[ each word is often curt and bitten-off around the other man, like an animal defensively snapping its teeth. it's like he's living each day in a cage with a tiger, its glinting eyes watching him like one might eye a particularly savoury meal, and so bucky never fully relaxes here.
it's something in the way zemo sizes him up, with the full awareness that zemo knows, he knows the unvarnished reality of what the soldier is and what he's done and can do. zemo had held those cards in his hands, after all; had pulled the levers and pressed the right buttons to manipulate him. just because that particular lever didn't work anymore doesn't mean he'll never find another way. so in the meantime bucky's just riding the crest of that wave, balancing on the edge of it, letting it carry him as far forward down their mutual mission as he can before he trips and drowns.
and he's on a tight leash in the meantime. wearing clothes tailored to zemo's specifications, eating food he's paid for, sleeping in his apartments. (had bucky's current bedroom been zemo's, once upon a time? an uncomfortable idea. he doesn't like to think about it.)
they make for a strangely domestic picture tonight, though, and the awareness of it prickles along the edge of his skin. zemo and his ridiculous silken dressing robes, while the american is just wearing pyjama pants and a worn t-shirt, the metal arm visible. vulnerable, bucky thinks, but he'll wield that nonchalance as if it can banish that shifting unease of looking so pared-down and human around each other. so, making himself at home, he goes straight for the cabinets and rattles around in them until he finds a bottle of eye-wateringly expensive scotch. pours himself a glass; hesitates with his fingers on the rim of a second glass, considers politely offering zemo his own alcohol to drink, but then just takes a swig of it himself instead. leans back against the kitchen counter and watches the other man.
much as bucky hates to admit it, he does have a point. the winter soldier slept through most of his confinement. ]
Okay. I'll bite. So how did you kill time in the Raft?
[ his gaze follows the line of the other man's elbow, the book under the hand. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2021-05-06 02:44 am (UTC)[ each word is often curt and bitten-off around the other man, like an animal defensively snapping its teeth. it's like he's living each day in a cage with a tiger, its glinting eyes watching him like one might eye a particularly savoury meal, and so bucky never fully relaxes here.
it's something in the way zemo sizes him up, with the full awareness that zemo knows, he knows the unvarnished reality of what the soldier is and what he's done and can do. zemo had held those cards in his hands, after all; had pulled the levers and pressed the right buttons to manipulate him. just because that particular lever didn't work anymore doesn't mean he'll never find another way. so in the meantime bucky's just riding the crest of that wave, balancing on the edge of it, letting it carry him as far forward down their mutual mission as he can before he trips and drowns.
and he's on a tight leash in the meantime. wearing clothes tailored to zemo's specifications, eating food he's paid for, sleeping in his apartments. (had bucky's current bedroom been zemo's, once upon a time? an uncomfortable idea. he doesn't like to think about it.)
they make for a strangely domestic picture tonight, though, and the awareness of it prickles along the edge of his skin. zemo and his ridiculous silken dressing robes, while the american is just wearing pyjama pants and a worn t-shirt, the metal arm visible. vulnerable, bucky thinks, but he'll wield that nonchalance as if it can banish that shifting unease of looking so pared-down and human around each other. so, making himself at home, he goes straight for the cabinets and rattles around in them until he finds a bottle of eye-wateringly expensive scotch. pours himself a glass; hesitates with his fingers on the rim of a second glass, considers politely offering zemo his own alcohol to drink, but then just takes a swig of it himself instead. leans back against the kitchen counter and watches the other man.
much as bucky hates to admit it, he does have a point. the winter soldier slept through most of his confinement. ]
Okay. I'll bite. So how did you kill time in the Raft?
[ his gaze follows the line of the other man's elbow, the book under the hand. ]
Reading? Listening to, what, opera?