[ He's fought much harder and for much longer than this kid's been alive, he thinks -- he's what, twenty? Younger? A lesser man would have retorted, but Bucky keeps a tight lid on his reaction to the assumption that he'd simply rolled over and taken what had been dealt out. As if he'd had his own agency and will left to him to choose either way; as if he'd had enough of himself left when they carved everything out and put something else in its place. Something that rages under his skin, a monster that demands its due, living and breathing inside of him and biding its time.
He says nothing; arguing about something as petty as this seems like a waste of time, and he stares back at him, flat and fearless; one monster to another. ] No, you're not.
[ What they copied, what they wanted to bleed out was a man with blond hair and blue, blue eyes, fierce and loyal with the heart of a lion -- the one person who mattered the most. Bucky was the prototype of another serum, the one thing they'd based all the others on. The first Winter Soldier, and certainly not the last. They had all been stronger, faster; but they did not take to the serum as well as Bucky did -- he's not sure which of them got off easier, in this case. He fishes for another towel, handing it over to the smaller man all the same. He must be extraordinarily damaged to be in this state and to carry this kind of anger, and he wonders what he fights against, what it is that's molded him to this.
no subject
He says nothing; arguing about something as petty as this seems like a waste of time, and he stares back at him, flat and fearless; one monster to another. ] No, you're not.
[ What they copied, what they wanted to bleed out was a man with blond hair and blue, blue eyes, fierce and loyal with the heart of a lion -- the one person who mattered the most. Bucky was the prototype of another serum, the one thing they'd based all the others on. The first Winter Soldier, and certainly not the last. They had all been stronger, faster; but they did not take to the serum as well as Bucky did -- he's not sure which of them got off easier, in this case. He fishes for another towel, handing it over to the smaller man all the same. He must be extraordinarily damaged to be in this state and to carry this kind of anger, and he wonders what he fights against, what it is that's molded him to this.
What would make him want to die? ]
What's your name?