand right behind Stark’s chair, easily within arm’s reach that he could’ve snapped his neck or slipped a knife between his ribs, and still Stark doesn’t seem to register he’s there.
The Soldier doesn’t move when Stark’s head shifts and then bumps into the firm planes of his stomach.
“It’s 2:34 pm,” the Soldier says quietly. “Over twenty four hours. You should take a break.”
He doesn’t move away. Not at first. Leaning over and minding Stark’s head, the Soldier reaches for the mug and then maneuvers it into Stark’s hands with surprisingly gentle care, his palms briefly fitting over the back of the other man’s hands.
“Drink. Then eat. You can give a status report while you’re doing that.”