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6:34am on an wintry Saturday morning. Brock Rumlow's alarm clock went off, beeping obnoxiously loud right in his ear.
He could have shot the damn thing for waking him up at such an ungodly hour on his day off. It wasn't very often that he got to spend a day at home, doing the things that normal people did; having a good breakfast with a cup of coffee, watching crappy TV or taking a walk in the park. Rolling out of bed, wearing nothing but a pair of black men's briefs, he slipped on a silky night robe onto his tanned, well built body. That was when he noticed something.
Winter.
The Asset had not been lying next to him, like he had been when when he had first been dragged into the king-size bed. Where was he? He wouldn't have dared to run away, because Hydra would have found him, and put a bullet between his eyes. Strolling into the lounge, he noticed the soldier sat bolt upright on the couch, his eyes blank as he stared up at his new handler. Rumlow was used to that cold, dead gaze by now. It didn't unsettle him like it used to.
"Trouble sleepin'?" Rumlow asked as he opened the curtains, letting light flood into the small apartment.
He was met with silence, and a harsh sigh came from the back of his throat. Of course. The Winter Soldier didn't sleep. Honestly, he didn't know how he wasn't dead yet. He didn't sleep, he barely ate and he didn't know how to look after himself properly. It was lucky that Brock had volunteered to take care of him while he was out of cryo, or Alexander Pierce would have had his way with him.
Rumlow rolled his eyes and made his way over to the kitchen, browsing through the cupboards when his eyes fixed upon a box, something he knew that the soldier would enjoy. "Pancakes?"
The Asset gave a curt nod, staring at the mug of coffee that was thrust in front of him. He wasn't accustomed to drinking such a thing, Hydra never let him have real food or drink, it was all nutrients and liquids through an IV drip or a tube into his stomach. Too much solid food would upset his stomach, and Rumlow didn't want to be in charge of clearing up The Winter Soldier's puke from his floor.
Ripping open a packet of Betty Crocker Bisquick mix, Brock measured two cups of the powder and dumped it into bowl, pouring in milk and cracking in two eggs. He whisked all of the ingredients up and turned on the stove, before throwing a pan on the heat. He didn't really like Winter cooking in his apartment, there was always a chance that he would burn the place down to the ground, so he always offered to cook.
He served breakfast; plates of pancakes, bacon and eggs, with coffee and juice. Winter drowned his pancakes in syrup, then decided that he wanted some on his bacon too. He was like a child, the way he cut up his food, the way that he ate... it looked like he needed help cutting up his breakfast, so Brock gently took his cutlery and started slicing his pancakes into small squares. Winter gave him a smile of thanks and continued eating, only able to manage one pancake and two rashers of bacon.
"You've done well, that's more than last time." He praised, pointing his fork at The Asset's plate.
Then again, he had puked it all up last time, and Brock had spent half the morning getting rid of it, and the horrible smell that radiated off of it. That was one thing he didn't want to be doing again. He didn't want all of the gross cleaning jobs, but he had signed up for the raging shit-storm that came along with everything the soldier did, so this was his problem. It was his responsibility. He also owed it to the soldier, for keeping him company, even though it was like talking to himself most of the time.
***
After clearing away the plates from breakfast, Brock took a moment to step outside onto the balcony for a smoke. Bare feet gracing the cold ground, he took in the breathtaking view of the city below him. The black curtains billowed gracefully in the wind, and he glanced back into the apartment, to see Winter sat on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. There was so many channels, he barely understood how to turn it on, let alone choose something to watch. Sometimes Rumlow watched football, or he flicked through all of the channels, but he never found anything worth watching.
Rumlow's apartment towered over most of the buildings in this part of town, and he liked it that way. He liked to be able to see people on the ground, bustling around like worker ants below him. One day, he'd crush all of those ants, he vowed. He then pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and opened it to find that it was empty. Bummer.
"Could you go to the store down the street and get me some cigarettes? I have stuff to do. Important stuff." Rumlow asked, turning to the soldier as he planted his hands into his pockets. He was sure that he had more before he had gone to bed, unless Winter had taken them... but he wouldn't have, he knew that an action like that would not go unpunished.
Sparing a few seconds to stare at the soldier, Brock rolled his eyes dramatically. He looked confused again. He always looked confused. However, he could always tell what he was thinking. He could see the cogs turning in his mind. What is my handler doing? Why is it so important? Do I have to go alone? It's scary outside.
The Asset did as he was told and pulled on a leather jacket, before wrapping a black scarf snugly around his exposed throat. This was protocol now, to keep warm. He hated being cold, it felt as though he was trapped in that horrific cryo tank all over again. All alone, the cracking of ice crystals as his body froze over... stuck in an eternal Winter.
"Here, take this," Rumlow instructed, pulling two ten dollar bills from his wallet and holding them out. "The old lady that owns the place will know which brand I like. Just give her the money, then come straight back. Don't want you gettin' lost, right?" He chuckled, laughing at his own personal joke.
***
Making his way down to the store Brock had pointed out to him, the soldier took in his surroundings, the expressions of the commuters around him... this was his world now; it was a lot bigger than a tank pumped with a coolant, encasing him with ice. He now had a life beyond beyond missions, shooting and killing. His handler had given him that, a better life.
The streets of New York City had changed. They weren't like they used to be when he was a child in the 1930s, but then again, technology had improved dramatically. The televisions were in colour, people had more money, the Great Depression was unheard of. Then in the 40s, there was a war going on, but he remembered being in Europe for most of it. He remembered being a prisoner at a Hydra base in Germany, all those years ago...
The door of the small grocery store creaked open, a small bell ringing as it slammed closed again. It was eerily quiet, he stalked along the aisle, like a predator going after its prey. Usually he'd have a gun, firmly gripped in his hands, but instead he had the money that Agent Rumlow had given him. Money... it was a material possession, something to earn, a reward of sorts.
"Яша? Брок все рассказал мне о тебе. Ты хорошо выглядишь"."
Brock told me all about you. You are looking well.
The voice pulled the soldier from his thoughts and his head snapped up to look at the old woman standing at the counter, her back slightly arched, half moon spectacles propped on the end of her nose. So much for being shrouded in secrecy. He didn't feel very secret right now. This woman must have been the shop owner his handler had mentioned, she would know which cigarettes he wanted.
"Спасибо." The tiniest smile graced his thin lips as he acknowledged the woman, a few locks of dark hair falling into his steely blue eyes.
Thank you.
Finally, someone that spoke his language fluently enough so that they could hold a conversation. This was good, he had yet to find someone that knew Russian, or someone that would bother with learning it. It was frustrating when no one understood him when he slipped back into Russian, but no one would ever try to understand him. Brock thought that it was a dumb idea, but he would never say why.
"Ты кушал? Хорошо спал?"
Have you been eating? Sleeping enough?
"Да." The Asset nodded, before handing over the money in exchange for the cigarettes. It's all lies, he thought. He never slept, barely ate. He was given two small white packets with warnings on them, 'smoking kills'. This was a destructive habit, so why did his handler do it? Did he have a death wish?
"Отлично. будь осторожен."
Excellent. Stay safe.
With a wave goodbye, the soldier left the store and made his way back up to the apartment, wondering what Agent Rumlow was doing. He said it was important, but he highly doubted that. If it was his day off, he'd be sprawled out on the couch, wearing next to nothing, lazily flicking through television channels.
***
He was slumped down onto the couch, The Asset on the other side of the room. He was silent, yet again. It was almost like living alone, apart from the fact he shared an apartment with an amnesiac assassin. Rumlow now had his beloved cigarettes, one balanced in between his teeth as he fished around in his pockets for a lighter. Winter stalked over and sat beside him, his eyes flashing with recognition as he managed to find the lighter.
A spark came from the silver Zippo lighter, igniting the cigarette and bringing it to life, the red hot tip of it burning slowly. That was when he noticed big blue eyes staring at the thing; following it like a magnet, like a puppy pining for a bone. Had he never smoked a cigarette before? Surely he would have done it back in World War Two, when he was just an adventurous, innocent young man. It was ironic, really, because he wasn't that innocent any more. He had killed a lot of people, and there was no denying that.
"Ya want a toke or somethin'?"
The soldier smiled as he accepted the cancer stick between his parted pink lips and inhaled a deep breath of the acrid smoke, closing his eyes and savouring the burn in the back of his throat. It felt like he was floating for a second and he loved it. He could forget about everything for just a moment, and relax. The smoke made his lungs tighten a little and he resisted the urge to cough, taking another deep breath.
"You like that?"
The Asset nodded and breathed out the smoke slowly, sensually; he was used to being surrounded by smokers like Alexander Pierce, who usually smoked the finest Cuban cigars. He was never allowed to smoke those, they were considered a luxury. The rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E team smoked too, but they only smoked the cheap stuff, the kind of cigarettes that would rot your insides faster that the normal kind.
He looked so hot. Slightly tired, lidded eyes, the tiniest smile on his face and a hint of stubble on his jawline... Brock would devour him. He couldn't resist the temptation, so he pressed his lips against the soldier's. His mouth tasted like the cigarette, and the pancakes they had shared at breakfast. It was a sickly sweet, syrupy taste mixed with the slight bitterness of the smoke. Not bad.
Lifting The Asset up onto his lap wasn't hard work, so he sat him down, his waist trapped by the soldier's legs. Large hands ran through long, chocolate brown hair, before making their way down his chest and towards his hips, swerving down to cup the curve of his ass. The Asset moaned quietly, closing his eyes as Rumlow attacked his mouth again, before slowly grinding on top of him.
"Я люблю тебя."
The soldier's eyes widened slightly as the words slipped out of his handler's mouth. So that's what he had been doing whilst he was out. That was why he had been so busy today. He had been learning Russian, in order to help him when he slipped back into what he believed to be his native tongue.
"Я тоже тебя люблю." He grinned widely, those three words meaning the world to him.
I love you.