It's not a surprise when the handcuffs snap. Sometimes that happens. HYDRA will lace the equipment provided with inferior models or even just models meant for restraining normal, weak men, not superior ones like the Captain, in order to judge the reaction. By then the Winter Soldier's already rushed for the plastic mask, groping for it, in his hurry spilling the empty metal suitcase onto the floor with a clang of steel against linoleum.
Next thing he knows, the Captain's bare foot hammers into his stomach. It pitches him stumbling backward with a pained grunt before he can get the mask over his face. That look on the other asset's face - a lightening in the dull blue eyes, a barely there quirk of his lips - suddenly tightens, slams down like a defensive wall as if he, too, realized that the real threat is whatever's in the mystery vial, not the possibility of being just restrained or merely beaten. It's why when the Captain tackles him that the Winter Soldier tries to pivot, to twist his body, to protect the mask. His grip tightens on it so the other man can't simply grab it. They hit the floor together, the Captain's full weight brutal and crushing as he lands on him.
The vial cracks. Something wet spurts in the Winter Soldier's face like blood splatter. Despite knowing better he instinctively inhales for air the other asset crushed from his tortured ribs before he can stop himself. Dizzying sweetness winds sharp in his nose, cloying against his tongue even as he jerks his head away with a grimace, spitting out what he can, his hand coming up to frantically wipe away the vial's residue from his mouth before he can ingest even more than he's already had.
It wasn't the whole vial, he thinks. But it's enough and even as he writhes out from under the Captain with a panicked shove against his chest and a palm strike slamming his chin backward, he can feel something already happening. His head swims. The room alternates from blurring to snapping into startling detail. Colors vibrate at the edges, oversaturated. Warmth spreads. The majority of it pools in his core, throbbing between his legs even as he scrambles on all fours toward the shelf for a new weapon.
Toward anything at all he can use against the other man. Before the sedative really kicks in.
By the time the Winter Soldier makes it to the shelves he's started panting and it's not just because of his aching ribs. His tongue's heavy with saliva all of a sudden. The heat building in him is fast becoming a distraction. Crouching down next to the equipment shelf, dark hair hanging down half in his face, its limp tangles slicking with hints of sweat, the Winter Soldier suddenly finds he can't stand his clothes scratching against suddenly sensitive skin. Even as he reaches for something on the shelf with one hand, the Soldier's removing his shirt with the other, his metal fingers tearing through cloth, raking angry red lines across his heaving chest and stomach and exposing his flushed skin to the sterile air of the cell they both share.
Whatever was in that vial? It's become clear real fast that it was no sedative.
no subject
Next thing he knows, the Captain's bare foot hammers into his stomach. It pitches him stumbling backward with a pained grunt before he can get the mask over his face. That look on the other asset's face - a lightening in the dull blue eyes, a barely there quirk of his lips - suddenly tightens, slams down like a defensive wall as if he, too, realized that the real threat is whatever's in the mystery vial, not the possibility of being just restrained or merely beaten. It's why when the Captain tackles him that the Winter Soldier tries to pivot, to twist his body, to protect the mask. His grip tightens on it so the other man can't simply grab it. They hit the floor together, the Captain's full weight brutal and crushing as he lands on him.
The vial cracks. Something wet spurts in the Winter Soldier's face like blood splatter. Despite knowing better he instinctively inhales for air the other asset crushed from his tortured ribs before he can stop himself. Dizzying sweetness winds sharp in his nose, cloying against his tongue even as he jerks his head away with a grimace, spitting out what he can, his hand coming up to frantically wipe away the vial's residue from his mouth before he can ingest even more than he's already had.
It wasn't the whole vial, he thinks. But it's enough and even as he writhes out from under the Captain with a panicked shove against his chest and a palm strike slamming his chin backward, he can feel something already happening. His head swims. The room alternates from blurring to snapping into startling detail. Colors vibrate at the edges, oversaturated. Warmth spreads. The majority of it pools in his core, throbbing between his legs even as he scrambles on all fours toward the shelf for a new weapon.
Toward anything at all he can use against the other man. Before the sedative really kicks in.
By the time the Winter Soldier makes it to the shelves he's started panting and it's not just because of his aching ribs. His tongue's heavy with saliva all of a sudden. The heat building in him is fast becoming a distraction. Crouching down next to the equipment shelf, dark hair hanging down half in his face, its limp tangles slicking with hints of sweat, the Winter Soldier suddenly finds he can't stand his clothes scratching against suddenly sensitive skin. Even as he reaches for something on the shelf with one hand, the Soldier's removing his shirt with the other, his metal fingers tearing through cloth, raking angry red lines across his heaving chest and stomach and exposing his flushed skin to the sterile air of the cell they both share.
Whatever was in that vial? It's become clear real fast that it was no sedative.