[ when he'd first set off on this self-imposed mission to make things better, to make amends, he never thought he'd be doing it beside baron helmut zemo.
but zemo's resources are there. the knowledge and experience is there, and bucky's accustomed to making use of an efficient weapon when it's in front of him. sam had headed back stateside to tie up the last of their loose ends with the flagsmashers, and when he'd left, his brow had been crinkled in concern with a wary, are you sure, man? and bucky had only scoffed in return. i can handle some rich guy in a fur coat.
because they've still got work to do, barnes and zemo, and that work never ends: cut off one head, two more shall take its place. trying to eradicate HYDRA is like tearing out a persistent weed that just keeps biding its time and growing back to overrun the garden, and the garden is europe. they're forming a wary kind of alliance. there's a job that needs doing, and maybe bucky can't be picky about choosing his allies. that clear-cut searing black-and-white morality of the forties has been gone for a while now, after all, buried somewhere in ambiguities and shades of grey and blood on his own hands.
so their time together stretches out, as they're holed up in yet another pied-à-terre, another one of the baron's countless luxurious apartments scattered across the continent. bucky's always a restless sleeper, and this plump mattress is a far cry from a hardwood floor in a lower east side apartment. the rooms are dusty, in need of airing out and clearly haven't been used in the better part of a decade, but the unused apartment is still huge. his whole family, parents and four kids and all, could've lived here and had room to spare. it's infuriating.
he's lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and feeling the long minutes tick away. the mattress is too soft. he can't sleep. he wonders if he should just curl up on the carpeted floor, and maybe that'll help.
but finally, bucky just heaves a frustrated sigh and swings himself out of the bed, and goes padding out towards the kitchen in defeat. they'd stocked up on supplies, so he figures he can either find some liquor or some kind of overcomplicated flowering tea which zemo insists is, quote, both good for the digestion and for restfulness, unquote. he stalks out, footsteps creaking on the unfamiliar floorboards, but then goes still once he sees a pool of light in the main room. for a fleeting second, he suddenly pictures the other man sitting in an armchair in the darkness, petting a white cat.
this is so fucking stupid.
when bucky walks further out into the room, he's rearranged his body language; still strung taut with tension, his jaw set, but he's trying to look aggressively nonchalant. (it doesn't really work.) it looks like zemo's just doing some late-night reading, but bucky doesn't realise yet exactly what. ]
Still up? No butler around to fluff your pillows for you?
helmut zemo has learned this the hard way. as the head of EKO scorpion, if he took his men deep into sovereign territory, wiped out one mastermind at the head of a terrorist organization, it would not have the intended effect of dismantling said organization. instead, it may throw the group into a scramble, and in a power vaccum, that power does not stay untouched for long. someone fills the void as soon as it's available. power shifts, it morphs.
james barnes knows this better than anyone. while zemo does not command the man like one of his squadmates, james is still a dutiful soldier. deadly. efficient. knowledgable. together, they make a more than formidable team.
when zemo stops to think of it too long, he finds himself thrilled with their current predicament: he and james together, alone with nothing but scraps of intel and cash and fine restaurant meals hand delivered to their door. it settles on zemo like the weight of an aged scotch, the looseness of alcohol coursing through his system. it strikes him sometimes when he wakes to find james perched on a leather sofa, when zemo arranges for clothing purchases, james' measurements deduced only through the power of astute observation.
(zemo is always right about the fit, even without confirmation.)
knowing james is part of zemo's own, personal work. part and parcel to this arrangement of stamping out the remnants of HYDRA. it means he's always making mental notes, looking for vulnerabilities and openings. it also means he can't help himself when he pretends to slip too closely to james as they pass each other in the attached kitchen one day, brushing up against james' body in a way that makes the man bristle, enough that he doesn't notice that zemo's other hand has successfully lifted a small notebook from his back pocket.
zemo knows better than to read it right away. so he waits, and when sleep does not come for him like it ought to - such a change of scenery, even for the better, doesn't help settle the fight response in zemo's body - he rises up out of bed, gathers a robe, and settles himself at the head of the dining room table. it was his favorite place as a child, and that hasn't changed nearly thirty years later.
when james walks in to join him, zemo makes very sure he does not meet the man's eyes for a moment, too engrossed in the pages of the notebook to deign james worthy of his immediate attention. even though james is more than worthy, perhaps the only person he's met worthy of his deepening fixation.
he does, at least, offer james a humorless smile that fades quickly. ]
As someone who was not conscious through his imprisonment, you would not know that there's not much sleep to be had in prison. [ he flips a page and settles the book down under one primly folded hand, trapping it against the table. not enough to hide the item, but enough to pique curiosity. ] There is so much noise. But here... there is nothing but quiet. It's a disconcerting notion to know that I've become accustomed to chaos. As you no doubt surely are.
[ james is awake, looking like he doesn't sleep for more than a few hours in general. and the hours he does get do not a thing for the man's appearance and mood. ]
[ 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. ]
[ james' brusqueness draws out a wry smile. even in this state, unarmed and clothed in mulberry silk, zemo keeps james alert and on edge. through no fault of his own, even - zemo does his level best to provide everything james might want or need, and keeps as much distance as he thinks is required.
mostly, anyway. sometimes one has to nearly bump right into the man and pick his pocket just to satiate his curiosity. but zemo keeps those instances to a bare minimum.
he does, however, watch james closely any chance he gets. like right now, watching james rifle through the cabinets, passing by any and all food to go right for the alcohol. not surprising - zemo himself exhibits a similar predilection - but there's a certain kind of spite and enjoyment in james as he pulls down the decanter from the cupboard and pour himself a sizable glass. it's what zemo imagines, anyway, staring at james' back and shoulders.
relaxing himself, zemo leans back in his seat, hand still clasped over the notebook with another smile. ]
Books we are usually allowed, unless we misbehave. [ there's a pause and a glint in his eye as he says it before continuing. ] Music was more of a special privilege. There is no natural light at the Raft, you know. It's all artificial. Lights are on almost every hour. There is no library, no yard where we get to walk around and stretch our legs. Most of my time was spent keeping myself centered rather than entertained.
[ his eyes have wandered, but zemo doesn't dare to let his mind spend too much time back in that place. compared to solitary in germany, the raft is a place where men's souls go to die. or where their resolves strengthen.
his eyes land on the glass in james' hand for a long moment. ]
How much of that do you need to drink in order to feel its effects?
[ 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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
→ insomnia; you've got the devil on your shoulder.
Date: 2021-04-28 08:39 pm (UTC)but zemo's resources are there. the knowledge and experience is there, and bucky's accustomed to making use of an efficient weapon when it's in front of him. sam had headed back stateside to tie up the last of their loose ends with the flagsmashers, and when he'd left, his brow had been crinkled in concern with a wary, are you sure, man? and bucky had only scoffed in return. i can handle some rich guy in a fur coat.
because they've still got work to do, barnes and zemo, and that work never ends: cut off one head, two more shall take its place. trying to eradicate HYDRA is like tearing out a persistent weed that just keeps biding its time and growing back to overrun the garden, and the garden is europe. they're forming a wary kind of alliance. there's a job that needs doing, and maybe bucky can't be picky about choosing his allies. that clear-cut searing black-and-white morality of the forties has been gone for a while now, after all, buried somewhere in ambiguities and shades of grey and blood on his own hands.
so their time together stretches out, as they're holed up in yet another pied-à-terre, another one of the baron's countless luxurious apartments scattered across the continent. bucky's always a restless sleeper, and this plump mattress is a far cry from a hardwood floor in a lower east side apartment. the rooms are dusty, in need of airing out and clearly haven't been used in the better part of a decade, but the unused apartment is still huge. his whole family, parents and four kids and all, could've lived here and had room to spare. it's infuriating.
he's lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling and feeling the long minutes tick away. the mattress is too soft. he can't sleep. he wonders if he should just curl up on the carpeted floor, and maybe that'll help.
but finally, bucky just heaves a frustrated sigh and swings himself out of the bed, and goes padding out towards the kitchen in defeat. they'd stocked up on supplies, so he figures he can either find some liquor or some kind of overcomplicated flowering tea which zemo insists is, quote, both good for the digestion and for restfulness, unquote. he stalks out, footsteps creaking on the unfamiliar floorboards, but then goes still once he sees a pool of light in the main room. for a fleeting second, he suddenly pictures the other man sitting in an armchair in the darkness, petting a white cat.
this is so fucking stupid.
when bucky walks further out into the room, he's rearranged his body language; still strung taut with tension, his jaw set, but he's trying to look aggressively nonchalant. (it doesn't really work.) it looks like zemo's just doing some late-night reading, but bucky doesn't realise yet exactly what. ]
Still up? No butler around to fluff your pillows for you?
no subject
Date: 2021-04-30 08:10 pm (UTC)helmut zemo has learned this the hard way. as the head of EKO scorpion, if he took his men deep into sovereign territory, wiped out one mastermind at the head of a terrorist organization, it would not have the intended effect of dismantling said organization. instead, it may throw the group into a scramble, and in a power vaccum, that power does not stay untouched for long. someone fills the void as soon as it's available. power shifts, it morphs.
james barnes knows this better than anyone. while zemo does not command the man like one of his squadmates, james is still a dutiful soldier. deadly. efficient. knowledgable. together, they make a more than formidable team.
when zemo stops to think of it too long, he finds himself thrilled with their current predicament: he and james together, alone with nothing but scraps of intel and cash and fine restaurant meals hand delivered to their door. it settles on zemo like the weight of an aged scotch, the looseness of alcohol coursing through his system. it strikes him sometimes when he wakes to find james perched on a leather sofa, when zemo arranges for clothing purchases, james' measurements deduced only through the power of astute observation.
(zemo is always right about the fit, even without confirmation.)
knowing james is part of zemo's own, personal work. part and parcel to this arrangement of stamping out the remnants of HYDRA. it means he's always making mental notes, looking for vulnerabilities and openings. it also means he can't help himself when he pretends to slip too closely to james as they pass each other in the attached kitchen one day, brushing up against james' body in a way that makes the man bristle, enough that he doesn't notice that zemo's other hand has successfully lifted a small notebook from his back pocket.
zemo knows better than to read it right away. so he waits, and when sleep does not come for him like it ought to - such a change of scenery, even for the better, doesn't help settle the fight response in zemo's body - he rises up out of bed, gathers a robe, and settles himself at the head of the dining room table. it was his favorite place as a child, and that hasn't changed nearly thirty years later.
when james walks in to join him, zemo makes very sure he does not meet the man's eyes for a moment, too engrossed in the pages of the notebook to deign james worthy of his immediate attention. even though james is more than worthy, perhaps the only person he's met worthy of his deepening fixation.
he does, at least, offer james a humorless smile that fades quickly. ]
As someone who was not conscious through his imprisonment, you would not know that there's not much sleep to be had in prison. [ he flips a page and settles the book down under one primly folded hand, trapping it against the table. not enough to hide the item, but enough to pique curiosity. ] There is so much noise. But here... there is nothing but quiet. It's a disconcerting notion to know that I've become accustomed to chaos. As you no doubt surely are.
[ james is awake, looking like he doesn't sleep for more than a few hours in general. and the hours he does get do not a thing for the man's appearance and mood. ]
You don't sleep either, do you?
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?
no subject
Date: 2021-05-12 07:43 am (UTC)mostly, anyway. sometimes one has to nearly bump right into the man and pick his pocket just to satiate his curiosity. but zemo keeps those instances to a bare minimum.
he does, however, watch james closely any chance he gets. like right now, watching james rifle through the cabinets, passing by any and all food to go right for the alcohol. not surprising - zemo himself exhibits a similar predilection - but there's a certain kind of spite and enjoyment in james as he pulls down the decanter from the cupboard and pour himself a sizable glass. it's what zemo imagines, anyway, staring at james' back and shoulders.
relaxing himself, zemo leans back in his seat, hand still clasped over the notebook with another smile. ]
Books we are usually allowed, unless we misbehave. [ there's a pause and a glint in his eye as he says it before continuing. ] Music was more of a special privilege. There is no natural light at the Raft, you know. It's all artificial. Lights are on almost every hour. There is no library, no yard where we get to walk around and stretch our legs. Most of my time was spent keeping myself centered rather than entertained.
[ his eyes have wandered, but zemo doesn't dare to let his mind spend too much time back in that place. compared to solitary in germany, the raft is a place where men's souls go to die. or where their resolves strengthen.
his eyes land on the glass in james' hand for a long moment. ]
How much of that do you need to drink in order to feel its effects?
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. ]