[ 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
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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. ]