It could end with new scars, but as much as the idea of roughing him up was satisfying to a shadow in his mind, it wasn't the smart choice. And Rumlow was right about at least one thing-- for all else that he might be, he was a survivor. And he knew that more than just having to find a new place, attracting enough attention could bring the heat trailing after him ever since DC down on him again. Not something he couldn't escape, but it had taken time, it would be months before he could restart, rebuild again, pick up the pieces. And Rumlow knows that. Neither of them wants to get caught here.
He's well-trained enough that he could ignore the scars if he wanted to. But he doesn't. It's both a way of making Rumlow uncomfortable without putting a finger on him, and it's also a quiet defiance. He never would have dared before. Interest and fascination with the patterns that scar tissue made over damaged skin would not have been part of his programming or a mission objective. And they were always wary with him, if he looked too much, spoke too much, even if Rumlow had always been the easiest hand, it had still been a hand at his throat.
It really was throwing him for a loop, even if he'd already resigned himself to giving up this place, grabbing his backpack under the floorboards and running. Seeing Rumlow here, this close, and the evidence was in the fact that he was asking questions at all even when he knew it was an invitation to let himself get drawn in. It was giving him a chance. But he listens because he can't help himself, watching every mannerism, twitch of a fingertip. He knows the people he means when he says HYDRA's enemies, but he lets that point lie for the moment, because there's something even stranger about Rumlow's story.
"You make it sound like you cared," he says it like an accusation, not like some soft revelation, all doe-eyed and hopeful. His words are sharp and biting, low and dark, almost a rasp in the dark. It's a dangerous suggestion, but what Rumlow lays out, the path he'd allegedly intended, it was effort and risk for benefit that wouldn't fall on Rumlow aside from keeping his hand as the one on the Soldier's leash. And that almost bitterness as Rumlow brings up the chair-- it's all strange, seems wrong, but Rumlow's words don't seem openly deceptive.
Maybe the burns have made him harder to head? He isn't entirely sure in either direction. "Agreeable," he repeats slowly, carefully, watching Rumlow like an exceptionally venemous snake.
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He's well-trained enough that he could ignore the scars if he wanted to. But he doesn't. It's both a way of making Rumlow uncomfortable without putting a finger on him, and it's also a quiet defiance. He never would have dared before. Interest and fascination with the patterns that scar tissue made over damaged skin would not have been part of his programming or a mission objective. And they were always wary with him, if he looked too much, spoke too much, even if Rumlow had always been the easiest hand, it had still been a hand at his throat.
It really was throwing him for a loop, even if he'd already resigned himself to giving up this place, grabbing his backpack under the floorboards and running. Seeing Rumlow here, this close, and the evidence was in the fact that he was asking questions at all even when he knew it was an invitation to let himself get drawn in. It was giving him a chance. But he listens because he can't help himself, watching every mannerism, twitch of a fingertip. He knows the people he means when he says HYDRA's enemies, but he lets that point lie for the moment, because there's something even stranger about Rumlow's story.
"You make it sound like you cared," he says it like an accusation, not like some soft revelation, all doe-eyed and hopeful. His words are sharp and biting, low and dark, almost a rasp in the dark. It's a dangerous suggestion, but what Rumlow lays out, the path he'd allegedly intended, it was effort and risk for benefit that wouldn't fall on Rumlow aside from keeping his hand as the one on the Soldier's leash. And that almost bitterness as Rumlow brings up the chair-- it's all strange, seems wrong, but Rumlow's words don't seem openly deceptive.
Maybe the burns have made him harder to head? He isn't entirely sure in either direction. "Agreeable," he repeats slowly, carefully, watching Rumlow like an exceptionally venemous snake.