[ The sides of the off white porcelain sink stain a pinkish red color as flaked blood parts from his hands, mixing with the black and gray of dirt, grime and gunpowder residue. It wasn't an easy fight, and it never is these days. Even Captain America's looking worse for wear, as Bucky's eyes lift from the sink to the smudged mirror, looking at the man hunched on the side of the mattress in the compact, cheap Prague motel. So out of place, looking larger than life, even covered in cuts and blossoming bruises and damage from the fight, squeeze into this little hole in the ground. Something the Winter Soldier would have blended easily into, gone unnoticed in the shadows. Rogers doesn't even have his uniform on, and the hat that had been pulled over straw blond hair sits ignored on the motel room floor. Even so, it's an odd picture. Just doesn't fit.
A wash cloth in one hand dabs over a large gash across Bucky's chest, teeth grinding to bit back the hiss that wants to escape his as the alochol soak cloth sterilizes the wound. They have plenty of bad injuries, but nothing they'll need a hospital for. Nothing they won't heal from, the way they are. But injection is another issue entirely. Not worth the risk, out here and off the grid. It's been months since Steve hunted him down here. Months since he'd reluctantly agreed to let the soldier handle the remnants of HYDRA still wanting to reel him in in his own way, only sticking around to support. Let them out themselves coming after him. No walking into the den. They can spend their best trying to hunt their best, and when those are gone, it's just smoking out the anthills of the workers left. That means waiting it out in a shitty Prague motel. A bunker in St. Petersburg. A suburb of Vienna. Most of the time it's a slow trickle, sometimes it's a battlefield. Three guesses what this one was.
Rinsing out the cloth in the sink, dulled blue eyes watch the stream of red water circle the drain before he drops it there, reaching for a new couple cloths to soak, one in water, one in the grain alcohol he'd picked from a convenience store a few days ago, before pacing out of the room. Steve sits with shoulders squared over his knees and Bucky wonders if he's always as stable as he looks - solid and firm and unwavering. Or if they just built him that way. He remembers glimpses of a skinny kid in Brooklyn, bent over behind a roller coast booth at Coney Island, puking his guts up. He also remembers the same kid telling off a guy three times his size like he was nothing. ]
This'll sting. [ A muted warning as he crouches down in front of Steve, still human hand pushing his chest some to have his straighten, as he peers at a deep puncture on his upper abdomen. From placement, everything vital should be missed. They'd likely know by now if it wasn't. He'll survive fine. Tearing at the fabric of the shirt some, he makes space to get to the wound before wiping at blood crusting over the skin, cleaning, and then there's the alcohol. This is the stinging part. A brief glance is spared up to Steve before the hand on his chest pushes him back a bit more, more careful than it is insistent, because just dabbing at a wound this deep with a soaked cloth isn't going to work. Fingers of his right hand curl over the Captain's shoulder as the metal hand raises up the glass alcohol bottle, and he begins to pour before giving warning. Try not to spasm, pls. ]
hurr durr gives u a tooth thief
A wash cloth in one hand dabs over a large gash across Bucky's chest, teeth grinding to bit back the hiss that wants to escape his as the alochol soak cloth sterilizes the wound. They have plenty of bad injuries, but nothing they'll need a hospital for. Nothing they won't heal from, the way they are. But injection is another issue entirely. Not worth the risk, out here and off the grid. It's been months since Steve hunted him down here. Months since he'd reluctantly agreed to let the soldier handle the remnants of HYDRA still wanting to reel him in in his own way, only sticking around to support. Let them out themselves coming after him. No walking into the den. They can spend their best trying to hunt their best, and when those are gone, it's just smoking out the anthills of the workers left. That means waiting it out in a shitty Prague motel. A bunker in St. Petersburg. A suburb of Vienna. Most of the time it's a slow trickle, sometimes it's a battlefield. Three guesses what this one was.
Rinsing out the cloth in the sink, dulled blue eyes watch the stream of red water circle the drain before he drops it there, reaching for a new couple cloths to soak, one in water, one in the grain alcohol he'd picked from a convenience store a few days ago, before pacing out of the room. Steve sits with shoulders squared over his knees and Bucky wonders if he's always as stable as he looks - solid and firm and unwavering. Or if they just built him that way. He remembers glimpses of a skinny kid in Brooklyn, bent over behind a roller coast booth at Coney Island, puking his guts up. He also remembers the same kid telling off a guy three times his size like he was nothing. ]
This'll sting. [ A muted warning as he crouches down in front of Steve, still human hand pushing his chest some to have his straighten, as he peers at a deep puncture on his upper abdomen. From placement, everything vital should be missed. They'd likely know by now if it wasn't. He'll survive fine. Tearing at the fabric of the shirt some, he makes space to get to the wound before wiping at blood crusting over the skin, cleaning, and then there's the alcohol. This is the stinging part. A brief glance is spared up to Steve before the hand on his chest pushes him back a bit more, more careful than it is insistent, because just dabbing at a wound this deep with a soaked cloth isn't going to work. Fingers of his right hand curl over the Captain's shoulder as the metal hand raises up the glass alcohol bottle, and he begins to pour before giving warning. Try not to spasm, pls. ]