[ That regimen of brutality which honed his body and skill into the deadliest weapon imaginable isn't something Bucky finds magnificent. The beatings, the repeated crackling of electric pain in his skull, the sharp Again! commanded from on high whenever he botched a sparring match-- none of that is magnificent. Hearing Zemo nearly wet himself over it makes Bucky's skin crawl.
He downs a hefty pull of a liquor strong enough to be distilled from a neutron star, and grimaces. This one might actually get him buzzing if he tries hard enough. Bucky more slams down his glass than anything, dropping in two ice cubes and pouring another serving. ]
Yeah, feel free to join your closest HYDRA gym then.
[ He's not used to having his wires exposed this way anymore, meticulously scrutinized by a man so insightful, so keenly observant. And not only exposed, but analyzed, not in a clinical way but in the manner someone would appreciate fine art in a gallery. It reminds him of Alexander Pierce, and Bucky shudders within himself.
But even this truly isn't the root of his sour demeanor. What makes him want to throw this nice alcohol up all over Sharon's antique furniture is how it all felt. Not merely the beating of men, which he takes no pleasure in outside the abstract 'criminals bad', but the freedom of thought. Specifically--and this is the part that terrifies him--the lack of thought at all. He hadn't had to think, hadn't needed to strategize or enforce a moral boundary like no killing. There was only a simple command, to attack, and then he was let off his leash.
Too much of the fight wasn't the Winter Soldier, it was him. Bucky didn't have the excuse of a trance state to fall back on. Every kick, every broken bone was consciously selected and meted out with extreme prejudice. And beyond that, being granted the permission to do it all, even under the guise they were trying to sell, was like releasing a pressure valve. When they pulled him back from the edge, his eyes had been hard, laser-focused, his hand ready to squeeze the throat underneath it.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2021-05-02 03:26 pm (UTC)He downs a hefty pull of a liquor strong enough to be distilled from a neutron star, and grimaces. This one might actually get him buzzing if he tries hard enough. Bucky more slams down his glass than anything, dropping in two ice cubes and pouring another serving. ]
Yeah, feel free to join your closest HYDRA gym then.
[ He's not used to having his wires exposed this way anymore, meticulously scrutinized by a man so insightful, so keenly observant. And not only exposed, but analyzed, not in a clinical way but in the manner someone would appreciate fine art in a gallery. It reminds him of Alexander Pierce, and Bucky shudders within himself.
But even this truly isn't the root of his sour demeanor. What makes him want to throw this nice alcohol up all over Sharon's antique furniture is how it all felt. Not merely the beating of men, which he takes no pleasure in outside the abstract 'criminals bad', but the freedom of thought. Specifically--and this is the part that terrifies him--the lack of thought at all. He hadn't had to think, hadn't needed to strategize or enforce a moral boundary like no killing. There was only a simple command, to attack, and then he was let off his leash.
Too much of the fight wasn't the Winter Soldier, it was him. Bucky didn't have the excuse of a trance state to fall back on. Every kick, every broken bone was consciously selected and meted out with extreme prejudice. And beyond that, being granted the permission to do it all, even under the guise they were trying to sell, was like releasing a pressure valve. When they pulled him back from the edge, his eyes had been hard, laser-focused, his hand ready to squeeze the throat underneath it.
And god help him, it had felt good. ]