Not surprising to find that out: a razor would easily be enough to kill the average man without a thought, but he should have been sedated heavily to ensure he wouldn't be even given that opportunity.
The Winter Soldier hisses. "I'm not here to make you compliant."
His training is to destabilize, to kill. Breaking a man down into a useful weapon isn't part of that training program - maybe it will be down the line, but he knows even with his shaky sense of reality, of his own self, that he isn't there yet. Hasn't been trusted with it. But he thinks he can handle trimming that unsanctioned beard, growing longer by the day, proof of HYDRA's failure to rein him in like every other useful asset. The Soldier's face is a mask of exhaustion, dimming pain, but there's also steel behind it. Unlike that deceased handler, he is trained, quick; the metal prosthesis means that's one less soft point for this other asset to target. Can't cut open arteries that aren't there anymore.
If he suspects the other asset can get free, he can apply the appropriate level of force until he's incapacitated - easier, he thinks, when he's bound and barely coherent. There's nothing wrong with taking advantage of a hostile's weakness, after all.
Time slithers away when the Winter Soldier suddenly leans away from view and stalks off. It could be seconds; minutes...hours to feel like it's just stale air and the cold embrace of the chair and the yawning silence of fragmented thoughts crashing into each other.
Eventually there's that sixth-sense impression of another man filling up the space in an empty room. The Winter Soldier returns with a single, disposable razor, a damp wash cloth (too thin to pose much of a threat if it's clamped over, say, his own mouth and nose), and the same flat expression as before. A hand clamps down the Captain's neck with a grip that's far stronger than any he's faced before, right over his carotid arteries: in essence, letting him know that he will squeeze with extreme prejudice and cut off blood supply to his head to ensure a far more rapid incapacitation than the usual methods.
"Hold still," the Soldier says.
Then he starts to give the man formally know as Steve Rogers his first shave in who knows how long. No scissors (that would be like handing this man a Bowie knife). The blade will dull, requiring the Winter Soldier to leave and come back with another one, instead of reaching into his pocket for a spare. The whole time his grip is unforgiving, tight enough to bruise, the metal fingers flashing in the light every now and then. It will take awhile to produce the desired results: the unkempt beard, long enough to grab onto, has been trimmed to a long stubble. If the Captain saw himself in the mirror, he might even have a moment where he recognizes himself for that split second.
The Captain is left alone in the room, but that’s… not bad, either. It’s quiet, almost calm, as his racing heartbeat and flickering nerves slowly start to slow, to calm. It’s maybe a rare treat, to be left alone to come down from the pain and disorientation and fear of a session in the chair. They feel like they last forever. Now, the silence feels the same, but he doesn’t think he minds.
Of course, the Soldier returns eventually, with a cheap razor in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. It’s obvious what he’s going to do, so the Captain doesn’t ask; he just grunts as a hand is clamped down over his neck, but somehow, somehow he stays calm as the other asset drags the razor methodically over his beard. It stings and burns — there’s something missing, the back of his mind says, something else they’re supposed to use, another step in the process? — but his mind can’t dig it up. It’s like he knows how this should go, even though he doesn’t know how it should go.
The handlers watch, murmuring, over closed circuit video feeds as the Captain allows the Soldier to shave him without struggle. The scientists are jotting down notes as well, pens racing furiously across clipboards. The Captain is more docile than usual, even as the veins stand out on his neck and in his arms, as his hands clench and forearms flex against the restraints. He’s tense but he isn’t angry or vicious or wild. Even when the Soldier has to retreat and return with a new razor, leaving the Captain half shaved, he doesn’t move. He simply waits for the other to return and finish the job.
In the chair, the Captain’s face feels almost cold. It’s a strange sensation; he wonders how long he’s had the beard. He can’t remember not having it, but that’s not necessarily strange. He can’t remember a lot of things. His eyes go up to the Soldier’s face as he finishes up, wipes the cool, damp cloth over his cheeks and lips and chin to catch any small, stray hairs. He doesn’t thank the other asset. But he does say, as if to confirm, “Liability eliminated?”
The handlers will be pleased. Or, at least, satisfied. They’re less cruel, when they’re satisfied. The next thought comes, unbidden and unexpected: Maybe they’ll be less cruel to the Soldier, too.
He doesn’t think they’ll let him out of the chair until the second razor has been disposed of, though. Even if, he realizes dully, he wouldn’t use it on the Winter Soldier. Not like he had on the handler. The Winter Soldier is… different.
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winging it with the beard
The Winter Soldier hisses. "I'm not here to make you compliant."
His training is to destabilize, to kill. Breaking a man down into a useful weapon isn't part of that training program - maybe it will be down the line, but he knows even with his shaky sense of reality, of his own self, that he isn't there yet. Hasn't been trusted with it. But he thinks he can handle trimming that unsanctioned beard, growing longer by the day, proof of HYDRA's failure to rein him in like every other useful asset. The Soldier's face is a mask of exhaustion, dimming pain, but there's also steel behind it. Unlike that deceased handler, he is trained, quick; the metal prosthesis means that's one less soft point for this other asset to target. Can't cut open arteries that aren't there anymore.
If he suspects the other asset can get free, he can apply the appropriate level of force until he's incapacitated - easier, he thinks, when he's bound and barely coherent. There's nothing wrong with taking advantage of a hostile's weakness, after all.
Time slithers away when the Winter Soldier suddenly leans away from view and stalks off. It could be seconds; minutes...hours to feel like it's just stale air and the cold embrace of the chair and the yawning silence of fragmented thoughts crashing into each other.
Eventually there's that sixth-sense impression of another man filling up the space in an empty room. The Winter Soldier returns with a single, disposable razor, a damp wash cloth (too thin to pose much of a threat if it's clamped over, say, his own mouth and nose), and the same flat expression as before. A hand clamps down the Captain's neck with a grip that's far stronger than any he's faced before, right over his carotid arteries: in essence, letting him know that he will squeeze with extreme prejudice and cut off blood supply to his head to ensure a far more rapid incapacitation than the usual methods.
"Hold still," the Soldier says.
Then he starts to give the man formally know as Steve Rogers his first shave in who knows how long. No scissors (that would be like handing this man a Bowie knife). The blade will dull, requiring the Winter Soldier to leave and come back with another one, instead of reaching into his pocket for a spare. The whole time his grip is unforgiving, tight enough to bruise, the metal fingers flashing in the light every now and then. It will take awhile to produce the desired results: the unkempt beard, long enough to grab onto, has been trimmed to a long stubble. If the Captain saw himself in the mirror, he might even have a moment where he recognizes himself for that split second.
perfect!
Of course, the Soldier returns eventually, with a cheap razor in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. It’s obvious what he’s going to do, so the Captain doesn’t ask; he just grunts as a hand is clamped down over his neck, but somehow, somehow he stays calm as the other asset drags the razor methodically over his beard. It stings and burns — there’s something missing, the back of his mind says, something else they’re supposed to use, another step in the process? — but his mind can’t dig it up. It’s like he knows how this should go, even though he doesn’t know how it should go.
The handlers watch, murmuring, over closed circuit video feeds as the Captain allows the Soldier to shave him without struggle. The scientists are jotting down notes as well, pens racing furiously across clipboards. The Captain is more docile than usual, even as the veins stand out on his neck and in his arms, as his hands clench and forearms flex against the restraints. He’s tense but he isn’t angry or vicious or wild. Even when the Soldier has to retreat and return with a new razor, leaving the Captain half shaved, he doesn’t move. He simply waits for the other to return and finish the job.
In the chair, the Captain’s face feels almost cold. It’s a strange sensation; he wonders how long he’s had the beard. He can’t remember not having it, but that’s not necessarily strange. He can’t remember a lot of things. His eyes go up to the Soldier’s face as he finishes up, wipes the cool, damp cloth over his cheeks and lips and chin to catch any small, stray hairs. He doesn’t thank the other asset. But he does say, as if to confirm, “Liability eliminated?”
The handlers will be pleased. Or, at least, satisfied. They’re less cruel, when they’re satisfied. The next thought comes, unbidden and unexpected: Maybe they’ll be less cruel to the Soldier, too.
He doesn’t think they’ll let him out of the chair until the second razor has been disposed of, though. Even if, he realizes dully, he wouldn’t use it on the Winter Soldier. Not like he had on the handler. The Winter Soldier is… different.