There's a moment in which the gaze that meets the Winter Soldier is nothing but wild and feral, in which any onlookers might doubt that there is a shred of humanity left in the man. But the Soldier knows him. And so while the Falcon straightens, as if pulled up by a string, searching the blue sky in those piercing eyes of the Soldier, the Soldier will be able to see how the wild, wounded thing they give him settles into something sharp and self-aware, how the slumped body takes on a ready and waiting posture even as a long exhale relaxes the pained tension in the Falcon's shoulders.
The way he tilts his head slightly is nothing short of bird like, the sharp angles of his facial feature casting stark shadows in the harsh lighting. If the head tilt leans his face a little into that touch, no onlooker would be ever the wiser.
But they know. The two of them, they can tell. And it's enough.
The Falcon feels like himself again by the time the Soldier speaks, drinking up the first sound he's heard, eyes transfixed upon the first thing he's been allowed to see. At Sokol, he nods in the affirmative, and then echoes the call-and-response words:
"Ready to comply."
There's a strange lilt to his voice in Russian, the soft remnants of some accent nothing and no one has gotten out of him so far. It displeases Hydra, this tether to the Falcon's origin. But it proves a stubborn thing, that slight drawl in his voice that perhaps he could trace to his roots were he left to fly and search the world for the scattered idea of identity he no longer feels in need of.
For now, he simply awaits instruction, eyes not wavering from the Soldier even as the Falcon becomes something entirely able to bend to the Soldier's will.
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There's a moment in which the gaze that meets the Winter Soldier is nothing but wild and feral, in which any onlookers might doubt that there is a shred of humanity left in the man. But the Soldier knows him. And so while the Falcon straightens, as if pulled up by a string, searching the blue sky in those piercing eyes of the Soldier, the Soldier will be able to see how the wild, wounded thing they give him settles into something sharp and self-aware, how the slumped body takes on a ready and waiting posture even as a long exhale relaxes the pained tension in the Falcon's shoulders.
The way he tilts his head slightly is nothing short of bird like, the sharp angles of his facial feature casting stark shadows in the harsh lighting. If the head tilt leans his face a little into that touch, no onlooker would be ever the wiser.
But they know. The two of them, they can tell. And it's enough.
The Falcon feels like himself again by the time the Soldier speaks, drinking up the first sound he's heard, eyes transfixed upon the first thing he's been allowed to see. At Sokol, he nods in the affirmative, and then echoes the call-and-response words:
"Ready to comply."
There's a strange lilt to his voice in Russian, the soft remnants of some accent nothing and no one has gotten out of him so far. It displeases Hydra, this tether to the Falcon's origin. But it proves a stubborn thing, that slight drawl in his voice that perhaps he could trace to his roots were he left to fly and search the world for the scattered idea of identity he no longer feels in need of.
For now, he simply awaits instruction, eyes not wavering from the Soldier even as the Falcon becomes something entirely able to bend to the Soldier's will.