[ It wouldn't offend him to hear what Rumlow thinks of him--a weapon is all he's been made to be, and he's been used and put aside for decades now, literally, cleansed of all unnecessary attachment before being put away for the next time Hydra's ghost is needed. It's made him into what he is, unburdened by angers or joys. Pierce likes to take a different tact, likes to tell him that he is important, that his efforts are good and necessary and the world owes a debt to his work, like the missions and the targets mean anything; it's all so much noise, words that fall into the still pond of the winter soldier's mind without making so much as a ripple.
He sits where Rumlow indicates, leaning back against a bulkhead with a knee drawn up and legs spread, and if there's nothing else attractive about him there is a grace to his motions, more animal than man. A perfection to his waiting stillness, an absence of all unnecessary motion; even his eyes don't move from Rumlow's face, like he's gotten the word that the handler is his next target and he doesn't mean to look away until he's pulled the trigger. ]
Two hours until dark. [ It's not a non-sequitur, just a reminder. A suggestion: get on with whatever it is you want. ]
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He sits where Rumlow indicates, leaning back against a bulkhead with a knee drawn up and legs spread, and if there's nothing else attractive about him there is a grace to his motions, more animal than man. A perfection to his waiting stillness, an absence of all unnecessary motion; even his eyes don't move from Rumlow's face, like he's gotten the word that the handler is his next target and he doesn't mean to look away until he's pulled the trigger. ]
Two hours until dark. [ It's not a non-sequitur, just a reminder. A suggestion: get on with whatever it is you want. ]