( bucky's recouping on the bench gave him enough time to gather himself again, work up an unflinching determination for the step that has to come next. once upon a time, he'd been pieced back together often enough by battlefield medics and nurses that he's not self-conscious about that part, about his blood on someone else's hands, and the prospect of the pain that comes with it. so he nods curtly, and then leans forward enough to work the jacket off his shoulders. it's large enough that it slips off easily, puddling on the bench beside him — the fabric's torn through from the bullets, though, and he frowns at the sight.
and then he realises what actually comes next.
shit, he thinks. he's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but the injury is high enough that he can't just roll it up for her to get at the bullet wound. so the man hesitates, while karen's standing there waiting for him, and his hand's at the neck of his shirt. and it's a bashfulness that doesn't seem to match the soldier's crisp businesslike demeanour of just a few moments ago.
he girds himself again, catches at the neck of his rumpled shirt, drags it over his head in one fell swoop. fabric crumpled in his hand. his movement reveals the shape of muscles rippling in his back, his shoulderblades, his chest, as he exhales again.
and there's all that black-and-gold metal. you can't even pretend it's a gauntlet or metal glove of some kind; she can see the spot where it's neatly welded to his shoulder, bound to the sinew and tendon somehow, an elegant construction of wakandan model. the plates slide elegantly when he moves, a delicate artistry in it.
there's two bullets in his side, the skin ripped open and still-bleeding. he stands up to give her better access, leans his metal hand against the kitchen table. his gaze is locked forward, staring straight ahead and not meeting her eye. there's a giant metal elephant in the room now, and the man seems to be biting down on it, not wanting to see whatever expression is crossing her face at the sight of him. horror. disgust. aversion.
no subject
( bucky's recouping on the bench gave him enough time to gather himself again, work up an unflinching determination for the step that has to come next. once upon a time, he'd been pieced back together often enough by battlefield medics and nurses that he's not self-conscious about that part, about his blood on someone else's hands, and the prospect of the pain that comes with it. so he nods curtly, and then leans forward enough to work the jacket off his shoulders. it's large enough that it slips off easily, puddling on the bench beside him — the fabric's torn through from the bullets, though, and he frowns at the sight.
and then he realises what actually comes next.
shit, he thinks. he's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but the injury is high enough that he can't just roll it up for her to get at the bullet wound. so the man hesitates, while karen's standing there waiting for him, and his hand's at the neck of his shirt. and it's a bashfulness that doesn't seem to match the soldier's crisp businesslike demeanour of just a few moments ago.
he girds himself again, catches at the neck of his rumpled shirt, drags it over his head in one fell swoop. fabric crumpled in his hand. his movement reveals the shape of muscles rippling in his back, his shoulderblades, his chest, as he exhales again.
and there's all that black-and-gold metal. you can't even pretend it's a gauntlet or metal glove of some kind; she can see the spot where it's neatly welded to his shoulder, bound to the sinew and tendon somehow, an elegant construction of wakandan model. the plates slide elegantly when he moves, a delicate artistry in it.
there's two bullets in his side, the skin ripped open and still-bleeding. he stands up to give her better access, leans his metal hand against the kitchen table. his gaze is locked forward, staring straight ahead and not meeting her eye. there's a giant metal elephant in the room now, and the man seems to be biting down on it, not wanting to see whatever expression is crossing her face at the sight of him. horror. disgust. aversion.
or maybe even worse: recognition. )