[ it was a narrow scrape, this last mission - a very near thing, and give or take an inch, a minute, the pair of them would probably be both mangled and dead. With an ease that indicates that this situation is not entirely unfamiliar, hands unshaken at the sight of vivid bruising, Rumlow peels back the other soldier's shirt; the equipment has been left virtually where it was when they crashed into the room - collapsing into sleep. He undoes the outershirt, the t-shirt beneath, lips thinning.
There's a practicality in Rumlow's movements that is not impersonal, but it holds no true warmth. He's professional, even in this.
His head tilts, he wets his lower lip thoughtfully. Broken ribs, possibly. The thigh he'll examine later - the arm he can do nothing about (Pierce will be thrilled).
After a moment's consideration, he stands from the bed, crosses the room (his steps are not unwavering; he's done something to his damned knee), and rifles through a cabinet beside the fridge: whiskey, some clear brand of spirits emblazoned with character, '酒', which he does not recognize.
Painkillers are in his pack; they're strong, he takes one, swigging the whiskey. Returning to the asset, he kneels down over him again, a hand snaking behind his head, lifting, he slips behind him, half-propping the man up against his own chest. ] You'll take these. [ Rumlow holds two capsules, the whiskey placed on the bed beside them.
Practicality and instinct are first nature for him, in the same way as kindness and compassion are for others. He's no sage, no saint. But he's no fool; he can treat a wound, repair a weapon with half a thought. ] Keep me updated on that status, you hear me? Report, now. [ It's said to his ear, lacks bite or the earlier gruffness. Maybe he's not all efficient coldness. ]
[ the asset has no concept of 'almost', only of failure and success and this mission was a failure. it would have been a failure if they had died as well, but it is no less of a failure now. they did not achieve their objective. ( there will be punishment, and the chair- rumlow's hands are unshaking, but the assets are not. there is a tremor running through his right that he does not have the energy or mental presence to hide. )
rumlow undresses him and he lets him. there is no resistance and no movement to help in the absence of direct orders. he does obey the implicit ones- to lift an arm here or there, but there is no initiative.
his gaze follows rumlow when he moves, still unfocused but focused enough to note the waver in his handler's step. it is registered, but neutrally so. it offers no advantage or disadvantage to the asset because this is not a combat situation and rumlow is his handler, not his target.
you'll take these is an order, and the asset lifts his right to receive the pills and puts them in his mouth, no question what they are. he swallows them without the whiskey, dry.
it hurts to the point of becoming impossible to ignore, when rumlow moves him, lifting his head and then his upper body and slipping behind him, and there is an unconscious noise of pain and no embarrassment or resentment to follow it up. ]
Hurts- [ is almost plaintively said, quiet and hesitant and without any certainty to it. but he has orders, report now, and orders are important. he has to follow orders.
his status hasn't changed, though, and so he finds himself repeating: ] Combat-efficiency severely compromised. [ it's as true now as it was before. he could be more specific, could mention that this hurts but also makes it a little easier to breathe, but these things are not relevant beyond their impact on combat-effectiveness and -readiness and so he does not think to mention them. ]
[ From the looks of it, that left arm is a dead loss. It's virtually malfunctioning; thought there's nothing that Rumlow can do about it for now. His attention is focused on the winter soldier, however, eyes widening a barely perceptible touch with that murmur, the unedited, purely human sound of pain.
He doesn't feel any particular pity, not strongly at least, but it gentles him; the touch softens, his briskness seems to dwindle and is replaced by caution. Mouth twisting with a flicker of frustration at the repetition, he reaches, moving the ragged, dark hair from the asset's face with a brush of fingers, tucking it behind one ear to keep it back.
(Unnecessary, mostly, but he wants to see his eyes - there's more honesty there than whatever pre-recorded replies Pierce has drummed into him).
Breath warm on the asset's neck, Rumlow allows himself to exhale slowly - tense from the last twenty-four hours, he's running on reserved energy; he feels as though he hardly slept, and if he did it was fitful, disturbed. He shifts, settling the soldier more comfortably against him (ribs, lungs - medically, he thinks sitting upright is sensible, wonders if it hurts any less). Moving in increments so as to keep the jarring minimal, he keeps an eye on the movement of the other's chest, on the shallow breath, the raising and lowering of the pale ribs.
When he speaks, his chin disturbs the thin whorls of hair that curl at the nape of the other's neck.
(His voice is lower now, easily heard at such proximity). ] And now? Some detail would be good, so I know you're not about to pass out on me.
[ the left arm is non-functional until such time that they return to base and a technician can look at it and repair it. the left arm is a loss and his ribs are broken and he is in pain, and jolting or moving him makes it spike in such a way that it becomes impossible to ignore.
rumlow brushes hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ears, and the touch is so unlike anything he knows, it's almost gently and he doesn't know gentleness. he knows maintenance and he knows destruction and punishment and training and gentleness fits into none of these boxes and his brows draw together, eyes a little unfocused still but finding rumlow's face.
he's- confused, and the expression sits almost childlike on his features. ]
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thousandyard2014-08-05 12:05 am
no subject
There's a practicality in Rumlow's movements that is not impersonal, but it holds no true warmth. He's professional, even in this.
His head tilts, he wets his lower lip thoughtfully. Broken ribs, possibly. The thigh he'll examine later - the arm he can do nothing about (Pierce will be thrilled).
After a moment's consideration, he stands from the bed, crosses the room (his steps are not unwavering; he's done something to his damned knee), and rifles through a cabinet beside the fridge: whiskey, some clear brand of spirits emblazoned with character, '酒', which he does not recognize.
Painkillers are in his pack; they're strong, he takes one, swigging the whiskey. Returning to the asset, he kneels down over him again, a hand snaking behind his head, lifting, he slips behind him, half-propping the man up against his own chest. ] You'll take these. [ Rumlow holds two capsules, the whiskey placed on the bed beside them.
Practicality and instinct are first nature for him, in the same way as kindness and compassion are for others. He's no sage, no saint. But he's no fool; he can treat a wound, repair a weapon with half a thought. ] Keep me updated on that status, you hear me? Report, now. [ It's said to his ear, lacks bite or the earlier gruffness. Maybe he's not all efficient coldness. ]
no subject
rumlow undresses him and he lets him. there is no resistance and no movement to help in the absence of direct orders. he does obey the implicit ones- to lift an arm here or there, but there is no initiative.
his gaze follows rumlow when he moves, still unfocused but focused enough to note the waver in his handler's step. it is registered, but neutrally so. it offers no advantage or disadvantage to the asset because this is not a combat situation and rumlow is his handler, not his target.
you'll take these is an order, and the asset lifts his right to receive the pills and puts them in his mouth, no question what they are. he swallows them without the whiskey, dry.
it hurts to the point of becoming impossible to ignore, when rumlow moves him, lifting his head and then his upper body and slipping behind him, and there is an unconscious noise of pain and no embarrassment or resentment to follow it up. ]
Hurts- [ is almost plaintively said, quiet and hesitant and without any certainty to it. but he has orders, report now, and orders are important. he has to follow orders.
his status hasn't changed, though, and so he finds himself repeating: ] Combat-efficiency severely compromised. [ it's as true now as it was before. he could be more specific, could mention that this hurts but also makes it a little easier to breathe, but these things are not relevant beyond their impact on combat-effectiveness and -readiness and so he does not think to mention them. ]
no subject
He doesn't feel any particular pity, not strongly at least, but it gentles him; the touch softens, his briskness seems to dwindle and is replaced by caution. Mouth twisting with a flicker of frustration at the repetition, he reaches, moving the ragged, dark hair from the asset's face with a brush of fingers, tucking it behind one ear to keep it back.
(Unnecessary, mostly, but he wants to see his eyes - there's more honesty there than whatever pre-recorded replies Pierce has drummed into him).
Breath warm on the asset's neck, Rumlow allows himself to exhale slowly - tense from the last twenty-four hours, he's running on reserved energy; he feels as though he hardly slept, and if he did it was fitful, disturbed. He shifts, settling the soldier more comfortably against him (ribs, lungs - medically, he thinks sitting upright is sensible, wonders if it hurts any less). Moving in increments so as to keep the jarring minimal, he keeps an eye on the movement of the other's chest, on the shallow breath, the raising and lowering of the pale ribs.
When he speaks, his chin disturbs the thin whorls of hair that curl at the nape of the other's neck.
(His voice is lower now, easily heard at such proximity). ] And now? Some detail would be good, so I know you're not about to pass out on me.
no subject
rumlow brushes hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ears, and the touch is so unlike anything he knows, it's almost gently and he doesn't know gentleness. he knows maintenance and he knows destruction and punishment and training and gentleness fits into none of these boxes and his brows draw together, eyes a little unfocused still but finding rumlow's face.
he's- confused, and the expression sits almost childlike on his features. ]
What details?