It's an unpleasant feeling, the Captain realizes, trying to restrain the Soldier as he grows more desperate, as he fights every second that ticks by. I's like trying to smother a hurricane of fury and desperation, and… this is not how he does things. This doesn't feel right. This isn't —
This is a test. This is a test and the Winter Soldier is failing. The Captain is winning. The Winter Soldier will be punished and the Captain… might not be punished, but he certainly won't be rewarded. There are no rewards for assets who do their jobs, because you don't reward a gun for firing or a land mine for going off. You only curse it when it fails you.
The Captain doesn't fail. He can't fail. Failure is unacceptable, because failure means blankness, it means pain and drugs and confusion, it means electricity spiking between his temples until his mouth tastes like charred meat and his hair smells burned. It means starvation and isolation and something left undone. He doesn't know what, but there's something he's here to do. He can't do it if they do nothing but punish him into oblivion.
So he holds his ground, withstands the barrage of scratches and kicks. He catalogs all of them, every ounce of strength in his opponent, because the Solider is strong. He's strong, and he's still desperate, and that metal arm is still an unknown. The fingers can't find quite the same purchase, a little too smooth, a little too slippery against even bare skin, but they rake deep bruises into the Captain's skin that he can feel, red marks that will turn deep purple and sickening green before they disappear. That knee to his pelvis might have cracked the bone.
He could win like this. He could simply wait out the Soldier, absorb the damage. But it feels hollow, dissatisfying. Smothering a target might be one thing. But this isn't a target. This is a test, and not of the Captain's endurance. They've put him through those before — those befores are hazy, too, but he remembers some. Machines designed to crush, chains wrapped around limbs and pulled tight until they dislocated. Pain, worse than this pain, because that was pain he had no control over. This pain feels different. This pain is worth something. The Winter Soldier is worth fighting. Not smothering.
The Captain suddenly rolls, tossing the Soldier away again, toward the corner of the room. He doesn't want to simply withstand. He wants to see what they can do together. Against each other. He gets to his feet, a little shakier than maybe he expected, muscles sore and skin scored with bruises, scratches from the flesh hand. He looks at the Soldier, and there's this tiny, almost imperceptible flicker upward of his lips, as if to say, Give it another go. Try again. Now you know what you're facing.
no subject
This is a test. This is a test and the Winter Soldier is failing. The Captain is winning. The Winter Soldier will be punished and the Captain… might not be punished, but he certainly won't be rewarded. There are no rewards for assets who do their jobs, because you don't reward a gun for firing or a land mine for going off. You only curse it when it fails you.
The Captain doesn't fail. He can't fail. Failure is unacceptable, because failure means blankness, it means pain and drugs and confusion, it means electricity spiking between his temples until his mouth tastes like charred meat and his hair smells burned. It means starvation and isolation and something left undone. He doesn't know what, but there's something he's here to do. He can't do it if they do nothing but punish him into oblivion.
So he holds his ground, withstands the barrage of scratches and kicks. He catalogs all of them, every ounce of strength in his opponent, because the Solider is strong. He's strong, and he's still desperate, and that metal arm is still an unknown. The fingers can't find quite the same purchase, a little too smooth, a little too slippery against even bare skin, but they rake deep bruises into the Captain's skin that he can feel, red marks that will turn deep purple and sickening green before they disappear. That knee to his pelvis might have cracked the bone.
He could win like this. He could simply wait out the Soldier, absorb the damage. But it feels hollow, dissatisfying. Smothering a target might be one thing. But this isn't a target. This is a test, and not of the Captain's endurance. They've put him through those before — those befores are hazy, too, but he remembers some. Machines designed to crush, chains wrapped around limbs and pulled tight until they dislocated. Pain, worse than this pain, because that was pain he had no control over. This pain feels different. This pain is worth something. The Winter Soldier is worth fighting. Not smothering.
The Captain suddenly rolls, tossing the Soldier away again, toward the corner of the room. He doesn't want to simply withstand. He wants to see what they can do together. Against each other. He gets to his feet, a little shakier than maybe he expected, muscles sore and skin scored with bruises, scratches from the flesh hand. He looks at the Soldier, and there's this tiny, almost imperceptible flicker upward of his lips, as if to say, Give it another go. Try again. Now you know what you're facing.