( it takes a lot to knock him out — other superpowered fists or alien warriors, more often — but he's not sure how to even begin to explain that, to try to assuage this woman who's showing him such kindness. hey i know this looks really bad, but i'm a super-soldier so don't worry about it?
bucky settles on the bench like a tonne of bricks, his back against the kitchen table, head tipped back and focusing on his breathing. in and out through that pinched nerve in his side, the feeling of the metal bullet grinding against his good ole human organs. mulling over the fact that he doesn't really have anyone he'd have felt comfortable calling for help, even if he'd swallowed his pride enough to do so. it doesn't feel great. knowing how cut-off and alone he is.
he waits, and while he waits, he takes in what he can see of the apartment. his night vision is better than most, so he's automatically sizing up the entrance, the windows, the fire escape, a potential second exit through the bathroom beyond the kitchen. doors and corners, angles and escape routes. potential weapons: the knife block on the counter. the kind of cold calculation that he'd been trained to do over so many decades, the winter soldier's instincts still living somewhere in the back of his skull, a hyper-awareness of combat variables that he can't turn off.
it's fucking astounding that she's trusting him this much, not knowing the kind of man she's brought home through her doors. even he's not under any delusion of what he really is, a monster with its teeth filed down.
he hears her clattering around, and when she returns carrying a first aid kit: )
no subject
( it takes a lot to knock him out — other superpowered fists or alien warriors, more often — but he's not sure how to even begin to explain that, to try to assuage this woman who's showing him such kindness. hey i know this looks really bad, but i'm a super-soldier so don't worry about it?
bucky settles on the bench like a tonne of bricks, his back against the kitchen table, head tipped back and focusing on his breathing. in and out through that pinched nerve in his side, the feeling of the metal bullet grinding against his good ole human organs. mulling over the fact that he doesn't really have anyone he'd have felt comfortable calling for help, even if he'd swallowed his pride enough to do so. it doesn't feel great. knowing how cut-off and alone he is.
he waits, and while he waits, he takes in what he can see of the apartment. his night vision is better than most, so he's automatically sizing up the entrance, the windows, the fire escape, a potential second exit through the bathroom beyond the kitchen. doors and corners, angles and escape routes. potential weapons: the knife block on the counter. the kind of cold calculation that he'd been trained to do over so many decades, the winter soldier's instincts still living somewhere in the back of his skull, a hyper-awareness of combat variables that he can't turn off.
it's fucking astounding that she's trusting him this much, not knowing the kind of man she's brought home through her doors. even he's not under any delusion of what he really is, a monster with its teeth filed down.
he hears her clattering around, and when she returns carrying a first aid kit: )
You didn't tell me your name.