The Captain temporarily overbalances as the Soldier disappears beneath him, both of them pawing at their faces. He didn’t inhale much of the drug, but it doesn’t matter — he doesn’t know it, but the cocktail they’d already injected him with is picking up speed, and while his metabolism differs from the Soldier’s, that little bit of the vial’s contents that did get in his face isn’t helping matters, any.
Or, the techs might argue, it’s helping things along nicely.
By the time the Captain has rolled into a wary crouch, the other asset is already on the other side of the tiny room again, grabbing for something on the shelf. The Captain feels a spark of annoyance and rises to his feet, ready to stalk over — but it’s immediately subsumed by something else as metal fingers tear at the Winter Soldier’s own shirt.
The Captain’s gut goes tight and hot like he’s been hit with a wrecking ball. He goes perfectly still, mind racing. He doesn’t understand the reaction. It’s just skin, and yet his eyes feel like they’re drawn there like a compass to true north. His own chest heaves with a gasping breath and his fists curl, unsure what to do with this feeling and not liking that at all. He always knows what to do. It’s his purpose, his function, to know what action needs to be taken and take it without hesitating. He has learned that much in the endless tests and assessments and sessions he’s been though, each one reinforcing one pathway in his brain: Decisive action is paramount. Hesitation is not allowed. Hesitation will endanger the mission.
He doesn’t know what the mission is today, but whatever it is, he needs to succeed. He can’t lose. He makes a move for the Soldier but it’s uncharacteristically clumsy, fueled by his indecision. Does he want to tackle the Soldier to subdue him or to — touch him? Suddenly that feels like he wants to touch that expanse of bare skin like nothing he’s ever wanted before. He wants to rub himself all over the Soldier, wrap himself up in him, do anything, anything to get them close. He wants that bare skin. And he wants more of it.
He reaches out, but doesn’t seem to notice the reinforced leather and metal in the Soldier’s flesh hand. The Captain’s fingers are reaching out to touch that bare skin, to skim over the red lines. He wants to know what the heat from that skin feels like on his hand. On his face. On his own bare chest.
no subject
Or, the techs might argue, it’s helping things along nicely.
By the time the Captain has rolled into a wary crouch, the other asset is already on the other side of the tiny room again, grabbing for something on the shelf. The Captain feels a spark of annoyance and rises to his feet, ready to stalk over — but it’s immediately subsumed by something else as metal fingers tear at the Winter Soldier’s own shirt.
The Captain’s gut goes tight and hot like he’s been hit with a wrecking ball. He goes perfectly still, mind racing. He doesn’t understand the reaction. It’s just skin, and yet his eyes feel like they’re drawn there like a compass to true north. His own chest heaves with a gasping breath and his fists curl, unsure what to do with this feeling and not liking that at all. He always knows what to do. It’s his purpose, his function, to know what action needs to be taken and take it without hesitating. He has learned that much in the endless tests and assessments and sessions he’s been though, each one reinforcing one pathway in his brain: Decisive action is paramount. Hesitation is not allowed. Hesitation will endanger the mission.
He doesn’t know what the mission is today, but whatever it is, he needs to succeed. He can’t lose. He makes a move for the Soldier but it’s uncharacteristically clumsy, fueled by his indecision. Does he want to tackle the Soldier to subdue him or to — touch him? Suddenly that feels like he wants to touch that expanse of bare skin like nothing he’s ever wanted before. He wants to rub himself all over the Soldier, wrap himself up in him, do anything, anything to get them close. He wants that bare skin. And he wants more of it.
He reaches out, but doesn’t seem to notice the reinforced leather and metal in the Soldier’s flesh hand. The Captain’s fingers are reaching out to touch that bare skin, to skim over the red lines. He wants to know what the heat from that skin feels like on his hand. On his face. On his own bare chest.