(He breeds loyalty too easily, he makes it hard for people to keep their priorities straight. He was Captain America, their superiors say with shrugs, that is what he did for years. Part of it is inherent.)]
But it's interesting you say so.
[He watches the other man's face settle into a frown, and he tries a smile of his own.]
Come on, Yashenka. When you scowl you make it look like the entire world is disappointing you by refusing to light itself on fire.
[Yashenka, how familiar, how casual. But this man makes him feel casual.]
[He holds out against it, but there is a familiarity (and overfamiliarity given what they should be together) in that light test of the Captain's will. And there can't be so much wrong with it. If the man couldn't take the slightest of pushes he'd never be woken from the frost.]
That's when I seem as though I'm watching the world burn?
[He looks away for a moment, to formulate words. He does not mind the push, and he does not mind the conversation. It's been a long time since he's had one even half as familiar, half as casual. It's not bad.]
No, when you smile, I think that perhaps you've discovered that there is something in the world worth saving from that fire, and you've decided to spare it after all.
You're a romantic, comrade. [There's a pause before the Soldier says so, a moment's appraisal of the sentiment (and it is sentimental, what he says). His eyebrows lift, amused.
He still doesn't smile.]
That is strange.
[The street they walk is tree-lined and pretty, the leaves just beginning to fall. Lights glow behind closed curtains. This is a place where the people have weath, and luxury, and with these things they feel safe. Expensive cars fill the driveways and line the pavement.
He reaches out, as they walk. Just one hand, a scrape of metal, and the lock comes away.]
[Expensive things, expensive cars, it all makes him bristle a bit as the ostentation of it. He feels awkward around expensive things, because he does not believe them to be inherently better than the things that he has for free, provided for him by the state.
He watches. The metal hand is holding a lock now, and he reaches for it with his own gloved one.]
[They did him, once. Too much time and he took advantage of the fact. He took advantage of more. Since then the wipes have been harsher, left him with fewer fragments of each life before (he remembers red hair, red lips, both dragging across his skin, but only sometimes).
And there is not much given to him in the way of time.
There again, reading has never been what he's used it for. What use are stories.
He's holding the door open now, raising his eyes to the Captain as to who drives. It's an expensive car and he at least has some appreciation of that. It will be a shame to leave it in a ditch.]
How should I know what is too much? They give me time, I read books.
[He slips into the drivers seat. If someone is going to kill them, it should be the one in charge. But he won't kill them.
(They don't give him too much time. Less time, almost, than anyone else. But what time he does have, they don't allow him to spend with others, and so it amounts to time alone).]
[He walks to the other side, letting himself in as easily as before. Settles into the passenger seat with an appreciation for its comforts, just as willingly as he forgoes such things when missions call for it.]
Romances.
[There, something low and teasing under the word.
He reels off the address that they need to reach, the point at which they should abandon the car (just abandon it, flames draw too much attention. They'll leave nothing behind.]
[That's almost a dirty word for them. The Captain handles the car - it's an old skill, familiar and fast - and begins to drive, smoothly. He has a map in his head, they'll get there with little delay.]
All kinds of things. Romances. War stories. Tales of the Revolution. Poetry, if you'll believe it.
[He smiles when the Captain isn't looking, turning his head to the open window. Perhaps it's just the feel of the wind rushing past, over and through him, blowing off the chill.]
[The car drives so smoothly, with almost no noise, compared to the cars they usually are given to burn back home. Maybe there is something to this Capitalism. Better cars.]
Romantic ideals are a good way to find yourself in Siberia. [He tips his head back, the motion of it less still than usual, a test.]
Ears everywhere.
[They call it paranoia, in England. The Russian suspicion of their neighbours, their children. Eyes everywhere. Ears. In America something they call McCarthyism is taking off and it seems that the land of the free has taken lessons at the USSR's knee. Trust no one.]
What's left to win?
[He'll follow commands without question. What else of him is there to be won.]
[Siberia is better than a full wipe, he thinks sometimes, but he would never say, so he shrugs and finally nods in agreement. Yes. Romantic ideals are a way to find oneself on a long train ride. There is no gulag that could hold either of them for long, though.]
I'm only your Captain.
[Meaning the Winter Soldier's loyalty is only his insomuch as it doesn't contradict superior orders.]
[The only is unnecessary. This man is his Captain and that is all, and that is everything (save in that saferoom in his mind, the small bricked up part that's supposed to be ready to override this loyalty, to bring him down).]
I wouldn't follow someone who still needed to win me.
[No matter the programming. He's killed inefficient subordinates on the training grounds rather than wait to see them die in combat. It earns him reprimands but it makes the others work harder to win his respect.]
[He breathes out a sigh and this time when he tips his head to one side it's to look across at the Captain. To watch him watch the road. He lets his eyes roll and then - if not quite the look of the romantic saviour the Captain had described, it is at least a smile. Dry amusement.]
With this persistence I'm surprised they don't leave you to run interrogation.
[Interrogation is the nice word for what goes on.]
They're not concerned with anyone smiling in interrogation.
[He has run an interrogation before, and finally information was handed over after broken fingers and three cracked ribs, but he doesn't remember it. They wiped it, because after he was shaking, he couldn't breathe, something that was in his head was clamoring at the injustice, at the bullying.]
[The Soldier has few such problems. He dislikes some orders, but carries them out and after he knows there will be nothing to haunt him. Much more broken than fingers. Much more rent apart than can be put back together.
He's dogged that way. Sometimes even pushes too hard. Very occasionally, if he presses for one, a memory surfaces and he turns it over in his mind, the bloodstains imposing themselves over pristine silver.]
There must be other methods.
[And as he says it, he doesn't think it would be so bad.]
[He isn't asking just to ask - he wants to know. They are different men, for all that they have been treated so similarly.
And for all the congeniality, for all the smiling, for all the romance, the Soldier will find that his Captain is brutally effective, and that the key to him is brutal. There is no subtlety, perhaps, but there is elegance to his violence.
He stops the car - they are almost there, they'll walk the short rest of the way.]
[He looks over, and there's a slight expression on his face, one that is almost curious as to why his decisions are being questioned. Clearly this is the actual mission, now, as opposed to cheerful banter in the car.]
[Better than some of the kennels he's slept in. Better than a lot of nights.]
Ambassadorial housing. [He looks to the Captain.] Not ours, but on loan.
[Some agreement with a minor european state, an exchange of subterfuge for protection, and Russia's agents find themselves taken under a different wing. The building will be empty tonight: it's residents keep plusher places with embezzeled funds.
He looks to the tree line from where he's hunched, and decides that this is out of the way enough. They can risk the car another day.
It's not his decision, in the end, but he likes to know the reasoning.]
[He gives a nod, and up the steps he goes, away from the car, to open the door. It is a nice house. He looks the inside of it over, just from the doorway.]
Get comfortable. I'll handle the car.
[He's not driving it into a ditch with the other man in it. He's not sure why. He just doesn't feel right doing it.]
[He straightens, looks at the Captain and past him to the house. It's a direct order but, like the smiling, not one on which the mission rests. Two steps and he turns, arms folded, to watch.]
[He doesn't seem to take this one quite as easily as the previous mostly-ignored order - he just looks at him, and there's a set to his face that says he'll handle the car, he'll get it a good distance and find a nice secure ditch.
The seriousness on the Captain's face isn't one that is easily ignored.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[For whatever reason.
(He breeds loyalty too easily, he makes it hard for people to keep their priorities straight. He was Captain America, their superiors say with shrugs, that is what he did for years. Part of it is inherent.)]
But it's interesting you say so.
[He watches the other man's face settle into a frown, and he tries a smile of his own.]
Come on, Yashenka. When you scowl you make it look like the entire world is disappointing you by refusing to light itself on fire.
[Yashenka, how familiar, how casual. But this man makes him feel casual.]
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[He holds out against it, but there is a familiarity (and overfamiliarity given what they should be together) in that light test of the Captain's will. And there can't be so much wrong with it. If the man couldn't take the slightest of pushes he'd never be woken from the frost.]
That's when I seem as though I'm watching the world burn?
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[He looks away for a moment, to formulate words. He does not mind the push, and he does not mind the conversation. It's been a long time since he's had one even half as familiar, half as casual. It's not bad.]
No, when you smile, I think that perhaps you've discovered that there is something in the world worth saving from that fire, and you've decided to spare it after all.
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He still doesn't smile.]
That is strange.
[The street they walk is tree-lined and pretty, the leaves just beginning to fall. Lights glow behind closed curtains. This is a place where the people have weath, and luxury, and with these things they feel safe. Expensive cars fill the driveways and line the pavement.
He reaches out, as they walk. Just one hand, a scrape of metal, and the lock comes away.]
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[Expensive things, expensive cars, it all makes him bristle a bit as the ostentation of it. He feels awkward around expensive things, because he does not believe them to be inherently better than the things that he has for free, provided for him by the state.
He watches. The metal hand is holding a lock now, and he reaches for it with his own gloved one.]
I think I read too much.
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[They did him, once. Too much time and he took advantage of the fact. He took advantage of more. Since then the wipes have been harsher, left him with fewer fragments of each life before (he remembers red hair, red lips, both dragging across his skin, but only sometimes).
And there is not much given to him in the way of time.
There again, reading has never been what he's used it for. What use are stories.
He's holding the door open now, raising his eyes to the Captain as to who drives. It's an expensive car and he at least has some appreciation of that. It will be a shame to leave it in a ditch.]
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[He slips into the drivers seat. If someone is going to kill them, it should be the one in charge. But he won't kill them.
(They don't give him too much time. Less time, almost, than anyone else. But what time he does have, they don't allow him to spend with others, and so it amounts to time alone).]
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Romances.
[There, something low and teasing under the word.
He reels off the address that they need to reach, the point at which they should abandon the car (just abandon it, flames draw too much attention. They'll leave nothing behind.]
And what do you do with what you read?
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[That's almost a dirty word for them. The Captain handles the car - it's an old skill, familiar and fast - and begins to drive, smoothly. He has a map in his head, they'll get there with little delay.]
All kinds of things. Romances. War stories. Tales of the Revolution. Poetry, if you'll believe it.
[He shakes his head.]
Soviet poetry lacks something.
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No, what do you do with your romantic ideals.
[What use do you put this romance to.]
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[The car drives so smoothly, with almost no noise, compared to the cars they usually are given to burn back home. Maybe there is something to this Capitalism. Better cars.]
Am I winning you over?
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Ears everywhere.
[They call it paranoia, in England. The Russian suspicion of their neighbours, their children. Eyes everywhere. Ears. In America something they call McCarthyism is taking off and it seems that the land of the free has taken lessons at the USSR's knee. Trust no one.]
What's left to win?
[He'll follow commands without question. What else of him is there to be won.]
I don't want your poems.
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[Siberia is better than a full wipe, he thinks sometimes, but he would never say, so he shrugs and finally nods in agreement. Yes. Romantic ideals are a way to find oneself on a long train ride. There is no gulag that could hold either of them for long, though.]
I'm only your Captain.
[Meaning the Winter Soldier's loyalty is only his insomuch as it doesn't contradict superior orders.]
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[The only is unnecessary. This man is his Captain and that is all, and that is everything (save in that saferoom in his mind, the small bricked up part that's supposed to be ready to override this loyalty, to bring him down).]
I wouldn't follow someone who still needed to win me.
[No matter the programming. He's killed inefficient subordinates on the training grounds rather than wait to see them die in combat. It earns him reprimands but it makes the others work harder to win his respect.]
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Then you should smile, comrade, to be so certain.
[Yes, right back to that.]
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With this persistence I'm surprised they don't leave you to run interrogation.
[Interrogation is the nice word for what goes on.]
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They're not concerned with anyone smiling in interrogation.
[He has run an interrogation before, and finally information was handed over after broken fingers and three cracked ribs, but he doesn't remember it. They wiped it, because after he was shaking, he couldn't breathe, something that was in his head was clamoring at the injustice, at the bullying.]
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He's dogged that way. Sometimes even pushes too hard. Very occasionally, if he presses for one, a memory surfaces and he turns it over in his mind, the bloodstains imposing themselves over pristine silver.]
There must be other methods.
[And as he says it, he doesn't think it would be so bad.]
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[He isn't asking just to ask - he wants to know. They are different men, for all that they have been treated so similarly.
And for all the congeniality, for all the smiling, for all the romance, the Soldier will find that his Captain is brutally effective, and that the key to him is brutal. There is no subtlety, perhaps, but there is elegance to his violence.
He stops the car - they are almost there, they'll walk the short rest of the way.]
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[Looking up when the car stops, the Soldier nods his approval and waits for the Captain to step out before joining him on that side of the car.]
You could have run it into the ditch.
[But they can achieve the same effect without taking the knock. He crouches beside the bonnet.]
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[He looks over, and there's a slight expression on his face, one that is almost curious as to why his decisions are being questioned. Clearly this is the actual mission, now, as opposed to cheerful banter in the car.]
It's a nice house.
[Just an observation.]
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Ambassadorial housing. [He looks to the Captain.] Not ours, but on loan.
[Some agreement with a minor european state, an exchange of subterfuge for protection, and Russia's agents find themselves taken under a different wing. The building will be empty tonight: it's residents keep plusher places with embezzeled funds.
He looks to the tree line from where he's hunched, and decides that this is out of the way enough. They can risk the car another day.
It's not his decision, in the end, but he likes to know the reasoning.]
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Get comfortable. I'll handle the car.
[He's not driving it into a ditch with the other man in it. He's not sure why. He just doesn't feel right doing it.]
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I'm comfortable.
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The seriousness on the Captain's face isn't one that is easily ignored.]
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