The Captain sees, even as he's moving, the way the Winter Soldier is expecting him to do what's standard. It's exactly why he doesn't do it; the way the other asset shifts lightning-fast to protect his throat and face is admirable, he manages to think, even as it confirms that those parts of him are just as vulnerable as they are on anyone else. The information is valuable, too, if expected. But simply going by what's expected is not the way to win.
The metal under his fingers is strong. It's got the sound of something slightly but not completely hollow, maybe thinner plates encircling a solid core, he thinks. But his fingers can't dent the metal like they have so many chairs and tables and even medical instruments, when someone had gotten too close and he'd been sedated not quite enough.
That lack of a real gripping point means that when the Soldier kicks him in the chest, his hand slides down the metal arm, blunt, ragged fingernails unable to really gain any traction until his fingers come to the wrist and he suddenly tightens his hold, yanking and twisting to try to fling the other asset into the adjacent padded wall to his right, almost like a twisted version of some bygone dance, even as the momentum of the kick sends the Captain half-flying, half-stumbling back into the wall immediately behind him with a dull thud. His right shoulder takes most of the force, but it still knocks the air out of his lungs and jostles his head.
He's dazed but immediately rebounds into a defensive crouch, twisting to see where and how the Soldier might have landed even before his conscious mind has quite recovered fully. That was some kick, he thinks, and there's some... strange feeling stirring at the back of his mind: something he can't recognize anymore as both respect and excitement.
no subject
The metal under his fingers is strong. It's got the sound of something slightly but not completely hollow, maybe thinner plates encircling a solid core, he thinks. But his fingers can't dent the metal like they have so many chairs and tables and even medical instruments, when someone had gotten too close and he'd been sedated not quite enough.
That lack of a real gripping point means that when the Soldier kicks him in the chest, his hand slides down the metal arm, blunt, ragged fingernails unable to really gain any traction until his fingers come to the wrist and he suddenly tightens his hold, yanking and twisting to try to fling the other asset into the adjacent padded wall to his right, almost like a twisted version of some bygone dance, even as the momentum of the kick sends the Captain half-flying, half-stumbling back into the wall immediately behind him with a dull thud. His right shoulder takes most of the force, but it still knocks the air out of his lungs and jostles his head.
He's dazed but immediately rebounds into a defensive crouch, twisting to see where and how the Soldier might have landed even before his conscious mind has quite recovered fully. That was some kick, he thinks, and there's some... strange feeling stirring at the back of his mind: something he can't recognize anymore as both respect and excitement.