[ Comes spilling out of his mouth, a partially-echoed question, before realization dawns on him and he stops midway through. Prossies. Prostitutes. There's a long moment of disbelieving silence, both form him and the portly gentleman sharing the ride with them. There's less self-righteous judgment, though, and more puzzlement on Bucky's end, largely because no, he wasn't aware they delivered those straight to your room now. Not that he has any interest in ordering one, but more on whether or not the 21st century has changes so much since his time that it's legal now or something.
Taking legal advice and prostitute recommendations from a strange british soldier in an elevator isn't something he's planning on doing regardless, so he dismisses the line of thought promptly. It does a good job of throwing him off-kilter for a moment, though, distracting him from the obsessive have I been made, is this an attack question for the briefest of instances.
It circles back, of course, around the time he's offered a handshake.
A handshake might just be a handshake. It might not be. It might be the initiator to a fight, to another life Bucky will end up taking either purposefully in self defense or accidentally if he loses control. He doesn't even fathom the possibility that it may be him that loses the fight, not out of ego but out of sheer historical statistic probability. He is the winter soldier, and he doesn't get murdered in elevators.
He compromises on his paranoia by reaching out with his metal arm, strong and largely impenetrable by poisons, low grade stun guns, and and weird genetic mutations. It's also hard as hell to tug him off of his feet with that arm, so it's a safe choice even if it might arouse more questions than he's planning on answering today. ]
It's a pleasure.
[ He responds flatly, noticeably not supplying a name in return. ]
I think you might've made that man a little uncomfortable.
[ Prior has no such thoughts of potential aggression, no striking instinct to question motives, but it's not exactly because he's a trusting individual. What he senses in Bucky is familiar, at least at the roots, although he'd never outright accuse anyone of having pedestrian origins; being from near the bottom himself, it's not hard to recognize. ]
I don't make a point of concerning myself with the comfort of certain strangers.
[ The haughtiness comes from a place within Billy that deplores corporations and money, that finds frustration in the common practice of creating a need for sacrifice while sacrificing nothing of your own. People like that are the reason people like Prior (and very likely Barnes) need to exist in the first place.
When he's settled back again, he crosses his arms and nods his head toward Bucky's arm. ]
A gift from your Uncle Sam?
[ Less antagonistic, more rueful. His own wounds — gifts from Queen and Country — aren't nearly as obvious. ]
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no subject
[ Comes spilling out of his mouth, a partially-echoed question, before realization dawns on him and he stops midway through. Prossies. Prostitutes. There's a long moment of disbelieving silence, both form him and the portly gentleman sharing the ride with them. There's less self-righteous judgment, though, and more puzzlement on Bucky's end, largely because no, he wasn't aware they delivered those straight to your room now. Not that he has any interest in ordering one, but more on whether or not the 21st century has changes so much since his time that it's legal now or something.
Taking legal advice and prostitute recommendations from a strange british soldier in an elevator isn't something he's planning on doing regardless, so he dismisses the line of thought promptly. It does a good job of throwing him off-kilter for a moment, though, distracting him from the obsessive have I been made, is this an attack question for the briefest of instances.
It circles back, of course, around the time he's offered a handshake.
A handshake might just be a handshake. It might not be. It might be the initiator to a fight, to another life Bucky will end up taking either purposefully in self defense or accidentally if he loses control. He doesn't even fathom the possibility that it may be him that loses the fight, not out of ego but out of sheer historical statistic probability. He is the winter soldier, and he doesn't get murdered in elevators.
He compromises on his paranoia by reaching out with his metal arm, strong and largely impenetrable by poisons, low grade stun guns, and and weird genetic mutations. It's also hard as hell to tug him off of his feet with that arm, so it's a safe choice even if it might arouse more questions than he's planning on answering today. ]
It's a pleasure.
[ He responds flatly, noticeably not supplying a name in return. ]
I think you might've made that man a little uncomfortable.
[ Sarcastic understatement of the century. ]
no subject
I don't make a point of concerning myself with the comfort of certain strangers.
[ The haughtiness comes from a place within Billy that deplores corporations and money, that finds frustration in the common practice of creating a need for sacrifice while sacrificing nothing of your own. People like that are the reason people like Prior (and very likely Barnes) need to exist in the first place.
When he's settled back again, he crosses his arms and nods his head toward Bucky's arm. ]
A gift from your Uncle Sam?
[ Less antagonistic, more rueful. His own wounds — gifts from Queen and Country — aren't nearly as obvious. ]