[ it's almost like the more genteel and polite and toothless zemo seems, the more on edge bucky becomes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. they both have a habit of staring a little too long, too, watchful and anticipatory.
his mouth thins involuntarily as the other man describes the raft. he doesn't want to feel sympathy for this villain; this spider who sat at the heart of an intricate web and pulled the strings to fuck up his life, to frame him for murder, to use james barnes as the lynchpin to rip the avengers apart. he wants to sink his teeth into his anger and keep hold of it. but working with zemo to a purpose, living with him, has meant it's become increasingly easier to see the man behind the schemes, and it bothers him. grinds on his nerves like a pebble in his shoe.
and it's hard not to feel sympathy, for the raft. ]
Sounds shitty.
[ at the question, he glances down at the drink, as if noticing for the first time that the whiskey glass has been been poured almost to the rim. he takes a deep swig. ]
Haven't exactly done any scientific tests to find out, but Steve said his metabolism was about four times faster than normal. So, probably the same for me. Unless the Soviets' serum wasn't quite as good. Which is also possible.
[ it always feels like a bit of a risk, drawing attention to his powers. he can never decide if he's going to wake up one day with zemo holding a gun to his head, or how long his own usefulness is going to outlive the other man's distaste for supersoldiers. from where they're both sitting, maybe they're both making deals with the devil.
bucky drains the rest of his drink, pours another glass, and finally hesitates. he wants to be rude, always feels that bristling anger buzzing in his chest, his fingertips, but he goes ahead and finally pours that second glass. wanders over and plants it on the dining table in front of zemo, carelessly, where it sloshes a little on that beautiful hardwood surface. ]
Is this bottle the kind where I'd have a heart attack at the price tag?
[ wasting zemo's money is one of life's small pleasures. he's distracted by the conversation, hasn't noticed the notebook just yet, but now that he's closer, he probably will in a moment. ]
[ zemo nods, humming a little noise of agreement as james' kernel of knowledge slides neatly into the rest of what he knows about the serum and its intended - and unintended - effects on those subjected to it. ]
The serum was meant to keep its subject in peak physical form. A sped up metabolism ensures he never slows, that he never gains weight, that if a foreign agent introduced into the body, it will be processed and metabolized quicker than it's able to take effect. Your enhanced physical shape contributes to burning calories as well, I'm sure.
[ the information is interesting enough to zemo that he momentarily forgets himself and the booklet he had been reading in secret. with james refilling his glass and closing the distance, zemo will be forced to reveal his hand sooner than intended. the thought of evoking a reaction with james so close stirs some excitement, and zemo raps his fingers along the back of his wrist as he folds his one hand over the other.
if james means to annoy him by filling his glass overfull with alcohol and letting it spill, he will have to try harder. as it is, it's fascinating watching james push boundaries - zemo's tolerance, and his own. ]
It's no 40-year, but I will guess that that bottle runs around three to four hundred US dollars. Regardless of whether I judge by your means in 1943 or 2023, I suspect the answer to your question is yes.
[ there's beat and then zemo moves the notebook out from under his hands to flip it over. ]
But I want to ask you about other means, James.
[ he opens the well-worn book, spreading open the intended pages with both hands. his eyes are down at the pencil markings of all capitalized letters rather than on james' face, on the list on the right side and how it differs from the one on the left - the one with zemo's own name on it. ]
By what means do you intend to set right who you have wronged? Are they the same ones you will use to take revenge on those who have wronged you?
[ it's been a cordial enough conversation so far, albeit with both of them needling at each other — but unbeknownst to him, zemo had an ace up his sleeve the whole time. the other man opens the familiar notebook and bucky recognises it with a sudden sharp jolt: his own handwriting on those pages, some of the names struck out, most not. it feels like a punch to his gut, driving the air out of him. when did the baron even get a hold of it?
and he immediately wishes he didn't have that metabolism after all. that this expensive whiskey actually stood a chance of blurring his senses and dulling his mood and tamping down some of that viperous anger which suddenly rises in his throat like bile. but knowing his luck, it would just make him lose that ironclad self-control instead. he drains the rest of his drink in one lone indulgent swig, sets it down empty beside zemo's. walks closer and takes a swipe for the notebook, although zemo darts it out of his reach — like they're squabbling kids, playing keepaway on the playground. this is so stupid.
there's some clarion awareness lurking in the back of his mind, too. it's not even the fact that it's his own heart carved out of his chest and set down on those pages, but more importantly: this was steve's notebook. this lived in his pocket, was carried around with him for years, one of the last tokens and reminders of his best friend. some of the only remaining proof that he was here, and which hasn't already been locked up in a museum or stolen and given to an impostor. ]
No. And get your hands off that. Didn't the Raft teach you not to steal other people's shit?
[ james doesn't even address the question.
he's angry, measurable in that tightening of the muscle in his jaw, but he's not violent. not yet. ]
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branchandroot
I AM SO SLOW SOMETIMES i am so sorry
Date: 2021-05-27 11:50 pm (UTC)his mouth thins involuntarily as the other man describes the raft. he doesn't want to feel sympathy for this villain; this spider who sat at the heart of an intricate web and pulled the strings to fuck up his life, to frame him for murder, to use james barnes as the lynchpin to rip the avengers apart. he wants to sink his teeth into his anger and keep hold of it. but working with zemo to a purpose, living with him, has meant it's become increasingly easier to see the man behind the schemes, and it bothers him. grinds on his nerves like a pebble in his shoe.
and it's hard not to feel sympathy, for the raft. ]
Sounds shitty.
[ at the question, he glances down at the drink, as if noticing for the first time that the whiskey glass has been been poured almost to the rim. he takes a deep swig. ]
Haven't exactly done any scientific tests to find out, but Steve said his metabolism was about four times faster than normal. So, probably the same for me. Unless the Soviets' serum wasn't quite as good. Which is also possible.
[ it always feels like a bit of a risk, drawing attention to his powers. he can never decide if he's going to wake up one day with zemo holding a gun to his head, or how long his own usefulness is going to outlive the other man's distaste for supersoldiers. from where they're both sitting, maybe they're both making deals with the devil.
bucky drains the rest of his drink, pours another glass, and finally hesitates. he wants to be rude, always feels that bristling anger buzzing in his chest, his fingertips, but he goes ahead and finally pours that second glass. wanders over and plants it on the dining table in front of zemo, carelessly, where it sloshes a little on that beautiful hardwood surface. ]
Is this bottle the kind where I'd have a heart attack at the price tag?
[ wasting zemo's money is one of life's small pleasures. he's distracted by the conversation, hasn't noticed the notebook just yet, but now that he's closer, he probably will in a moment. ]
i feel this, so no worries! take your time!
Date: 2021-06-07 10:20 am (UTC)The serum was meant to keep its subject in peak physical form. A sped up metabolism ensures he never slows, that he never gains weight, that if a foreign agent introduced into the body, it will be processed and metabolized quicker than it's able to take effect. Your enhanced physical shape contributes to burning calories as well, I'm sure.
[ the information is interesting enough to zemo that he momentarily forgets himself and the booklet he had been reading in secret. with james refilling his glass and closing the distance, zemo will be forced to reveal his hand sooner than intended. the thought of evoking a reaction with james so close stirs some excitement, and zemo raps his fingers along the back of his wrist as he folds his one hand over the other.
if james means to annoy him by filling his glass overfull with alcohol and letting it spill, he will have to try harder. as it is, it's fascinating watching james push boundaries - zemo's tolerance, and his own. ]
It's no 40-year, but I will guess that that bottle runs around three to four hundred US dollars. Regardless of whether I judge by your means in 1943 or 2023, I suspect the answer to your question is yes.
[ there's beat and then zemo moves the notebook out from under his hands to flip it over. ]
But I want to ask you about other means, James.
[ he opens the well-worn book, spreading open the intended pages with both hands. his eyes are down at the pencil markings of all capitalized letters rather than on james' face, on the list on the right side and how it differs from the one on the left - the one with zemo's own name on it. ]
By what means do you intend to set right who you have wronged? Are they the same ones you will use to take revenge on those who have wronged you?
no subject
Date: 2021-07-11 11:36 pm (UTC)and he immediately wishes he didn't have that metabolism after all. that this expensive whiskey actually stood a chance of blurring his senses and dulling his mood and tamping down some of that viperous anger which suddenly rises in his throat like bile. but knowing his luck, it would just make him lose that ironclad self-control instead. he drains the rest of his drink in one lone indulgent swig, sets it down empty beside zemo's. walks closer and takes a swipe for the notebook, although zemo darts it out of his reach — like they're squabbling kids, playing keepaway on the playground. this is so stupid.
there's some clarion awareness lurking in the back of his mind, too. it's not even the fact that it's his own heart carved out of his chest and set down on those pages, but more importantly: this was steve's notebook. this lived in his pocket, was carried around with him for years, one of the last tokens and reminders of his best friend. some of the only remaining proof that he was here, and which hasn't already been locked up in a museum or stolen and given to an impostor. ]
No. And get your hands off that. Didn't the Raft teach you not to steal other people's shit?
[ james doesn't even address the question.
he's angry, measurable in that tightening of the muscle in his jaw, but he's not violent. not yet. ]