The longer this goes on, the more the Winter Soldier slowly loses his grip on his rocks-teady composure. Every second he's being toyed with, every second that he fails to force this stranger to submit, means another second in the damn chair.
The thought burns up from the inside.
He doesn't remember Steve or his own name or all that history together, all those nights in Brooklyn where they sat on the roof with legs kicking as they talked, as Bucky listened with a half-smile and Steve just rattled off his day and showed off his drawings and everything seemed like it'd work out. When he'd fish Steve from the latest alley and have to dab away the blood and wonder if the next time will be too much even for him. That's all been scrubbed away. What the Soldier does know is that punishment awaits and that it's up to him to minimize the duration: the only control he has, really. He tries everything. The Asset's body writhes like a wild animal in the stranger's grip and he's sure he got some hits in. Fractures. Blood splatters from teeth cutting against that lower lip and soon he has the stranger's beard stained red. He's gripped it and slammed his face down into the training mat. It still isn't enough. For the first time in his recent memory, the Winter Soldier isn't the cutting edge HYDRA has to offer.
The stranger might be enjoying himself, might enjoy the challenge. But for the Soldier, this has boiled down into survival and the realization that he will be going back to the chair today. That he couldn't go even twenty-four hours before he'll be shaking and trembling in its embrace.
Finding himself face down on the training mat, the Winter Soldier struggles underneath the stranger's weight, the knee pinning him at the exact point that pain and numbness blossom and his left arm is damaged. Failing. It clicks, the chrome fingers spasming stop-motion style like an old movie. The prosthetic has been pushed to a limit that he wasn't aware it had - a limit his techs didn't account for.
He tries to swing back with his other arm. Flesh and blood, it's vulnerable and the Winter Soldier isn't surprised when the stranger catches his clumsy jerk backward. A good time to dislocate or break that arm, because it's what he would do if their positions were reversed and the opportunity presented itself.
Still, when it happens, the Winter Soldier can't quite bite back his surprise. It takes one quick, efficient application of pressure: something shifts and suddenly he can feel the arm dislocate from the shoulder. He grunts, loud enough that he's sure it was audible, and his head twists to the side, his bloodied teeth bared in a snarl and his malfunctioning silver fingers claw uselessly at the mat.
And yet the handlers haven't called it off. The Winter Soldier could still technically fight, even if the victor is clear: it's up to the Captain to finish this.
i'll do it in my tag!
The thought burns up from the inside.
He doesn't remember Steve or his own name or all that history together, all those nights in Brooklyn where they sat on the roof with legs kicking as they talked, as Bucky listened with a half-smile and Steve just rattled off his day and showed off his drawings and everything seemed like it'd work out. When he'd fish Steve from the latest alley and have to dab away the blood and wonder if the next time will be too much even for him. That's all been scrubbed away. What the Soldier does know is that punishment awaits and that it's up to him to minimize the duration: the only control he has, really. He tries everything. The Asset's body writhes like a wild animal in the stranger's grip and he's sure he got some hits in. Fractures. Blood splatters from teeth cutting against that lower lip and soon he has the stranger's beard stained red. He's gripped it and slammed his face down into the training mat. It still isn't enough. For the first time in his recent memory, the Winter Soldier isn't the cutting edge HYDRA has to offer.
The stranger might be enjoying himself, might enjoy the challenge. But for the Soldier, this has boiled down into survival and the realization that he will be going back to the chair today. That he couldn't go even twenty-four hours before he'll be shaking and trembling in its embrace.
Finding himself face down on the training mat, the Winter Soldier struggles underneath the stranger's weight, the knee pinning him at the exact point that pain and numbness blossom and his left arm is damaged. Failing. It clicks, the chrome fingers spasming stop-motion style like an old movie. The prosthetic has been pushed to a limit that he wasn't aware it had - a limit his techs didn't account for.
He tries to swing back with his other arm. Flesh and blood, it's vulnerable and the Winter Soldier isn't surprised when the stranger catches his clumsy jerk backward. A good time to dislocate or break that arm, because it's what he would do if their positions were reversed and the opportunity presented itself.
Still, when it happens, the Winter Soldier can't quite bite back his surprise. It takes one quick, efficient application of pressure: something shifts and suddenly he can feel the arm dislocate from the shoulder. He grunts, loud enough that he's sure it was audible, and his head twists to the side, his bloodied teeth bared in a snarl and his malfunctioning silver fingers claw uselessly at the mat.
And yet the handlers haven't called it off. The Winter Soldier could still technically fight, even if the victor is clear: it's up to the Captain to finish this.