Kulich is older know, his light blond hair mostly silver, deep lines on his face. He's eating one of the strawberries, and for a second Bucky thinks, stupidly, that there won't be enough for the pie, before Kulich yanks his head back by his hair.
"Привет, солдат", he says, his voice as raspy as Bucky remembers. His face is so close that Bucky's vision starts to blur, and he can smell alcohol beneath the strawberry. "Glad to have you with us". His accent in English is still as thick as it was in 1994, when Bucky was handed over to the Americans (to Alexander Pierce). "Nice little place you've got here. Or, should I say, you and your boyfriend?"
The other men laugh. There are four around them, but Bucky can hear three others moving in the kitchen, opening the cabinets. Something breaks. Kulich continues. "It's pathetic. HYDRA's fist playing house with Captain America."
"My 8th grade history teacher said there were 'grounds for a homoerotic interpretation’ of their relationship", the STRIKE team agent says. "They've been fucking since the war."
"Did you let the other soldiers fuck you?" another agent, older, Russian too, says. "Did they take turns like we're going to do? I bet they used that pretty mouth..." He tries to push his thumb inside Bucky's mouth and Bucky bites it. It earns him a punch to the face. "He needs to respect his superiors."
Kulich smiles at Bucky before he begins. "желание. ржaвый."
With each word, Bucky feels a shiver down his spine. He knows it won't work, can't work. T'Challa's scientists removed the triggers from his brain and he burned the Red Book, but he still can't help thinking they might make him HYDRA's again. He tries to fight it, struggles against the bonds (but, just for a second, thinks it might be a relief to get away from himself now, to escape from this, if only for a while). By the time Kulich gets to грузовой вагон, Bucky is sweating and breathing hard, but his mind is still his own.
Kulich realizes this, disappointed. "Pity. Still, it would be better for you to comply, солдат. I'm going to do what I want whether you do or not. "
He lets go of Bucky to walk to the bookshelf. Bucky has arranged the books, by subject and by author. Kulich pulls them one by one, lets them fall to the floor as he takes notice of the covers. "Art, philosophy, engineering... To think there was a time you couldn't wipe your own ass if we didn't say so."
He liked to talk. Bucky can remember that. He liked to tease him, call him a блядь and list all the things he would like to do to the солдат, if only Karpov didn't insist in being civil to it (at least as civil as HYDRA could be to its attack dog). Bucky can only hope he doesn't intend to follow through with all of it.
Kulich’s foot comes up against Bucky's book bag, thrown away as Bucky defended himself from the agents. He picks it up and rummages through it, pulling out Bucky's pencil case, his books, and finally his notebook.
"You are studying difficult things, солдат", he says, dropping everything else on the floor and opening the notebook. "You think you're smart? You think you can go to university?"
"They only accepted him out of pity", an agent coming out of the kitchen says. He is drinking the orange juice that was on the top shelf of the fridge. "Because he's a war hero."
His voice is mocking, and despite everything, Bucky feels his cheeks flush. It is true the university accepted him even though he finished school almost a hundred years ago, but he had an interview with the director of the Engineering Department to make sure he could actually keep up with the classes. He started slow and he's actually good. Of course, saying this would only make them laugh harder.
Kulich tears away a page from the notebook, and then another, and another, like a child plucking the wings off bugs. Bucky's notes scatter through the floor, and even though it's silly, he feels an almost physical pain. He is not the best student in his class, but he's the best note taker. He prides himself in his notebooks, written in careful handwriting, color coded, and he forces himself not to slip into another language because his classmates usually borrow them when they miss class. His right wrist is getting raw from rubbing against the handcuffs and the metal plates on his left arm, but the restraints won’t budge.
“Hey, boss, the time”, says the agent closer to Bucky’s head, nodding at the clock on the wall. It’s three-thirty. These fuckers are organized, they know about his schedule. They know Steve is only coming home after six. Which means they need to save time for… the next part.
“Fine, then”, Kulich sighs, and drops Bucky’s notebook. “No more foreplay.”
Re: A house is not a home [1/4(?)]
"Привет, солдат", he says, his voice as raspy as Bucky remembers. His face is so close that Bucky's vision starts to blur, and he can smell alcohol beneath the strawberry. "Glad to have you with us". His accent in English is still as thick as it was in 1994, when Bucky was handed over to the Americans (to Alexander Pierce). "Nice little place you've got here. Or, should I say, you and your boyfriend?"
The other men laugh. There are four around them, but Bucky can hear three others moving in the kitchen, opening the cabinets. Something breaks. Kulich continues. "It's pathetic. HYDRA's fist playing house with Captain America."
"My 8th grade history teacher said there were 'grounds for a homoerotic interpretation’ of their relationship", the STRIKE team agent says. "They've been fucking since the war."
"Did you let the other soldiers fuck you?" another agent, older, Russian too, says. "Did they take turns like we're going to do? I bet they used that pretty mouth..." He tries to push his thumb inside Bucky's mouth and Bucky bites it. It earns him a punch to the face. "He needs to respect his superiors."
Kulich smiles at Bucky before he begins. "желание. ржaвый."
With each word, Bucky feels a shiver down his spine. He knows it won't work, can't work. T'Challa's scientists removed the triggers from his brain and he burned the Red Book, but he still can't help thinking they might make him HYDRA's again. He tries to fight it, struggles against the bonds (but, just for a second, thinks it might be a relief to get away from himself now, to escape from this, if only for a while). By the time Kulich gets to грузовой вагон, Bucky is sweating and breathing hard, but his mind is still his own.
Kulich realizes this, disappointed. "Pity. Still, it would be better for you to comply, солдат. I'm going to do what I want whether you do or not. "
He lets go of Bucky to walk to the bookshelf. Bucky has arranged the books, by subject and by author. Kulich pulls them one by one, lets them fall to the floor as he takes notice of the covers. "Art, philosophy, engineering... To think there was a time you couldn't wipe your own ass if we didn't say so."
He liked to talk. Bucky can remember that. He liked to tease him, call him a блядь and list all the things he would like to do to the солдат, if only Karpov didn't insist in being civil to it (at least as civil as HYDRA could be to its attack dog). Bucky can only hope he doesn't intend to follow through with all of it.
Kulich’s foot comes up against Bucky's book bag, thrown away as Bucky defended himself from the agents. He picks it up and rummages through it, pulling out Bucky's pencil case, his books, and finally his notebook.
"You are studying difficult things, солдат", he says, dropping everything else on the floor and opening the notebook. "You think you're smart? You think you can go to university?"
"They only accepted him out of pity", an agent coming out of the kitchen says. He is drinking the orange juice that was on the top shelf of the fridge. "Because he's a war hero."
His voice is mocking, and despite everything, Bucky feels his cheeks flush. It is true the university accepted him even though he finished school almost a hundred years ago, but he had an interview with the director of the Engineering Department to make sure he could actually keep up with the classes. He started slow and he's actually good. Of course, saying this would only make them laugh harder.
Kulich tears away a page from the notebook, and then another, and another, like a child plucking the wings off bugs. Bucky's notes scatter through the floor, and even though it's silly, he feels an almost physical pain. He is not the best student in his class, but he's the best note taker. He prides himself in his notebooks, written in careful handwriting, color coded, and he forces himself not to slip into another language because his classmates usually borrow them when they miss class. His right wrist is getting raw from rubbing against the handcuffs and the metal plates on his left arm, but the restraints won’t budge.
“Hey, boss, the time”, says the agent closer to Bucky’s head, nodding at the clock on the wall. It’s three-thirty. These fuckers are organized, they know about his schedule. They know Steve is only coming home after six. Which means they need to save time for… the next part.
“Fine, then”, Kulich sighs, and drops Bucky’s notebook. “No more foreplay.”