The Soldier fails to notice the bucket until the Captain puts it down. More accurately, it might be called a tub but everything looks small in the Captain's unforgiving hands. It sloshes when he places it on the floor, slopping water that hurries toward the Soldier's outstretched arm. Traces the metal with a gentleness that should horrify.
The bucket is very full. The Captain carried like it was nothing.
Traitorous neurons flash the message to struggle--not to get away from the Captain, but from the water--but the Soldier mostly remains still. Looking up at the Captain, he struggles to remember the details of the orders. But when the Captain bends, when his beautiful face comes closer, every order falls away but the truest one.
Be good for the Captain. It supersedes everything, even the barest layers of his programming. The Soldier goes limp when the Captain seizes him by the hair and shoulders. The Captain holds the Soldier just above the surface to stare at a shuddering reflection. Somewhere behind the reflection's shoulder, the Captain waits.
The Captain presses him under the surface of the water and he tries, truly tries, not to struggle. Anything the Captain does is for the good of HYDRA.
If he drowned the Asset, there would be a reason. Despite that knowledge, despite the cringing desire to be good, there are confusing signals: twitching muscles, approaching panic. And the other, deep-laid imperatives: be useful to HYDRA, remain functional unless expressly ordered otherwise.
The Soldier wants so much to be good.
Despite this, he starts to struggle and the Captain pulls him up. He waits for the Soldier to blink away the confusion, catch his unimpressed expression. The captain raps him on the brow--Smarten up, soldier--and pushes him under again.
The Soldier manages to keep still longer this time, but panic blooms like it always does and when the Captain pulls him up again, the Soldier vomits water and cum and stomach acid.
Perhaps that was the point of the exercise: sometimes buckets and water are for cleaning. Except the Captain puts him under again and his hands are unyielding, even to panic. The Soldier starts to claw at the tub, clutching hard enough it deforms the shape, that his fingers--metal and otherwise--scrabble at the floor.
But the Captain just waits.
The Soldier is dimly aware of receding pressure, of the shock of air and wretched, filling lungs. But he is being brought up, away from the misery of the water up to the Captain's chest and held close.
The Captain carries him like that all the way back to their quarters.
Re: Favor 2/?
The bucket is very full. The Captain carried like it was nothing.
Traitorous neurons flash the message to struggle--not to get away from the Captain, but from the water--but the Soldier mostly remains still. Looking up at the Captain, he struggles to remember the details of the orders. But when the Captain bends, when his beautiful face comes closer, every order falls away but the truest one.
Be good for the Captain. It supersedes everything, even the barest layers of his programming. The Soldier goes limp when the Captain seizes him by the hair and shoulders. The Captain holds the Soldier just above the surface to stare at a shuddering reflection. Somewhere behind the reflection's shoulder, the Captain waits.
The Captain presses him under the surface of the water and he tries, truly tries, not to struggle. Anything the Captain does is for the good of HYDRA.
If he drowned the Asset, there would be a reason. Despite that knowledge, despite the cringing desire to be good, there are confusing signals: twitching muscles, approaching panic. And the other, deep-laid imperatives: be useful to HYDRA, remain functional unless expressly ordered otherwise.
The Soldier wants so much to be good.
Despite this, he starts to struggle and the Captain pulls him up. He waits for the Soldier to blink away the confusion, catch his unimpressed expression. The captain raps him on the brow--Smarten up, soldier--and pushes him under again.
The Soldier manages to keep still longer this time, but panic blooms like it always does and when the Captain pulls him up again, the Soldier vomits water and cum and stomach acid.
Perhaps that was the point of the exercise: sometimes buckets and water are for cleaning. Except the Captain puts him under again and his hands are unyielding, even to panic. The Soldier starts to claw at the tub, clutching hard enough it deforms the shape, that his fingers--metal and otherwise--scrabble at the floor.
But the Captain just waits.
The Soldier is dimly aware of receding pressure, of the shock of air and wretched, filling lungs. But he is being brought up, away from the misery of the water up to the Captain's chest and held close.
The Captain carries him like that all the way back to their quarters.