( her warm hands press against him, working quickly. he can't even remember the last time someone's touched his bare skin. not like this. the hard, clinical contact of the scientists swarming over him in HYDRA— that doesn't count.
his right hand reaches out, catches the whiskey, takes a startlingly deep swig straight from the bottle. she doesn't know about his metabolism yet, but it'll need to be that much to even make a dent in him. and when the tweezers dig in and latch around the first bullet and yank it out, he doesn't make a noise, not a hiss of breath or a gasp of pain even when the blood spills over in its wake; he's eerily silent, because years' worth of brutal training has drummed that particular reaction out of him. he might make frustrated noises or startled yelps during combat, but pain was always to be weathered and bitten down in silence. to not show that weakness. )
The city does do that. I've wondered for a while why—
( the second bullet, the second twist of the tweezers like a knife being twisted in his side, and his words strangle. his left hand digs in deeper to the kitchen table, almost enough to splinter the wood, while his back arches towards it. this woman's hands are on his body and he knows it's the cool, dispassionate touch of a medic, but just for a moment, he hates how unaccustomed to this he's become. the way it makes his stomach turn over even when it's a complete stranger. it's this vulnerability, of being stripped down and in the dark and his blood on her hands while she's digging inside him. where was he? oh, right. )
Why there's such a concentration here. Crime. Vigilantes. Superpowers. West coast's practically deserted in comparison.
( poor lang, holding down the fort.
his thoughts are drifting again. he bows his head, now looking down towards the kitchen table. his next words are less accusing, more weary: )
no subject
his right hand reaches out, catches the whiskey, takes a startlingly deep swig straight from the bottle. she doesn't know about his metabolism yet, but it'll need to be that much to even make a dent in him. and when the tweezers dig in and latch around the first bullet and yank it out, he doesn't make a noise, not a hiss of breath or a gasp of pain even when the blood spills over in its wake; he's eerily silent, because years' worth of brutal training has drummed that particular reaction out of him. he might make frustrated noises or startled yelps during combat, but pain was always to be weathered and bitten down in silence. to not show that weakness. )
The city does do that. I've wondered for a while why—
( the second bullet, the second twist of the tweezers like a knife being twisted in his side, and his words strangle. his left hand digs in deeper to the kitchen table, almost enough to splinter the wood, while his back arches towards it. this woman's hands are on his body and he knows it's the cool, dispassionate touch of a medic, but just for a moment, he hates how unaccustomed to this he's become. the way it makes his stomach turn over even when it's a complete stranger. it's this vulnerability, of being stripped down and in the dark and his blood on her hands while she's digging inside him. where was he? oh, right. )
Why there's such a concentration here. Crime. Vigilantes. Superpowers. West coast's practically deserted in comparison.
( poor lang, holding down the fort.
his thoughts are drifting again. he bows his head, now looking down towards the kitchen table. his next words are less accusing, more weary: )
You recognised me.