I'm alright. Thanks for coming. And for bringing the party.
[ He'd been trying not to peer around too much like a slack-jawed yokel when they made their way through the Bus and to the laboratory. He's settled on a chair now, waiting for Simmons and feeling oddly like he's a kid in the nurse's office again. (He'd been there often. Schoolyard fights.) When the doctor returns, she turns out to be quick and efficient, telling him to remove his jacket — he half-considers being stubborn and refusing, but there's something in her tone of voice that brooks no argument, so he winds up dutifully shucking the leather and folding it in his lap instead.
He has to tug up his shirt slightly to let her get at his injuries, and he goes oddly still and quiet while she works. Over the years, the Winter Soldier had grown accustomed to sitting obediently in one place, immobile as a statue, letting the doctors and scientists swarm over him like ants. He stares off into the middle distance, looking at the lab but not fully taking it in. Jemma extracts a bullet (he winces, but doesn't make any noise), sets it aside with a clatter, cleans the wound, and then presses some adhesive gauze to it.
She beckons Daisy closer, tells her to be useful, to hold the bandage to his stomach while it sets. Daisy wheels closer on her chair and suddenly she's in his personal space, right up next to him out of sheer necessity, their knees bumping.
Jemma's eyes had lit up when he shrugged out of his jacket and she got a closer look at the vibranium arm, and now she gets to try to wake it up; she moves into his blind spot, tinkering with the hinges, muttering to herself about how Fitz ought to be seeing this.
Bucky tunes it out. Shifts his attention to the gentle pressure of Daisy's hands against his abdomen instead; the drifting curl of her dark hair out of the corner of his eye; her face so close to his. He clears his throat. Feels a self-conscious flush heating his throat. ]
no subject
[ He'd been trying not to peer around too much like a slack-jawed yokel when they made their way through the Bus and to the laboratory. He's settled on a chair now, waiting for Simmons and feeling oddly like he's a kid in the nurse's office again. (He'd been there often. Schoolyard fights.) When the doctor returns, she turns out to be quick and efficient, telling him to remove his jacket — he half-considers being stubborn and refusing, but there's something in her tone of voice that brooks no argument, so he winds up dutifully shucking the leather and folding it in his lap instead.
He has to tug up his shirt slightly to let her get at his injuries, and he goes oddly still and quiet while she works. Over the years, the Winter Soldier had grown accustomed to sitting obediently in one place, immobile as a statue, letting the doctors and scientists swarm over him like ants. He stares off into the middle distance, looking at the lab but not fully taking it in. Jemma extracts a bullet (he winces, but doesn't make any noise), sets it aside with a clatter, cleans the wound, and then presses some adhesive gauze to it.
She beckons Daisy closer, tells her to be useful, to hold the bandage to his stomach while it sets. Daisy wheels closer on her chair and suddenly she's in his personal space, right up next to him out of sheer necessity, their knees bumping.
Jemma's eyes had lit up when he shrugged out of his jacket and she got a closer look at the vibranium arm, and now she gets to try to wake it up; she moves into his blind spot, tinkering with the hinges, muttering to herself about how Fitz ought to be seeing this.
Bucky tunes it out. Shifts his attention to the gentle pressure of Daisy's hands against his abdomen instead; the drifting curl of her dark hair out of the corner of his eye; her face so close to his. He clears his throat. Feels a self-conscious flush heating his throat. ]
How about you?