Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is sand fucking everywhere. Sand in his clothes, in his hair. In his boots and in his socks, just to cover all its bases. Rumlow had had two guns jam on this fucking nightmare of a mission because of the goddamn sand. 

He hates desert missions. He hates short notice. And he especially hates being put on short notice desert missions when there's important shit happening back at home base.

It’d be just his fucking luck if the sand had fried his phones, too. Doesn’t look like there’s any holes in the ziploc bag he’d shoved them into four days ago, but he’s not betting on anything at this point. Sure, day one with no signal, no phone service, had been kinda nice – first day in months he hadn’t got a cryptic pep talk from Pierce or had to listen to Rollins' bitching. But now, he’s just glad this shitshow’s over. 

He's itching for this plane to land. SHIELD can always spring for a quinjet, or call in a favor from the Air Force if nothing else. But Hydra? His exfil is a fucking economy ticket on LIAT, which is apparently Sitwell’s idea of discretion. Shoved into a middle seat between a 300-pound metalhead who’s cranked up the volume so high in the last hour that Rumlow can hear screaming through his headphones, and a balding accountant who snores.

He needs a shower. A beer or six. He needs to know everything went okay in D.C., because it's been stressing him out this whole time.

He can't believe Pierce put him on this bullshit while Insight was going down. Yeah, fine, he’d been their lead the last time they’d talked to AIM, actually has a working relationship with Rappaccini and can list the litany of fuckups that had led to this particular clusterfuck backwards, by order of body count. Pierce had pointed all that out. It’s not that Rumlow disagrees with his logic. He rarely does, to be honest. But he would much rather have been in D.C. watching the Helicarriers go up. That would have made the fucking library of memos he’d had to read about them worth it.

But no. Stupid dumbass desert mission.

His last Hail Mary argument to stay hadn’t worked either, since apparently Pierce didn’t think they’d need to pull the Asset out of cryo. And so, no need for Rumlow to stay and act as primary handler. Just before he’d left, he’d cornered Kane, the guy who'd probably be heading STRIKE Alpha while he was gone, and given him a bunch of instructions just in case. Read the new notes I made in the manual and remember: clear instructions, no ambiguous wording and don't do that thing where instead of having it quietly snipe from a rooftop you give it the coolest new artillery just ’cause you can and it ends up all over the fucking news. Rollins had said he’d sounded like a paranoid mom hiring her first babysitter. Asshole probably had front row seats to the launch.

“Folks, we have begun our descent to Washington Dulles International Airport.” Fucking finally. Rumlow shifts in his seat to peel his sweaty, sandy arm from where it’s glued to the fat fuck next to him. It feels like forever until the plane sets down on the tarmac. “Local time is 10:26 AM and the temperature is 57 degrees Fahrenheit. There is still an active air quality warning and local authorities are advising people to stay indoors until the smoke over the Potomac clears. It is now safe to turn on your electronic devices.”

Smoke warning. Rumlow frowns. Weird.

He pulls out his Hydra phone first. There’s two passwords and an eye-scanner that never works on the first try, so while that’s ‘verifying’ he gets the SHIELD phone out, too. Just one password there and a thumbprint reader, but garbage service. Fucking xfinity. 

While he’s waiting for the bar to load, next to him the fat guy’s phone switches off airplane mode and explodes with notifications. Popular dude. It takes Rumlow a second to notice that, no, those aren’t texts or missed calls, for the most part – they’re news alerts.

The most recent one, dated this morning, reads: The Hunt for Hydra Continues: Forty-six More Convictions from Romanoff Data Dump.

Rumlow’s heart fucking stops.

He watches the guy scroll through an article too fast for him to read – catches SHIELD and Hydra in the same sentence, not a good sign – and sees a photo of Pierce. Underneath is written: 1936-2014.

What. The fuck.

His Hydra phone finally turns on. Literally two hundred and twelve new notifications. Nineteen missed calls. He starts scrolling. 

He sees the codes for the security protocols first, bright red and in a font size Pierce can – could? he thinks hysterically – read comfortably. There’s the agreed ones for Insight, from three days ago – Instituted: Protocol I-113. Instituted: Protocol Delta 6.

And then. D-17 Activation. They’d used the Asset. Rumlow checks the time and seethes. Those fucking assholes. They’d started defrosting it like two hours after Rumlow’d left. The texts from Rollins start around the same time.

11:02: Freezer’s open

11:02: Assuming you okd this? 

13:12: It’s asking where you are LOL

14:00: Ok so you didnt ok this

14:00: We’re going anti-stealth

14:00: Kane’s orders

14:00: He’s giving it the magnetic disc grenade launcher (?) thing

Rumlow already knows exactly what Rollins is talking about before he sees the photo. It is exactly the kind of over-the-top shit he hates. Rumlow glares at the metal hand that’s carefully holding the barrel. Even the Asset seems uncomfortable using this thing. Unbelievable.

14:08: It’s like this guy put your manual through a blender before reading it. Fuck. This is a shitfest. 

14:09: I’ll send pics

There’s a whole van full of gear, a little rolling armoury. There’s so much shit there they’ve even got Dave coming along to hand the Asset guns because it’s too much for it to fucking carry all at once.

And there’s a video. The thumbnail is the Asset standing in the middle of a city block in broad daylight with a fireball shaped like Fury’s car flying over its head. Rumlow can already tell he’ll end up with an aneurysm if he actually watches it. He keeps scrolling, faster now, skipping through the days – Triskelion compromised, Fridge compromised, Hub compromised, every fucking base compromised – until the last text. It’s from yesterday.

13:43: Ignore the protocols – Hydra’s down. Go to ground. See you when I see you.

All the security protocol notifications after 14:00 start getting clustered together, sometimes only a couple minutes between them. Emergency Protocol B-15. Emergency Protocol Sigma 3. And then ones he’d never even heard of. Emergency Protocol Hal kirīma. What the fuck is that? What alphabet is that, even?

Rumlow looks to his left and – yep, on his other side, the accountant just swipes away his own news alerts. Rumlow’s pretty sure one of them says something about Captain America’s statement. He looks back at the article the fat guy’s scrolling through. 

Oh shit, there are photos of Stern. Markowitz – fuck, that guy had led Kappa. There’s one of Blair. Ptomlyn.

Rumlow suddenly feels extremely aware of the people around him on this cramped little plane. He stays very still and slowly slips on his sunglasses. If Pierce and Stern and a bunch of guys he’s worked with have been outed as Hydra – possibly in some data dump by Romanoff; he really needs to figure out what the fuck went on in the past four days – he can’t rule out that he’s been outed too. There’s definitely a good chance it’s game over and some civilian’s gonna recognize him in the airport. Or on this plane. Maybe SHIELD’s gonna be waiting for him at the gate, with cuffs.

The seatbelt light still hasn’t gone out. He keeps scrolling. Probably catches one in ten pieces of information – did they wipe the Asset in the middle of a mission? What the hell was that about? Cap was – captured? Free? He squints at one code – that can’t be right, because Rumlow is pretty sure that’s the code for an unidentified airborne combatant.

He suddenly realizes that a code he hasn’t seen is D-17 Standing Down. Unlike all the rest, that is a problem he can manage. That is – was? – his job to manage. He starts looking for the deactivation notice, the Confirmation: Received at Base. It’s not there. It has to be there. It—

His SHIELD phone finally turns on. It’s almost as bad as the Hydra one. There’s forty missed calls. Ninety-eight new notifications. And way too many of the security protocols screaming into view are the exact same ones Hydra sent through.

Triskelion compromised. Fridge compromised. 

And then Emergency Protocol: Foxtrap. This one comes with a note.

Friends and Colleagues – Be advised that all files on SHIELD personnel, past and current, as well as ongoing and concluded operations have been made public. If you are in the field, take what precautions are required to ensure your personal safety. Otherwise, stand down. Co-operate with local law enforcement as needed and do not attempt to access SHIELD equipment or facilities. Contact your direct supervisor with any concerns.

It’s signed Nicholas J. Fury. Just Nicholas J. Fury. Rumlow keeps staring at the screen, even tries highlighting the blank space under the name, just to see if Director of SHIELD will show up. Nothing. 

It feels like forever until they’re allowed to exit the plane and Rumlow starts shuffling down the aisle with everyone else. He sweats bullets all through customs – his passport doesn’t raise any flags, but it’s a Hydra-issued fake anyway, so that doesn’t really help clear anything up – and all the way through the gate until he’s out into arrivals. The airport TVs have the news playing, talking about – what else – the fucking fall of SHIELD and investigations into Hydra.

He doesn’t see his own face in the row of SHIELD ID photos crawling across the bottom of the screen, under the ‘Known Hydra Members at Large’ banner. So that’s something. He’s not planning on waiting around the terminal to see if he does come up. Better assume he’s been made and get out of dodge.

Duffel over his shoulder – fuck, he’s going to be wearing sand for the next… maybe for the rest of his life – he walks through the airport carpark until he finds a corner without cameras and a half-decent Honda Accord. He’s not going to go on the run in a Prius, for fuck’s sake.

It’s not long before he’s in – bless Murphy’s side hustle, he’d given all of STRIKE Alpha a test version of his HotWire app last Christmas – and on the road, putting DC behind him. He sets the bluetooth up to his phone.

“Call Rollins,” he tries, and the line rings three times before it goes to voicemail. “Fuck,” he says out loud. “Call Sitwell.”

Nothing.

“Call… I don’t know. Tanaka?” Line’s dead. “Alright, Murphy. Call Murphy.” And then, when that fails, “Kane?”

He can’t get through to anyone. Desperate, he puts his comms in and blurts out, “Is anyone live? Agent Rumlow, STRIKE Alpha, seeking any active personnel on this frequency. Hello?”

Nothing.

“Soldier,” he tries desperately, “are you there?” Static. Dead air. Rumlow starts to get a very bad feeling. “Search through notifications,” he tells his phone. “Phrase: ‘D-17 Standing Down.’”

“Searching,” Cortana tells him. They couldn’t get Apple phones for Hydra, for some reason. “Phrase not found.”

So the Asset hasn’t been put back in cryo.

“Search phrase: ‘received at base’,” he tries, because maybe they just haven’t gotten around to it yet—

“Phrase not found.”

Fuck.

If the Asset hadn’t made it to an extraction point, then where the fuck was it? Injured somewhere? Reacquired by whatever was left of SHIELD? It’s been out of cryo now for what – four days? Without an active handler, this could turn… gruesome. And fast.

The Asset missing wasn’t the worst news he’d gotten today – not by a long shot – but it was the only bit that was technically his responsibility to deal with. Not to mention the only thing he could do anything about, now, with Hydra… no. Not gone. Cut off one head, two more take its place – that’s been the line for like eighty years, right? There’s gotta be something to it. There have to be others that made it out.

The frantic tension he’s been stewing in for the past hour starts to fade as he lays out a plan. Okay. Step one, find and secure the Asset. Step two, gather whoever’s left standing. Step three, figure out where they went wrong on Insight and what can be saved. 

And, oh, yeah – try not to get arrested, or killed. That’s kind of a big one.

Chapter Text

Rumlow had had to live out of his car for a few months when he was twenty-five. This is worse. This is way worse – now he’s twenty-five times two, still somehow unsure whether or not he's an international fugitive, and doesn’t have even a little weed with him. It’s crap, is what it is.

He’s playing it safe – hadn’t gone back to his place before he set out, is only stopping at gas stations, the Asset’s old extraction points, and Hydra bases that may or may not still be active. The last one he’d been at had had a shower, so at least he isn’t covered in sand anymore. That’s a plus.

He’ll take any bright side he can find, because everything else is still going to shit. He still hasn’t been able to reach anyone, and every base he’s found was empty at best. And then there’s the Asset. It’s been out of cryo for over a week, and every time Rumlow remembers that fun detail it’s like an alarm starts blaring in his brain.

Fresh out of cryo, with a pre-mission wipe and clear orders to follow, the Asset can run smoothly for 72 hours. Then, if you follow Rumlow's updated manual, keep it calm and focused, and are careful about how much you let it sleep, that's another few days that shouldn't be too much of a problem.

Around a week, maybe ten days if you're really lucky, is when a good handler goes from important to fucking crucial, 'cause that's when the Asset starts getting weird. After that long without a wipe or a session in the Chair, something must start putting itself together in its pea soup of a brain because it starts asking questions. Where are we? What year is it? Why did you have me kill this guy – famously asked while holding said guy’s head. Within a day the questions are the least weird part of it. Out comes the slang no one’s ever heard of, and suddenly Tanaka becomes ‘Jim’ and Lipschitz becomes ‘Ma’am’.

It also gets… let's say emotionally unstable. Some STRIKE rookie once tried slapping the Asset – eight days post-cryo – across the face because he saw Pierce do it once and so assumed it was like a fucking reset switch.

Fun fact: having your arm ripped off is – for anyone who’s not a super soldier – pretty rapidly fatal.

In any case, it's been over a week now, and Rumlow has no idea if Kane even followed the post-thaw procedure at all, let alone ran a pre-mission wipe. And that's without mentioning this weird mid-mission wipe bullshit. At best the Asset's confused. Also, a week in the wind with all of Hydra shot to shit can't be doing it any favours. Rumlow knows how much its conditioning needs it to have routine, how panicky it gets when proper protocols aren't being followed. With everything compromised, no clue who to report to, and no hierarchy or superiors to rely on to give it orders, it must be feeling totally lost.

Honestly, Rumlow can relate.

The first Virginia base he hits is a couple miles outside Appleton, and Rumlow’s already setting his hopes low when he pulls into the parking lot. It’s a suburban shopping plaza, with most of the places boarded up and just a liquor store, a Chinese restaurant, and a bookshop still open. He heads for the bookshop and walks straight through to the steel ‘Employees Only’ door tucked into the back. There’s no one there to stop him, so that’s another bad sign right there. The door opens onto an elevator with only one button. Rumlow presses it and pulls out his gun as he lurches down. Better safe than sorry.

There’s lights on when the elevator doors slide open. Emergency lighting, but still. If the generator’s running maybe he can spring for another hot shower. For now he scopes the place out, checking each room on the way to the control center and finding fuck-all. He’s just turned the corner into the last stretch of hallway when he hears the footsteps.

There’s someone in the control center.

Rumlow presses himself into the wall and inches towards the doors. Whoever’s inside is shuffling around, making no effort – or a piss-poor one – to stay quiet. There’s static crackling as the guy cranks up the volume on a silent radio, and the sound of pages turning. Then a thud and a loud, whiny, “Oh, jeez,” that he never thought he’d actually be grateful to hear.

“Westfahl!” Rumlow calls. He lowers his gun and jogs the rest of the way, bursting into the control center. A familiar voice that isn’t an answering machine recording. Rumlow could kiss him. “Man, I am so glad to see you.”

Westfahl is mid-crouch, picking a binder as thick as his head up off the floor. The desk and the control panel behind him are covered in open folders and stacks of paper. He looks surprised, like he hadn’t heard anyone come in. Fucking disgraceful for a STRIKE agent but right now Rumlow doesn’t care.

“Commander,” Westfahl blurts. “Oh, man. Where’ve you been? I thought you were dead – or in jail, or – you know.” His face suddenly lights up into a grin. “You weren’t in the leak, either, were you?”

He wasn’t? “I wasn’t?”

“Well, they’d be after you if you were, wouldn’t they?”

Are they not?

“Westfahl, I’m gonna be straight with you,” Rumlow says. “I have no idea what the fuck went down last week. I was in the field. From what I—”

“Pierce didn’t put you on Insight?” Westfahl asks, frowning. Rumlow clenches his jaw.

“From what I’ve gathered,” he continues, choosing not to address that. “Hydra’s a household name now, SHIELD is tits up, and Romanoff leaked all the files from both and now we’re all screwed.”

Westfahl is shaking his head. 

“Not from both. She dumped everything of SHIELD’s but SHIELD didn’t have everything of Hydra’s. Her and the Avengers or whatever are still trying to fill in the blanks. They’re missing tons of intel. It’s totally random at this point – some people got found out as Hydra, but a bunch more didn’t. Yours truly included,” he adds, pointing at himself with both thumbs.

Okay. This is – a positive development? Maybe he can use his credit card again.

“So what the fuck are you doing here?” Rumlow asks.

“I’m going base to base making sure any record of me as Hydra is gone before Captain America gets here, gets his hands on it, and—” Westfahl makes a sawing gesture at his throat. “You know, with the,” and then mimes throwing a frisbee. 

“Cap’s been raiding bases?”

Westfahl grimaces. “Raiding is a nice word for what he’s been doing. Scorched earth – literally, in Maryland.”

“Are you sure I haven’t been found out?” Rumlow presses.

“No,” Westfahl says. “Not really.”

The small amount of relief he was getting from this conversation dissipates immediately.

“Who else is alive?” he tries.

“I dunno, Commander. No one’s answering my calls. No one’s on comms.”

“What about the Asset?” Rumlow asks.

“The Asset?” Westfahl frowns. “Hmm. Last I saw, it was—”

Rumlow holds up a hand to shut him up. There’s – something. He can feel it more than hear it, instincts kicking in. Westfahl catches on a few seconds later. Then they hear the voices, echoing down the hallway. Cap’s voice.

Westfahl looks as shit-his-pants terrified as Rumlow feels. He makes a few snap judgment calls.

One: he can’t win a fight against Cap. Full stop. Two: He and Westfahl together still can’t win a fight against Cap. Three: He and Westfahl definitely can’t win a fight against Cap and one or more Avengers. Four: Westfahl can’t lie for shit. Rumlow doesn't know how the guy's managed this whole double agent shtick for as long as he has.

So, fighting’s out. And Westfahl’s out. He can work with that.

There’s a few crucial seconds before Cap pushes open the door – Rumlow waits until it creaks open, then lifts his gun and shoots Westfahl in the head.

When Cap appears in the doorway, Rumlow aims at him and doesn’t even have to act terrified. There are no Avengers with him; instead, there’s a Black guy behind him Rumlow’s never seen before. Everything now depends on how Cap reacts. Rumlow watches that perfect All-American face like his life depends on it, his finger still on the trigger.

Cap looks startled, then blurts, “Rumlow?” 

It’s not “Rumlow!” in the sense of “Rumlow! You traitor! You fiend!” It’s “Rumlow?” as in “Rumlow, my friend? Oh hey, you’re here. Why’d you shoot that guy, buddy?”

Thank God. So Westfahl was right. He hasn’t been made after all.

“Cap,” he sighs, with fully genuine relief, and lowers his gun. “Man, I am so glad to see you.” He gestures to the body. “Can you believe it? I worked with this guy for eight years.”

Cap cranes his head a little to get a better look. He seems disturbed. “Westfahl was Hydra too?” he asks in a low voice.

“As Hydra as they come," Rumlow says regretfully. "The man bleeds squid ink, Cap.”

“I’m sorry, who’s this guy?” the Black guy asks, glaring through his sleek, red goggles. Rumlow squints at him. He’s pretty sure he’s not an Avenger. It’s not like there are enough of them for him to just miss one. Maybe they’re recruiting? 

“Brock Rumlow. I’m Commander of… I was Commander of STRIKE Alpha,” Rumlow says, and damn it, hearing it out loud makes it sting all over again. “With SHIELD,” he adds, just to be clear.

The maybe-Avenger seems unimpressed. “So what are you doing in a Hydra base?”

“Same thing you are, Goggles.”

“Falcon.”

Whatever. Fucking superheroes. “I got back from a mission three days ago and found out SHIELD is a, disbanded, and b, secretly Hydra. This seemed like the logical next step.”

Cap is nodding. Yes.

“He’s on the level, Sam,” Cap says. Sam-Falcon still looks not entirely at ease. “We’ve worked together.”

“That’s what you said about Rollins, and Murphy.” Sounds like they drew the short straw on the data dump, then. 

“Rollins?” Rumlow asks, hamming up the shock and horror. Cap nods sadly. “Murphy too? Shit.”

“Most of STRIKE got flagged,” Cap says apologetically. “Those two got away. I’m sorry. There’s no good way to find this out. You have any idea where they might have gone?”

Rumlow tries not to look relieved that Rollins is alive.

“No,” he says, shaking his head somberly. He hopes it looks somber, anyway. “I’d take a guess but… apparently I didn’t know them at all.”

Sam-Falcon looks a little sympathetic. Cap comes over close enough to clap a hand on Rumlow’s shoulder. Way better than when he’d first started working for SHIELD – turns out men in the ’40s were huggers.

“You been through these files yet?” Cap asks, gesturing to the desk in front of the control panel. Rumlow has no idea what’s in these files. He has no clue if he’s in these files somewhere.

“Yeah,” he says. “There isn’t much. This base wasn’t any kind of major hub. Not much tech, but a half-decent amount of weapons storage. It was a pretty popular extraction point in the ’00s.” He thinks that's right. 

“Anything about the Winter Soldier?” Cap asks. “Or,” he makes a face like he’s bit a lemon. “The ‘Asset’?”

Okay. So Cap knows about the Asset. Rumlow absorbs it. Fine. And he disapproves because… yeah, okay, that tracks. Moral code and all that. Brainwashing’s a big no-no. But that’s… more of a reaction than he’d expected.

How dumb is he gonna play here?

“No, and nothing about Bigfoot either,” he says glibly. “Really, Cap? The Winter Soldier?”

Cap’s expression goes real dark. “He’s real, all right.”

“You telling me you fought the Winter Soldier?” Is that why Pierce had decided to thaw him? And Rollins hadn’t sent him a video of that? “Who won?”

“Hydra,” Cap says grimly. “Seventy years ago.”

Abruptly, he smashes his fist against the control panel. Hard enough for sparks to skitter up the interface. His furious expression turns to oh shit when the red alert lights flash a millisecond after. A disgustingly calm voice comes on in between the screaming alarms. 

“Asset Containment Protocol Activated.”

Shit. Which one does this base have? Are they about to get gassed? Is the floor gonna—

A glass cylinder drops from the ceiling above Cap. Rumlow just manages to avoid getting clipped by the edge as it crashes over them both. There’s a loud clang as it lands, then some kind of whirr where it locks into place, and then silence. It must be soundproof. 

Sam-Falcon is looking at them through the glass in shock. His mouth starts moving and Rumlow taps his ear. Cap is busy punching the walls of the cylinder, so it’s up to Rumlow to play charades. He manages to act out the concept of an intercom, and Sam-Falcon walks over to the control panel and starts pressing buttons. After the fourth one, there’s a crackle of static above their heads.

“Hello?  Can you hear me now?”

Rumlow frantically gives a thumbs up through the glass.

“Okay. I don’t see a button here to let you guys talk to me…” Yeah, ’cause there isn’t one. If they’re at the point where they have to trigger containment, the Asset probably isn’t saying anything worth listening to. “But I’m gonna try to figure out how to get you out of there. So just hang tight.” 

Cap finally stops fighting the containment unit. His shoulders slumped, he presses his forehead to the glass and closes his eyes. 

“Of course I can’t break it,” he says tiredly. “No point trying if they had this built for Bucky.”

He rubs his eyes, and Rumlow officially has no fucking idea what he’s talking about. Cap must sense this, because he looks up at Rumlow and starts explaining.

“Hydra caught Bucky,” he starts. Rumlow does a quick mental inventory of everything he knows about Commandos trivia.

“Yeah, okay. In 1943?”

Cap clears his throat in that way Rumlow knows means he’s about to get sentimental.

“Yes,” he says. “But then after… Bucky died when we went after Zola.” Yeah, even Rumlow knew that much. “Or – I thought he did. He fell from a train. But that first time, in the factory, in ’43…” Cap stops, frustrated. “Anyways, the point is, he didn’t die. Hydra found him, and they took him prisoner. Again.”

Rough. Sucks to be Bucky Barnes. Rumlow still isn’t sure how this is relevant.

“They gave him some kind of version of the super serum,” Cap goes on, and Rumlow’s brows go up, intrigued, because he's pretty sure they hadn't taught that in tenth grade history. “They mutilated him, gave him some kind of – of – machine enhancements. Then they wiped his memories until he didn’t even know who he was. Tortured him - for years. Decades.” Cap swallows. “Brainwashed him.”

Wait.

“They – they used him as their goddamn slave for seventy years, Rumlow.” Cap’s voice is getting louder. “They kept him frozen between missions, in storage like… like a weapon, like a piece of equipment. He wasn’t even a person to them!”

Hold on.

“And I only found out when they sent him after me.” Cap’s hand curls into a fist. “He didn’t even remember his own name.”

Rumlow is having an out of body experience. He’s struggling to process. There is no way he can be standing here in this glass tube while Cap tells him what he thinks he’s telling him. No one can have luck that shit.

“Cap.” Rumlow clears his throat probably ninety-five times. “Are you saying…”

“The Winter Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes,” Cap says. “Bucky. My best friend. It was supposed to be the two of us –" he swallows, "– til the end of the line. But Hydra took him from me. And then they took him apart. So after I find him, that’s what I’m gonna do to them. I’m gonna finish what I started in the war, and take Hydra apart. Base by base. Limb from limb.”

This is unreal. Rumlow wonders how many times ‘Winter Soldier Primary Handler’ is written in his Hydra personnel files. It’s there on at least four pages of his Insurance and Disabilities Policy. And it can probably be traced from the hazard pay code on his paystub for the last decade. Not to mention his name on the front fucking page of the user manual. Asset Management – Third Edition, by Brock Rumlow. That had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

“Cap…” he says gently. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“He remembered me,” Cap says passionately, and Rumlow’s blood freezes in his veins. “I could see him fighting whatever they put in his head. He looked at me and… I know he remembered me. They sent him to kill me, and he pulled me out of the river instead.” He looks Rumlow in the eyes. “Why would he do that if he didn’t remember me?”

Maybe Kane had fucked up the wording of the order? Rumlow can’t even convince himself that there’s a chance this isn’t as bad as it seems.

He wonders abruptly if Pierce knew. Holy hell. If he knew, and sent the Asset after the one person it might actually remember – who happens to be the one person both most capable and most likely to fuck them all up when he found out what they did to his childhood best friend, then Rumlow’s lost all respect for the man. Hydra’s better off without Pierce, if he was that much of an idiot.

Right. Cap had asked him a question. 

“You’ll find him, Cap,” he says, trying for reassuring, and claps him on the shoulder. Cap gives him a small, sad smile. 

There’s a click and a hiss as the cylinder lifts off the ground and shoots back up into the ceiling. Rumlow watches it go, half wishing it would pull him up along with it and grind him to pieces in the mechanism. It would hurt less than whatever Cap will do to him if he reads even one Winter Soldier file that mentions Rumlow by name.

Chapter Text

Cap, Wilson – Rumlow finally got a proper introduction – and Rumlow torch the place. Like, to a degree that feels vindictive. Westfahl wasn’t kidding. Rumlow supposes that makes sense, since Cap's grudge against Hydra just got about a thousand times more personal. Before they start setting off explosives, Cap goes up to the Chinese restaurant in full uniform and checks with them what kind of insurance they have on their store, because even on a scorched earth revenge quest rampage he's gotta look out for the little guy. In the most pain-in-the-ass way possible. Wilson does the same to the liquor store, and Rumlow hangs around the Hydra-owned bookstore. Apparently Cap is satisfied with The Happy Dumpling’s coverage, because he evacuates the building and gives the go ahead to blow the place to kingdom come.

Right now they're en route to the Manassas base, planning one more raid before calling it a day. Rumlow's in the backseat of Wilson’s Prius next to the shield and like twelve bags of apologetically-purchased Chinese takeout. He couldn't think of a less-than-suspicious way to turn down Cap's offer to stay with them, so apparently that's what he's doing tonight. Things could be going better. 

They could be going worse, though, because Rumlow is pretty sure he knows the Manassas base. And if he's right, that means it's got a Chair, which means there's gonna be a bunch of files on the Asset, which means a bunch of files on him. He’s even got a good guess which room it's all in. At least if he's going in with Cap and Wilson, he's got a shot at getting to it before they do.

The drive’s about an hour, so Rumlow googles James Barnes Captain America on his phone and looks at the photos. There’s a few – most of them with Cap. The guy in these photos is short-haired and laughing, and Rumlow squints at him for a long time. Yeah, there’s a resemblance, but… he can count on one hand how many times he’s seen the Asset smile, and never with teeth. But then he scrolls down further and sees one of Barnes behind the scope of a rifle. He’s focused, intense. He clearly isn’t aware he’s being photographed, and it’s pretty grainy and small and black-and-white, but… yeah. Okay. Goddamn it.

There’s a photo of him and Cap, age nine. Barnes’ arm is slung around Cap’s tiny shoulders. Cap’s missing a tooth.

Rumlow is so fucked.

Cap and Wilson switch out driving so they can all take turns eating. One bite into his first happy dumpling, and Rumlow’s pretty sure half of the filling is cilantro or some freakish cilantro-cousin. Whatever. Food’s food, even if it tastes like soap. He tries to swallow down the rest of them without chewing. At least the chow mein’s good.

Cap asks where Rumlow spent the last few days, and Rumlow doesn’t even lie – just starts talking about the desert shitstorm he got punted into. Yeah, it was technically for Hydra, but at this point it’s not like anyone’s going to check. 

The Manassas base is immediately next to a Ch33zy Pizza, so – assuming he makes it to dinner alive – dinner will be good. Of the three of them, Wilson takes the longest to gear up, calibrating his wings – real useful in an underground base. Great choice. Also, what the fuck is up with the wings? Like, is having a jetpack not enough? There need to be actual wings involved? Rumlow just reloads. Like a normal person. Cap’s already leading the way in—

Wait. Was Wilson the unidentified airborne combatant? Oh – Falcon, he'd said. Rumlow gets it now.

The elevator seems a lot less roomy than the one in Appleton, though that might just be a side effect of sharing it with Cap and his giant frisbee. Not to mention Wilson’s wingspan. Ha. They shudder to a stop and Rumlow scans the hallways branching out, trying to orient himself. There we go – corridor three. Now if he can just convince them to split up, without seeming suspicious...

Rumlow thinks back to every mission he’s ever done with Cap.

“Obviously we gotta stick together,” he suggests. “It’ll take longer to search the place,” he leaves a small, very intentional pause, “but we stand a better chance if there’s a swarm of Hydra goons around the corner.”

Cap’s already shaking his head. “If we take too long, they’ll have already gotten rid of anything useful. Let’s split up. Cover more ground.”

Rumlow nods his assent, and silently cheers. He makes a show of looking around and ‘noticing’ the numbers painted on the hallway walls. “I’ll go down three, you two take five and seven?”

Wilson nods. “Sounds good.” He hands out a set of comms to Rumlow. He takes it and pops it in his ear. Wilson hands one to Cap, too, and he does the same, then turns and starts running immediately down his assigned hallway without bothering to check if it works. He’s fast enough that he’s gone in seconds. Wilson and Rumlow exchange a this fucking guy look. 

“Cap,” Wilson says, “you copy?”

There’s a pause. “Sorry,” Cap says through the comms. “Yes. Copy.”

Wilson rolls his eyes, and he and Rumlow test their own connections and move out. Rumlow sprints down corridor three as fast as he can.

The Asset prep room looks basically the same as it did the last time he was here. Which, given that was five years ago, definitely suggests something about Hydra’s budget for facilities and tech support. Jesus, he’s pretty sure some of the computers here could legally drink. The Chair, though, is state of the art and fucking pristine. It’s sitting in the middle of the room like a creepy, electropunk throne. Rumlow makes his way around it trying not to trip over the twelve thousand or so cables sticking out of the thing.

He’s got at most ten minutes, he guesses, before Cap calls in to ask what he’s found. And it’s not like he can hide the fucking Chair. So – priorities. He crawls under the desk and starts pulling out the computers. The Chair is plenty big enough to pile the two big ones onto it, and Rumlow sets up a daisy-chain of wires between them and the ones still lining the wall. Then he heads over to the controls.

The Chair boots up with a whir from the halo as it spins into place. Rumlow checks that the electric pads are flush with the processors and flips the switch, bracing himself for the noise. 

Huh. Turns out, without the Asset screaming, the halo is really fucking quiet. Blue lightning sparks through the chain of computers, frying them and filling the room with hazy smoke. Now it’s just the filing cabinet that’s left. Rumlow coughs, and tries to breathe through his mouth as he crosses the room. Then switches back to normal breathing because turns out, the only thing worse than smelling burnt rubber and plastic is tasting it. As he jerks open the top drawer and starts thumbing through the pages for anything that might include his name, he suddenly hears Cap’s voice coming in over the comms.

“Hey! Stop!” And then a few distant clangs of metal, and a whoosh. There’s a faint response Rumlow can’t make out, and then a thud.

“Captain,” a woman’s voice croaks out. “I – I was going to turn myself in.”

“That why you came back for all these?” Cap asks. “Agent –” there’s a shuffling, “–Laurens.”

She pretty wisely doesn’t say anything back. Her name seems familiar. There’s a vague image in Rumlow’s head of a short blonde lady, though he can’t quite remember anything else.

“Are there any names on these?” Cap presses.

“None you don’t already know,” Laurens says, and God, Rumlow hopes that’s true. “They’re not important. Not to you, at least.” Rumlow can’t hear anything happening, but her voice suddenly goes shrill and frightened. “They’re – they’re nothing! Just some files on the Asset, that’s it! Some data for projects that all died with the Triskelion! I swear!”

Cap’s voice is ice cold. “The Asset?” he says. “You came here for data on the Winter Soldier? Why?”

“I – I was on the project,” she says, and it clicks into place – Rumlow abruptly remembers a short blonde tech, snapping at the juniors for checking their phones. “Or – I just worked on the wipes, mainly. This is one of the few bases that has a Chair.”

“Tell me about the wipes,” Cap says.

“They’re – there’s a mechanism that administers electric shocks to the brain.” Rumlow hears Cap make a soft, wounded noise into the comms, “It’s – if it started having glitches in its programming, or breakdowns in its conditioning, we’d—”

“‘Its programming’?” Cap sounds pretty close to a breakdown himself. Laurens is clearly too panicky to read a room.

“If it started remembering anything not mission relevant,” she explains. “About who it used to be, or—”

“He!” Cap explodes, and Rumlow winces from the sudden volume. “Who he used to be! James Buchanan Barnes! He’s a goddamn person!”

“O-okay,” Laurens stammers. “Yeah. Sorry.” Laurens clearly has no clue what she’s apologizing for. “A-anyway, I was just a tech.”

“What does that mean?” Cap growls. 

“I wasn’t, like, in charge.”

“So you just pushed the buttons? You just followed orders?”

“I-I mean.” Laurens gulps, loud enough that Rumlow can hear it. “We all did.”

“Guess some things never change.” Disappointed Cap is even more of a punch in the gut than Righteously Furious Cap. “Get up,” he says. Rumlow hears Laurens grunting as Cap presumably pulls her to her feet. “We’re bringing you in. And if I hear anything about cutting off one head, two more—”

“Oh, don’t worry, Cap,” Laurens says, and there’s a definite shift in her tone. “We’ve updated the motto.” There’s a silence, and Rumlow can almost hear Cap leaning in to listen. 

“Order through pain,” she says, and then Rumlow hears a very loud click. 

There’s a sudden shuffle of movement and the muffled boom of a contained explosion. A grunt of pain. Then metal scraping. 

“Wait—” Laurens gasps, frantic – clearly whatever she’d tried had backfired bad – and then Rumlow hears a distinctive metallic shing. He hears her scream for half a second – Cap’s definitely pissed; Rumlow’s seen him kill clean – before it abruptly cuts off.

And then it’s over.

“Motto change was a good idea,” Cap says. Is he talking to Laurens’ corpse? Rumlow’s never seen him do that before. “I don’t see any new heads coming up.” Jesus.

Rumlow looks down to see if he’s actually, literally, pissed his pants. Okay, clearly in Cap’s head there’s Hydra, and there’s Hydra-that’s-also-laid-hands-on-his-Bucky. Very different worst case scenarios. For a second, Rumlow considers just going to the cops, fessing up to the truth about the AIM mission and turning himself in as Hydra. Cap can’t get to him in jail. 

Can he?

Rumlow’s lost maybe five minutes listening to that horrorshow, so he picks up the pace on the paper files. There are so many. How are there so many paper fucking files? What was it with Pierce’s insistence on hard copy?

“Steve?” Wilson asks through the comms. “You good?”

“Roger,” Cap says. “Got something. Heading to you.”

“Nah, nothing here. Place’s a ghost town. Rumlow? You got anything?”

Fuck.

“Looks like Christmas came early,” Rumlow says, looking at the folders and wishing his plane had crashed before reaching D.C. “Come down corridor three – second door on the left.”

He starts picking up the pace. Okay, that one’s got stuff on Jameson – sorry, Jameson, Cap’s about to add you to his hit list – and that one’s on the Asset, but it’s just maintenance shit from the ’80s. A bunch of these are missions he’s been on, but probably isn’t listed on by name. He doesn’t have time to look through and check, so he decides to just leave them and pray. This is fucking file triage. That one’s an instructional about the Chair, so whatever. That fat one’s transcripts of some meetings from the ’90s – Rumlow leafs through; he makes exactly one cameo appearance to ask everyone what they want from the coffee place, so he tears the page out and shreds it to scraps.

And – shit. That one’s a staffing rota. Rumlow’s hands are shaking as he flips through it. They’re all on it. Rollins, Murphy, Westfahl. Himself, with a little “Primary Handler” in italics under his name. It’s only three years old and they’re all on it. Rumlow tears the pages and tears them again, and now he can hear the footsteps coming up the hall. Thinking fast – and desperate – he shoves a handful of staffing rota confetti in his mouth, chews and swallows. Still better than MREs. He chokes down another two handfuls before Cap comes through the door. Wilson’s just a few seconds behind him.

Cap’s holding his shoulder. A little blood has trickled down his arm and stained his fingers, but it already seems dry. He and Wilson look at Rumlow, then just past him at the cabinet, and their faces light up.

“Nice,” Wilson says.

“Yeah,” Rumlow grins, like his heart isn’t about to jump out of his mouth. Cap’s shield is hanging from his arm, dripping what’s left of Laurens’ brains onto the concrete floor. 

Cap sees the Chair and immediately looks like he’s not done bashing in heads.

“That must be the chair she was talking about,” he says grimly. Rumlow can see his eyes trailing over the hydraulic clamps. “That’s where they… that’s where they erased him.”

“Looks like they tried to erase themselves, too,” Rumlow offers, gesturing at the smouldering computers.

“We don’t know exactly what they did to your friend,” Wilson reminds Cap steadily. “Since when do you take the word of random Hydra scientists?”

“Yeah,” Cap sighs. “Yeah, you’re right, Sam.”

“Usually am,” he says, and grins. “Now let’s start loading files into the car, yeah?”

Turns out Ch33zy Pizza’s insurance is dogshit, so the best Cap can do is seal the place off. He asks if any of them have a welding torch – no, obviously – when Wilson smirks and announces he’s got this. He turns on his jetpack. Is he planning to pick the base up and fly it to the moon? What could—

Oh, wow. He turns around and uses the boosters to solder the doors shut. That’s… pretty ingenious, actually. 

They cut the cables on the elevator, too, just in case. Rumlow watches the cabin hurtle down the shaft and crash-land twelve stories later. Pretty fucking thorough. You’d need super strength and climbing gear to get back in there. 

The car’s developed that classic post-mission funk of blood, sweat, and fast food by the time they get back to Cap and Wilson’s Airbnb. It’s almost enough to get Rumlow nostalgic for the rides back to base in the STRIKE van. He helps unload the crates of hopefully not incredibly incriminating files into the living room of the little beige bungalow.

Once they’re inside, Rumlow realizes how fucking exhausted he is. There are two bedrooms, both already claimed by Cap and Wilson, so he just drops his shit beside the couch. He sinks into the cushions. He’ll just sit here for a few minutes before—

—when he wakes up, it’s gone from dusk to fully dark outside. He sits up, startled, groggy,  and sees Cap drinking coffee at the kitchen table. He’s got a file open in front of him – Rumlow shoots awake – but it seems like it’s just the how-to guide on the Chair. Cap looks up.

“Rough day?” he says. Rumlow just nods. “I ordered pizza,” he adds, holding up a takeout menu from Ch33zy’s. “Sam’s gone out for a walk and if I were you, I’d take it easy. Tomorrow’s gonna be another long one.” He looks over the stacks upon stacks of files. Rumlow genuinely can’t tell whether those are going to be more or less of a pain in the ass to review now that his life’s on the line.

That’s very much a tomorrow problem though, since for once he’s determined to take Cap’s orders seriously. Rumlow heads into the bathroom and takes the hottest shower of his life. He comes out and changes into clean clothes, which feels incredible, and goes to join Cap at the table. His stomach’s grumbling. The pizza can’t come soon enough.

“Maybe you should get some rest, too,” he offers. Cap shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says. He’s staring at the schematics of the Chair. “It says the restraints are strong enough to hold him in case the process causes a seizure,” Cap tells him, appalled. “How many times did they force him into this thing?”

None, as far as Rumlow knows. The Asset usually just sat itself down when he told it to. 

The doorbell rings. Rumlow figures it’s the pizza, and Cap’s still nose-deep in the manual, so he pulls himself up across the living room and opens the door.

It’s not the pizza.

Rumlow actually closes the door and opens it again. That’s a thing he actually does. The Asset is still there, blinking back at him from the front steps. It doesn’t say anything.

The first thing Rumlow thinks, hysterically, is that they’re going to need more food.

Chapter Text

The Asset’s just standing there. 

It’s been a whole minute, Rumlow’s barely got his proto-heart attack under control, and the Asset’s just standing there with that dopey look on its face, like someone got a little too trigger-happy with the Chair. Abruptly, Rumlow realizes that must have been exactly what happened. Probably that weird mid-mission wipe. He doesn’t even know if it recognizes him right now.

It definitely still recognizes the chain of command, though. It snapped into parade rest the second he opened the door, and now it’s standing there, waiting for orders. Apart from the spaced out expression, this is almost normal behaviour. Rumlow looks it up and down. Running wild clearly hasn’t been working out for it.

The Asset’s gear is gone except for the boots, replaced with a hobo-looking jacket, dirty jeans, and a baseball cap. It would almost pass for low-profile if it didn’t smell like a dumpster. The Asset even looks filthy – like, to a noticeable extent. Its hair is greasy and matted, and its skin is pale and sweaty. Maybe it's hurt? 

“Rumlow?” Cap calls out from behind him. Shit. “Is that the food?” 

For a second, Rumlow considers just telling the Asset to leave, and meeting it later somewhere when Cap and Wilson are asleep. But Cap’s like ten feet away and Rumlow knows for a fact that the Asset with its knockoff I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-serum would be able to hear him from that distance even at a whisper, so he’s got no chance with Cap. When he talks, Cap’ll hear him immediately. And there is nothing he can say that won’t alert Cap to the fact that the Asset is standing on the goddamn porch. Maybe if he uses hand signals—

He hears a chair scrape. The Asset’s attention shifts to over Rumlow’s shoulder. Rumlow holds his breath. The Asset’s eyes hold on Cap, flick to Rumlow, then back to Cap, and it relaxes noticeably, like now it’s sure it’s in the right place. 

“Bucky?” Cap’s voice is strangled. The Asset frowns. Next thing Rumlow knows, Cap is crowding the doorway next to him. “Bucky, I…” It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to say. “You found me.”

The Asset nods.

“Are you okay?” Cap asks, and the Asset’s brow creases a little. It doesn't answer. Too vague, Rumlow thinks, irritated. He bites back the status report that’s already halfway out his mouth. If the Asset’s fucked itself up somehow and isn’t telling, that’d be the thing to ask, but obviously he can’t in front of Cap. So he just says nothing. The Asset’s eyes flash to Rumlow, imploring – it might not have a clue who he is right now, but it still somehow knows he’ll talk to it in a way it understands.

“Come inside,” he says, and the Asset looks so relieved to finally have an order that it closes its eyes for a second, nods, then steps through the doorway tracking mud and gunk onto the carpet. Rumlow shuts the door behind it. In the light, it looks even more like shit. Hasn’t bathed probably since they took it out of cryo. If it's been acting under post-mission protocols and looking for an extraction point this whole time, going from empty base to empty base, then it hasn't eaten or slept, either, in – Jesus, how many days now?

"You said I had a name," the Asset says to Cap. Cap's looking at it like it's a ghost. Which probably isn't so far off the mark, from Cap's perspective.

"Yeah," he manages. "Your name is Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes."

Rumlow watches the Asset's face for any trace of recognition. Nothing. It nods, like this new information is interesting, and maybe something to think about, but not anything earth-shattering.

"I… know you," it says next, and there's a stubborn certainty there. "There's flashes… I saw… and I felt…” It's struggling to explain, eyes squinting and trailing off to the side. "On the helicarrier."

"You remembered me," Cap offers. The Asset's eyes focus back on him. It looks surprised.

"Is that what that is?"

Cap's eyes go a little wet. "Yeah, pal," he says softly. "You're remembering everything they made you forget. We've been best friends since you were nine years old."

The Asset's eyes go wide and startled. Rumlow grits his teeth. The passage of time is generally a topic to avoid with the Asset, because its chronology doesn't really add up when it thinks about it too closely, and that opens up a whole can of worms. Rumlow's manual suggests going along the lines of 'things have always been this way, don't worry about it,' and then changing the subject to focus it.

Cap, though, clearly hasn’t read Asset Management, Third Edition, ’cause he just keeps pushing. “We grew up together. I used to come to your house for dinner every Wednesday, when my mom would work late. And you’d come to mine every Friday always saying you wouldn’t sleep over, but some weekends you’d just stay clean through until school Monday morning.” Cap swallows. “It was like that for years, until – until my mom died and I just moved to yours.”

The Asset nods again, slower this time. Processing. Rumlow can almost see it filing the information away, same as it would with a mission briefing. Those were also full of unnecessary details the Asset could boil down into parameters – time, place, target. It turns to look at him. Then it looks at him. Like it’s seen him before and is trying to figure out where. Which… there’s no way that ends well. It opens its mouth, and Rumlow experiences a sudden and intimate connection to every deer that has ever seen a headlight.

“Did we grow up together, too?” it asks.

Rumlow catches the look on Cap’s face and could swear that, somewhere, a bald eagle is crying.

“No,” Cap sighs. “No, you haven’t met… this is Rumlow.”

“Brock,” Rumlow cuts in. The Asset’s memory seems totally shot to shit, for now, but he’s not taking any chances. He’s pretty sure no one at work called him by his first name. “Call me Brock. Good to meet you," he adds for good measure.

“Brock,” the Asset repeats carefully, nodding. “And…” Its eyes go pinched for a moment, like it's just had a two-second migraine. “…Stevie?”

And just like that the fucking waterworks break. Cap starts bawling his eyes out and the Asset jerks back for a second ’cause it was expecting a quick nod or a quick correction or basically anything other than this. It looks spooked. Rumlow doesn’t blame it. Awkwardly, Rumlow reaches up a hand and pats Cap’s shoulder. 

“That’s,” Cap hiccups. “That’s right. Stevie. I’m Stevie.” And this is getting embarrassing. Yeah, sure, the scrawny little kid missing a tooth on Google images looked like a Stevie, but this guy? 240 pounds of muscle-bound patriotism, Greek-god looking war hero who could literally break Rumlow with one hand? This guy? Stevie?

“Cap…” Rumlow murmurs, and Cap sniffs one more time, then straightens up and wipes his face.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling himself together. And then, to the fucking Asset, Jesus, “Sorry.” Cool. Why not undo seventy years of brainwashing, while you’re at it?

The Asset doesn’t respond, obviously. It sways a little on its feet, and then a little more, until it pitches forward. Rumlow and Cap both move to catch it. Cap swoops easily under the Asset’s arm and holds its weight up like it’s nothing. Rumlow gets the metal arm side – the arm alone’s got a few dozen pounds on nothing – and struggles to stay standing. 

Rumlow notices it's not wearing its comms, and he wants to ask why, but of course he can't do that because he's not supposed to know anything about it. For the same reason, he can't ask for a debrief or a mission report or anything that might clue him in to more about what exactly happened when Hydra got blown to pieces. 

“Bucky, are you okay?” Cap asks, alarmed. “What’s wrong?” 

“When’s the last time you ate?” Rumlow asks.

“Six days,” it answers, a little woozily. Yeesh. It’s gotta be way under full functionality right now. Rumlow’s annoyed; he’d never be careless enough with it to let it get in this condition. Cap looks appalled.

“How about slept?” Rumlow asks, because apparently he’s gonna have to tease out the status report section by section.

“Ten days.”

Yeah, okay, that’s pretty bad.

“Food’s on its way,” Cap tells it. “Why didn’t you say something, pal?” It takes all of Rumlow’s energy not to roll his eyes. 

“Any injuries?” he asks instead. The Asset shakes its head. The movement disperses the smell of its hair, and Rumlow wrinkles his nose. Cap makes a face, too, because he’s probably smelling it twenty times as strong with his superpowered nose.

“Alright. That’s good, Buck,” Cap says. “How about you get cleaned up and I’ll see if we’ve got any Chinese left.” Fat chance. Rumlow ate the last happy dumpling before Manassas. 

The Asset still isn’t really steady on its own two feet, and the hallway’s too narrow for the three of them, so Cap hoists it the rest of the way to the bathroom while Rumlow catches his breath. Cap eases the Asset inside and then stops at the door.

“There’s soap and shampoo in the shower,” he says, pointing. Like that’s gonna help. “And towels in that cupboard over there.”

Rumlow wants to scream. The Asset gets cleaned up pre and post missions, usually by Rumlow himself, some STRIKE rookie he’d punted the task onto, or if they’re short on time, a goddamn NASCAR pit crew of technicians. High dependency when not on mission is the name of the game. Someone’s gotta help it.

Not with the whole process, but most of it, and Rumlow can’t tell Cap which parts are which without – again – looking like he knows way more than he should. And he can’t go in there and just do it himself for the same reason.

“Um.” Cap scratches the back of his neck. Rumlow can picture the blank stare he’s getting from the Asset. “That tap’s for hot and cold water. Just push that button for the shower.” Cap pauses for the Asset to respond. No response. This is gonna get old fast. “Water pressure’s a bit—”

Fuck it. “Cap!” Rumlow calls. Cap looks over his shoulder at him and Jesus, Rumlow’s not ready to see a national icon looking that helpless and scared. This is not the Cap he had on his lunchbox at age eight. “It needs—” Fuck. Pronouns. “It looks like your buddy’s in pretty bad shape. You might need to help… out. In the shower.”

“I… right. Of course.” Cap shifts his weight, uncomfortable and a little overwhelmed. “Good call.” He still doesn’t go into the bathroom, though. Rumlow stares at him.

“I’ll call the pizza place and order more,” he says slowly, “while you help –” Wow, Rumlow just physically can not say the name ‘Bucky’ – “him take a shower.”

Cap gets his mission face on. “Right. Yes.”

“Give me a shout if you need anything,” Rumlow offers. He’s almost hoping Cap does, or – even better – just asks Rumlow to do it for him. He could get the Asset on its own and give it the instructions it needs to get them both out of here. And that way he wouldn’t have to listen to Cap figuring out through trial and error how dependent the Asset actually is off-mission. Because good God. He hears Cap ask the Asset to undress, and then – after a long pause – a squeak on the tiles as Cap crouches down to help. 

Rumlow calls Ch33zy Pizza and asks them to double the order – yes, that’s right, eight large pizzas please – before also asking them to change it to no olives so he doesn’t have to sit through the Asset’s grossed-out grimace as it eats. Then he sits at the kitchen table, and starts flipping through the files Cap had been reading. He can hear water falling in the bathroom, so that’s good. He’s got some time.

Except no he doesn’t. He hears the door opening and turns to see Wilson stepping inside. Rumlow nods at him. He is in for a surprise. Wilson immediately notices the prints on the floor, and raises both eyebrows at Rumlow.

“We got company?” he asks.

“Yep.” Rumlow’s still trying to figure out how exactly to put this. Wilson waits expectantly.

“I’m assuming they’re not Hydra,” he says finally, “since I hope if they were, you wouldn’t be sitting—”

The bathroom door slams open and Rumlow hears wet feet sprinting down the hallway, just a couple seconds before the Asset bursts into the living room. It’s fully nude, soaking, soap suds in its hair, fully nude, and baring its teeth. Rumlow spots Cap chasing behind it, and in the time he looks away from it the Asset manages to grab a steak knife from the kitchen. Wilson’s already dropping and rolling as the knife sails across the room. The Asset’s moving, lunging for Wilson, and the knife sinks into the wall up to the handle and—

“Bucky, stop!”

It’s enough. The Asset stops mid-jump, landing on its knees on the carpet. It looks back at Cap, confused. It turns to Rumlow. Slowly, it climbs to its feet – adrenaline gone, it can barely stand again – and takes a half-step forward, putting itself in front of both of them. Cap comes close and grips its upper arm.

“Hey,” he says firmly, “that’s Sam. He’s a friend. Don’t hurt him.”

The Asset looks skeptically at Wilson. “He’s a non-hostile?” it clarifies.

“I wasn’t, until you threw a knife at me!” Wilson calls out from the floor. He gets to his feet uncertainly. “Holy fuck.” He glares at Rumlow. “Some warning would’ve been nice.”

It actually wouldn’t have been the worst thing for Rumlow if the Asset had sunk that knife into Wilson’s skull. “I was trying to ease you into it,” he shrugs. 

“Sorry, Sam,” Cap says, looking at the Asset with this vulnerable, concerned expression he hasn't been able to shake since it walked through the door. He’s going to get worry lines if his face keeps doing that. “He just showed up a few minutes ago.” He can’t help sounding happy about that, can he? Wilson gives Rumlow an is this guy for real? kind of look. “C’mon, Buck,” Cap tells the Asset. “Let’s finish getting you cleaned up.”

When Cap’s got them both in the bathroom and shut the door behind them again, Wilson turns to Rumlow, exasperated, and says:

“You know, that guy ripped my steering wheel right out of my car. Through the roof.”

“No shit?” Rumlow offers.

“On the highway at seventy miles an hour. He also tore one of my wings off with his hand and threw me off a helicarrier.”

“Seems like you fixed ’em,” Rumlow says. Wilson shakes his head.

“Backup pair.” He glances at the bathroom door. “You think it’s a good idea for us all to just stay in a house with this guy?”

“Nope.” Even as Rumlow says it, they can both hear the gentle, affectionate murmurs of Cap explaining to the world’s greatest cyborg assassin how to use a loofah. “You wanna be the one to tell Cap?”

Wilson sighs. He grabs a seat, just as the doorbell rings. This time it’d better be the fucking pizza.

Chapter Text

So Rumlow's sitting around a tiny table eating pizza. His chances of being found out – and therefore decapitated via shield – have probably quintupled since an hour ago. And they were already pretty fucking high. It's not the most tense he's ever been at a dinner, but it's definitely up there.

To his left is Wilson, the newest Avenger, who seems to be regretting his friendship with Cap more by the minute, and who is glaring daggers at the Asset. Who is sitting at Rumlow's right in sweats and one of Cap’s too-tight t-shirts and working away at slice number twenty-two. So: to Rumlow's one side, the Falcon. To his other side, the fucking Winter Soldier, more amnesiac than usual and also Captain America's long-lost best friend. Directly across from him is Captain America.

Unreal.

He's been a double agent for like twenty years, and he has never been as conscious of what he says and does as he is right now. The tiniest slip up could end up with his brains across the room.

When the pizza came, Cap had looked pleasantly surprised, then frowned and asked him how he knew to change the order to no olives. Good question.

"I hate olives," Rumlow'd blurted. 

"Oh," Cap had said, apparently satisfied with this explanation. "So does Bucky."

No kidding.

That was too close a call, so now Rumlow is on hyper alert. Cap and the Asset together have polished off nearly four pizzas – and the Asset, at least, doesn’t show any signs of slowing down – while Rumlow and Wilson haven’t quite made it through one. Wilson’s on his sixth slice. Rumlow’s on his fourth and he probably isn’t even gonna finish it. It's kind of emasculating. Whatever. It’s not Rumlow’s fault he isn’t a super soldier, or in his thirties anymore.

This is such bullshit. Now Rumlow has to pretend to hate olives.

No one's talking much over dinner, which is probably for the best – Cap and Wilson are both looking over at the Asset a lot, with wildly different facial expressions. 

“So,” Wilson’s the first to break the silence. “Where’ve you been, man?”

The Asset doesn’t look up from what’s probably slice number twenty-five. It doesn’t seem to realize it’s being addressed. Cap’s hand hovers over the Asset’s back – ever since it got here, he’s been fluttering around it like a moth, obviously wanting to reach out and touch but not sure if he should.

“Buck?” Cap presses gently.

It looks up at Cap, then at Wilson. It swallows. Rumlow tries not to look as interested as he is. Here we go. A mission report, fucking finally.

“I didn’t complete my mission,” it starts, which isn’t a great start. “I pulled Steve out of the Potomac River and left him on the bank, alive. Then I proceeded to the DC extraction point.”

Cap’s slice freezes halfway to his mouth.

“And?” Wilson pushes, unsurprised.

“Nobody was there to report to,” the Asset says. “I waited forty-eight hours. Then I tracked Steve down."

"You mean to the hospital?" Wilson asks, brows shooting up high. The Asset nods. 

“Initially observed from a distance,” it confirms. “Approached after two hours, through the window.” Wilson looks disturbed. Cap is giving the Asset the manliest heart eyes Rumlow’s ever seen. "But,” the Asset continues, “I – I had to go for extraction. I reported in to the next closest base I knew of – in Bethesda.” It looks agitated suddenly. “But I had to… go with Steve.”

Great. It’s coming up with its own objectives. Rumlow's only seen this happen a handful of times, the Asset getting lost in its own head three-to-four weeks out of cryo and getting confused about what it was supposed to do. The solution to this is a couple hits with the stun baton and a clear reiteration of mission objectives from its handler. And then getting it back in the Chair and on ice ASAP. 

Instead of any of that, Cap doubles down on the heart eyes, and says, “I’m glad you’re here, pal.”

Rumlow tears a frustrated chunk of pizza off with his teeth. He waits for more detail, but the Asset's apparently done. It is without a doubt the worst report he's ever heard it give. Though to be fair, this mission’s gotta be the biggest trainwreck in Hydra history.

"What happened in Bethesda?" Wilson asks. “Was Hydra there to meet you?”

"No." It pauses. "Inaccurate – two low-level technicians, but they left as soon as I got there. I waited…" its eyes glaze over, then its eyelids actually flutter. It looks fucking exhausted. It jerks a little, then keeps talking. “Twenty-four hours, then I continued to—”

“Was there anyone at any of the bases you went to?” Rumlow tries, impatient. He doesn’t need a fucking play by play. The Asset shakes its head. Well shit.

Where the fuck is everyone?

“Are you trying to get in touch with your handlers?” Wilson asks, and Rumlow thinks I wish.

Cap sits up straighter. "Sam."

“Steve,” Wilson says levelly. He doesn’t take his eyes off the Asset. The Asset just looks over at Cap, confused, and then at Rumlow, which is not ideal. It doesn’t answer. "Who do you report to?" Wilson tries, undeterred by Cap's glaring. The Asset thinks hard, and Rumlow holds his breath.

"My handler… I think his name was Commander Kane."

Rumlow exhales. It's dizzying, having a crumb of good luck after an uninterrupted week of total shit.

"And now?"

"That's enough, Sam," Cap snaps. Then he holds himself back a little, and adds, calmer, "Bucky can tell us more tomorrow."

"After he's killed us all in our sleep?" 

Rumlow should be so lucky. Wilson looks to him like back me up, man, and Rumlow takes a second to think about it.

“There’s definitely more to the story here,” he says carefully, “But I don’t think anyone’s gonna get killed tonight, Wilson,” he finishes. “The guy looks dead on his feet.”

It’s true. The Asset’s struggling hard to keep its eyes open now, dozing off and jerking awake every couple of seconds. It’s somehow managed not to drop the slice of pizza in its hand. Cap gently takes it out of its grip and sets it down.

“Hey,” he says softly, and the Asset’s eyes flash open.

“Permission to sleep?” it asks. Cap looks like he’s been punched in the gut. Wilson looks away unhappily, swallowing, and Rumlow aims for ‘held-back surprise’ at something he’s heard it say literally dozens of times.

“Yeah,” Cap says helplessly. “Of course you can sleep.” He stands. “Gimme a minute to get the room ready.”

He flutters away and disappears into his bedroom. Just as Rumlow’s wondering how the hell he’s ever gonna get the Asset away from Cap, it stands up, then wordlessly stumbles to the couch and lies down right beside it on the floor. It’s out in seconds. Wilson and Rumlow stare.

“Unreal,” Wilson says under his breath. Cap comes back out, sees the Asset, and deflates a little. He comes over and crouches by its side. Wilson looks tense when Cap squeezes its shoulder. 

“Bucky? There’s an actual bed made up for you. Wanna get up and go to bed?” Not even a hitch in its breathing. The Asset is out. After a few more attempts at shaking it awake, Cap stands up, frowning down at it, then looks up at Rumlow.

“Rumlow, I can,” he starts, uncomfortable. “Sam has a point. I can take the couch if you’d rather not…”

“Nah,” Rumlow says, too quickly. He plays it off with a shrug. “I’m the only one here that was never on the Winter Soldier’s hit list.” Then, directly to Cap, he says, “We’ll be fine.” Cap looks torn for a second, but then he nods. He spares one last glance at the Asset before he comes back to join Rumlow and Wilson in the kitchen, looking like every step he takes away from the couch causes him physical pain. Wilson looks at Rumlow skeptically, but it’s more concern than suspicion, so it’s probably fine.

Still, it’s kind of annoying.

“You sure?” Wilson presses.

Rumlow snaps, “Oh, what, I’m not an Avenger so sleeping on a couch is too risky for a guy at my level?”

Wilson looks taken aback. “Whoa,” he says. “Not what I meant.”

Rumlow rubs his face. “Sorry. It’s been a hell of a day. Week.”

Wilson softens. “It sure fuckin’ has.” He looks at Cap. “Okay. I dunno about you, but I’m in serious need of an hour-long bubble bath and a full night’s sleep. I say we rest up, sleep in. Since it doesn’t seem like we’re heading out anywhere tomorrow morning.”

Cap can barely tear his eyes away from the Asset.

“No,” he agrees. “Yeah. You’re right, Sam.”

“Usually am. We can go over these files tomorrow.”

Cap reluctantly walks to his bedroom. “I’ll leave my door open,” he tells Rumlow.

Rumlow grits his teeth. “Great,” he forces out.

They all say their good nights, Cap and Wilson go to their rooms – they both don’t shut their doors all the way – and then finally, finally, Rumlow has the Asset alone.

Okay.

There’s the sound of running water – Wilson’s room’s got an ensuite, he must have been serious about that bubble bath – so Rumlow grabs a file, climbs over the Asset, and gets on the couch. Time to kill. He reads through – he’s not in this one, it seems, though it takes him a long time to piece together the Russian parts – until he hears Wilson drain the tub. He waits twenty minutes after the sound of water gurgling down the drain ends, then listens. He can’t hear anything. No movement, no talking, nothing from either room. Rumlow sets the file aside.

There’s so many more on the table. It’s going to take him hours to go through them all – is it even worth trying? If he manages to take the Asset and bolt, there won’t really be much point trying to hide that he’s Hydra. 

Speaking of. He checks his Hydra phone. Nothing. Zero messages. No calls. If he wants to take the Asset out of here, alone, he’s going to have to do it once it’s slept a little. He’ll need backup that isn’t comatose.

He leans over the side of the couch to look down at the Asset. Still 100% unconscious.

“Fuck,” he says quietly.

Cap’s out of his room so fast it’s like he teleported into the doorway. “Rumlow?” 

Rumlow nearly falls off the couch. He flails and just barely manages to grab the back and avoid landing right on top of the Asset.

Fuck. Super hearing.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Jesus, Cap. What the hell.”

Cap looks down at the Asset, then back to Rumlow. The only things he’s wearing are a pair of four-leaf clover pyjama pants, and the fucking shield strapped to his arm. There’s a bit of drywall dust falling off of it from where he clipped the doorframe.

“Sorry,” he says, not even pretending to be sorry. “All good?”

“Rogers, go to sleep,” he says, annoyed, but also having palpitations. “We don’t need two sleep deprived super soldiers here. If I need help, you’ll hear.”

Cap looks sheepish. “I’ll… I’ll just.”

“Go back to sleep,” Rumlow finishes for him. Cap hunches his giant shoulders and turns to leave. With the shield. “These are load-bearing walls, Cap. Leave it,” Rumlow says sternly, because seriously? and Cap sets the shield down and disappears back up the hallway. An hour later, Cap slinks out of his room to try to grab a few of the files; Rumlow has to shoo him away like a little kid. After another hour, he starts to hope he’s actually fucking asleep this time. He climbs slowly off the couch, steps over the Asset, and creeps toward the kitchen.

“Cap,” he whispers, sticking a cup of cold coffee into the microwave. “Steve. Come out here.” He watches the hallway, watches the Asset sleep. Not even a twitch. “It’s... it’s B—” Nope. Literally can’t make himself say it. “It’s your friend. Barnes.” Still sounds weird. 

The microwave beeps. Cap doesn’t come crashing through the wall like the Kool-Aid man, so, small blessings. Rumlow nearly burns his hand on the mug on the way back to the couch – the coffee inside is somehow still fucking cold – he takes a long drink, and nudges the Asset’s shoulder.

Nothing.

Rumlow crouches down at the Asset’s head, trying to stay out of arm’s reach. Just in case.

“Hey,” he hisses, and this time pinches down where the Asset’s shoulder meets its neck. “Soldier. Wake up.” It doesn’t even twitch. 

He tries shaking it, then tugging its ear, then a kick to its side. The arm starts re-calibrating at that, though, so Rumlow doesn’t try again. Fuck. The thing is fully out cold. He takes another sip of coffee – it’s got a little warm from the mug, now, so that’s a plus – and sits down on the couch. The microwave clock says it’s just past 2:00. He’ll try to wake it up again in an hour. The Asset’s usually allowed to sleep, what? Three, four consecutive hours, maybe twice a week? It should start waking up in another hour. Two tops. Tops.

Suddenly, he feels his phone vibrating against his thigh. Is the fucking battery dead? He takes it out, scowling. Pierce said these things could go a month on—

02:05: Hey

02:05: Did you get cupcakes for Lacey’s birthday?

Rumlow’s almost too excited to type properly.

02:05: Rollings?? Yiurbe aluve

02:06: 🙄

02:06: Passcode dipshit 

02:06: Out of cupcakes. I had to get ice cream instead.

02:06: Heyyy man 

This is fucking incredible. He’s been screaming into the void for days. It’s about goddamn time someone actually answered. And not some asshat like Westfahl this time. Rollins! Fucking ideal.

02:06: U good? Where r u?

02:06: NOT good

Rumlow’s thumbs are flying across his phone, trying to put this bullshit into words, when there’s a loud, buzzing vibration as Rollins calls.

Shit. He swipes frantically to ignore the call, then quickly goes to set his phone to silent. There’s a few seconds where he holds his breath, listening for Cap. But all he can hear is the Asset’s steady breathing. Rumlow puts a hand on his chest and tries to calm the fuck down.

02:06: DONT call

02:07: I’m ok for now

02:07: Kind of in a shitshow

Rumlow angles his phone and takes a selfie beside the Asset. He manages to get the shield in frame, and edits the picture to say Falcon with an arrow pointing to Wilson’s door. Rollins’ typing bubble appears and disappears six times before he finally gets a response.

02:10: Explain

02:10: U w cap??

02:11: He doesn’t know I’m hydra

02:11: ...u r tho?

Rumlow rolls his entire head.

02:11: Yes asshole

02:11: Obviously

02:11: But caps on a rampage so I’m letting him think I’m not

He types for a long time, and Rollins apparently gets impatient.

02:11: Just send a voice memo

02:11: I CANT IDIOT cap will fucking hear me

02:11: I’m with him and falcon

02:11: Was going base to base and ran into them

02:11 Asset showed up few hours later

02:11: Now we’re raiding Hydra bases together

02:12: Btw westfahls dead 

02:12: I’m trying to keep cap from finding shit at the bases we’ve been going to

02:12: Asset showed up? Why?

02:12: Did u know its Bucky Barnes

Jesus Christ. His phone auto-capitalizes Bucky Barnes.

02:12: Turn off autocorrect dumbass. U typied Bucky Barnes

Rumlow just stares at his phone for a long time. He goes on Google images again, and sends Rollins the photo of Barnes behind the rifle. Then he sends him one of the two of them, Barnes and Cap, with the rest of the Commandos in the back. And then the one of them as kids. And then a few more. He maybe gets a little carried away with the photos.

02:14: Not autocorrect 

02:14: These ones r him in wwii. Photoshop on long hair u will see

02:14: Thats them tgether age 9

There’s a long pause before Rollins answers.

02:18: 🤯😨

02:19: Dude…

02:19: Yeah

02:19: Fuck

02:19: Caps not happy

02:19: Yea no shit

02:20: How r u still alive

02:20: Kane fried its brain w midmission wipe. Doesnt remember me rn

02:20: Tbd how long that lasts. Its sleeping. 4 hrs+

The Asset starts to snore. Rumlow gives it another kick and it goes quiet. Still doesn’t wake up though.

He’s getting a little nervous about that, actually. Missions were always a careful balance between letting it sleep long enough to stay functional but not so long that its conditioning started cracking. It’d start remembering stuff, and while he normally prefers it when the Asset knows who the fuck he is, that’s absolutely not what Rumlow needs right now.

Rollins’ reply doesn’t make him feel any calmer.

02:22: Not kane

02:22: Midmission wipe was pierces call

Rumlow frowns at his phone.

02:23: ?

02:23: Asset was getting weird after it fought cap

02:23: Was saying it knew him

02:23: Freaked pierce out

02:23: Reply: “Was saying it knew him” I guess it did LOL

02:23: Reply: “I guess it did LOL” Fuck off

02:23: Tell me pierce didnt know its Bucky Barnes

02:24: Idk

02:24: I dont think so

02:24: Things were getting crazy at the end man 

02:24: Nobody was making smart calls

02:25: Im so fucking glad you answered

Rumlow is so fucking glad he texted. 

02:25: Dont be fucking gay

02:25: Its been just me + murphy for days

02:25: We’re both in hiding

02:25: Fucking romanoff

Murphy the tech? Now that’s actually excellent news. The Asset’s brain is basically electrified mush right now, but once it wakes up the worst of the damage should be healed. Probably. Then it’ll be just like a regular three-to-four weeks out of cryo shitshow, instead of whatever this was. Probably. And the classic fix for that is a semi-competent tech and a mostly-functional Chair. Hail Hydra.

02:26:  I’m gonna try to wake the asset up and get us out of here

02:26: Ok good call

02:26: We’ve got basically no weapons at all

02:26: NEED to get it away from cap

02:27: Was gonna just leave but we’re near the Manassas base. It’s got a chair

02:27: Ask murphy if he can tell me how to reprogram

02:27: One sec

Rumlow waits. After a few minutes, he leans over the couch and tries again, whispering directly into the Asset’s ear. “Soldier,” he hisses, as loud as he dares with Cap thirty feet away. “Get up. This is your commander.” It frowns a little in its sleep, but nothing. Rumlow pokes its face. “Wake up. That’s an order.”

“Lay off, pal,” it mumbles, and swats him away. Rumlow is so caught off guard he sits back on the couch and leaves it alone. Jesus. That accent. The Asset was creepy enough before it started sounding like a ‘30s gangster right off the silver screen.

When he looks at his phone again there’s another message.

02:40: Yeah ok

02:40: Call once you get it in the chair

02:40: Murphy says he’ll walk you through a factory reset

02:40: NICE

Rumlow glances at the Asset.

02:40: Might be a few hours

02:40: wtf

02:40: Go now

02:40: Can’t

02:41: Cap todl it to sleep and it passed tf out

02:41: Can’t wake it up

02:41: Ugh

02:41: Ok. Later then

02:41: Don’t die before you get here k?

02:41: You too man 

02:41: 🐙

02:41: 🐙

The Asset’s been asleep close to five hours now. It can’t stay comatose that much longer. Maybe another hour or two and he should be able to wake it up. Rumlow can’t exactly set himself an alarm, so he gets up and starts flipping through the files on the kitchen table. Inventory checklists will have some names in them. And oh, look, a STRIKE health and safety quarterly report. Reading that over should kill almost as much time as writing it had.

He puts another cup of coffee in the microwave.

Chapter Text

The Asset has been asleep for thirty-six fucking hours. Rumlow is about to have an aneurysm. There was a brief, hopeful moment yesterday when it got up, but all it did was stumble to the bathroom like a zombie, take a piss, then come back and pass out again. On the couch this time. Rumlow hasn’t slept much since. He’s actually considering asking Cap if he can borrow his bed for a nap.

Rollins’ texting isn’t helping, either. He keeps bitching at Rumlow to get it to the Chair already, this is way too many hours of sleep, it’s gonna start remembering stuff, its programming is gonna blah blah blah. Like Rumlow doesn’t fucking know.

It’s actually been a relief to help Wilson and Cap review the Hydra files. He can at least pretend he has some goddamn control over that situation. Rumlow’s just been blacking out anything that might give them useful intel, and shuffling the ones that might mention him – or really anything since ’99 – to the bottom of the pile, for shredding sometime overnight. 

He’s already managed to get rid of three shipping invoices that he’d approved, and a fucking Gantt chart for Helicarrier C that listed him as ‘second vice supervisor of control system F-14’, reporting to Sitwell. And a copy of that workplace sexual harassment seminar Pierce had made him run for STRIKE in ’07. That one doesn’t immediately scream Hydra, but he shredded it all the same. Some of those visual aids were just undignified.

They hit the Asset medical records motherlode that morning, and Cap’s already shattered two coffee mugs just from a quick skim.

“Steve,” Wilson says, for what’s got to be the tenth time. “Take a break.”

“Hm?” And that’s the most Cap’s said in the last half hour. He’s still sitting in pretty much the same position, too, hunched over in one of the too-small chairs and watching the Asset snore between glares at whatever he’s reading. Not Rumlow’s problem, though – he’s got fresh coffee, and it’s taking his last two sleep-deprived brain cells to read through the Asset’s February 2003 post-thaw check up, just to make sure his signature doesn’t appear.

“Go for a run or something,” Wilson insists. “I’ll text you the second he wakes up, okay?”

“I can’t… I can’t leave him,” Cap says. He swallows. His eyes dart to the file in front of him. “Not again.”

Cap’s got some serious guilt issues, Rumlow’s learned. It’s definitely something to keep in mind for later.

“Steve.”  Wilson’s clearly been spending too much time around Cap, because that righteous tone and classic I can do this all day chin jut are rubbing off in the worst way. “Get outside, take the car and pick us up some lunch. And buy some new mugs. The metal, camping kind. Okay?” he adds, a little softer, because Cap’s looking back and forth between Wilson and the Asset like a kicked puppy. “We’ll call if anything changes. But, man, you gotta take care of yourself, too.”

Cap looks sceptical.

"You're not helpful when you're like this," Wilson says frankly, and that one seems to get through.

“I… yeah. Okay.” Cap still looks miserable, and it does something weird to Rumlow’s gut to watch him try and smile through it. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. And hey,” Wilson calls, as Cap zombies his way into his jacket and to the door. “See if you can find a half-decent burger place.”

Cap does that sad, suffering smile thing again and nods on his way out the door. Rumlow watches him walk down the driveway through the kitchen window, hands in his pockets and head bowed low. Even the way he backs the Prius out onto the street seems depressed.

“So, Cap’s kind of…” Rumlow starts, and Wilson leans his elbows on the table and rubs his face.

“Dude. You don’t even know. It’s been go go go for weeks.” Wilson looks up at him, like he’s desperate to unload. “And it’s hard to argue with him when he goes all Captain America, so all I'm doing is ‘Umm, maybe we don’t charge into this armoured base with no ammo on us?’ ‘Hey, Steve, are you sure we should run toward the brainwashed assassin’?”

“He’s loyal to his people,” Rumlow offers. It’s true. In every mission Rumlow did with him, Cap was all about not leaving anyone behind. 

Kind of obvious why, in retrospect.

“Yeah, he's a great guy and a really good friend,” Wilson says, “But there’s loyalty, and there’s totally abandoning all sense of, like, self-preservation.” He rubs the back of his head. “Was he like this before?”

Rumlow does a double take. How old does this guy think he is?

“Uhh. How far back – what do you mean?”

“Before all the SHIELD/Hydra bullshit. Like when you worked with him, on STRIKE.” He pauses. "You worked with him on STRIKE, right?"

Rumlow stares. “When did you and Cap meet?” he finally asks.

“Few weeks ago.”

Rumlow keeps staring. Wilson must realize how insane that sounds, because he ducks his shoulders, all defensive.

“I mean,” he says. “Yeah. Few weeks. We went running. Got along really well.”

“I thought you were an Avenger.”

“No, man, I’m a retired pararescue.” Wilson shakes his head. “I work at the VA now, counselling.”

How the fuck— “You’re a therapist.”

“Yeah.”

“So—” Rumlow’s totally abandoned the file he was reading. This guy might actually be crazier than Cap. “You just like, met Cap one day, and then immediately quit your job and went hunting for Hydra?”

Wilson looks embarrassed. Holy shit, and he’s saying Cap has a loyalty problem?

“I didn’t quit my job,” he says reasonably, “I took a sabbatical.” When Rumlow just blinks at him, he goes on the offensive. “I dunno, man, listen, Cap showed up, decided we were gonna be friends, and it’s not like I’m gonna sit back while there’s a Nazi—”

“Decided you were gonna be friends?” Rumlow repeats, incredulous. Wilson rolls his eyes.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “The dude is intense, that's all I'm saying. Anyways, turns out being stuck together on a nation-wide manhunt really speedruns a friendship.”

Rumlow can believe it. Wilson seems like he’s about to say more, but then his phone buzzes. He looks at it, and excuses himself.

“Hey, Sarah,” Rumlow hears as Wilson steps into his bedroom, “Yeah, I’m still—” he shuts the door most of the way behind him, and Rumlow is alone. He finishes going through the file, and only has to rip three pages out and crumple them in his pockets. He’ll flush them down the toilet later. He can faintly hear Wilson trying to explain to his – girlfriend? Sister? – that he doesn’t know where he’s going next, don’t freak out if she sees him on the news.

It creeps up on him, but all at once Rumlow can feel eyes on the back of his neck. Wilson’s still chattering on the phone in the next room and he hasn’t heard Cap come back yet. Slowly, real slowly, he turns. The Asset is lying on the couch looking right at him, fully awake. 

Fucking finally.

Rumlow opens his mouth, already halfway to ordering it to put Wilson out of commission and get them out of here, before his brain catches up. Sure, the Asset might only need a couple seconds to take Wilson out, but Cap could come back any minute. Not to mention that Rumlow has no car, would have effectively no head start, and the Manassas base – which Cap probably still has loaded on Google Maps – is currently welded shut. He’d need at least twenty, thirty minutes with a blowtorch and the Asset pounding at the door to get inside. 

Which opens up a whole new problem: the Asset. On thirty-six hours of sleep and two weeks plus out of cryo. Still staring at him from the couch, but sitting up and frowning now. Fantastic.

“Morning, sunshine,” Rumlow says carefully. The Asset’s frown deepens. Rumlow checks to make sure Wilson’s still on the phone, and whispers, “Remember me?”

The Asset blinks. Seriously, it’s like watching a pinwheel on a bluescreen. “Brock,” it says.

Well, that’s better than it could have been. “Alright, if I say ‘status report’, you say…?”

The Asset perks up. 

“Doing fucking great, buddy,” it says cheerfully. “Optimal operating parameters restored and feeling like I could cut a rug.”

Oh, what fresh hell is this.

“Pursuit successful as all get out,” the Asset continues, “reported in and delivered mission update as prompted. Prior to permitted sleep period, I had spent 243 hours trying to sniff out a coupla suitable field-approved reporting officers. I tell ya, I found bupkis until I located Target: Wilson, Samuel Thomas and Target: Captain Dumbass.”

Wilson walks back into the room and freezes. Rumlow opens his mouth but has absolutely no idea what to say. He tries to think back to the last— oh, look, it’s still going.

“Steve and Brock confirmed as appropriate handlers. Target: Wilson, Samuel Thomas re-classified as ‘non-hostile’.” The Asset wrinkles its nose. “Sounds dicey, but I ain’t gonna make a rhubarb of it.” It shrugs. “I must be functioning on appropriate mission protocols if I’m here with you and Stevie. Finally cooking with some fucking gas. Ready to comply.” This last bit comes out in Russian.

Rumlow has to fight the urge to pinch himself. Maybe this is his own sleep deprivation-induced hallucination? But no, Wilson looks like he’s hearing the same… whatever that was, coming out of the Asset’s mouth. This is definitely somehow worse than when it was passed out. What the fuck is he supposed to say to this?

“Okay,” he manages. “G-good job.”

The Asset beams.

“Hey, Bucky,” Wilson says. Immediately, the Asset’s smile drops. “Good to see you up. You hungry?”

“Yes.”

Wilson gestures to the kitchen. “Feel free to get yourself something to eat.”

The Asset looks at Rumlow.

“Um,” he says, “Sol—” Nope. He clears his throat. “There’s milk in the fridge, cereal on the counter. Go make yourself bowls of cereal until you’re not hungry anymore.” He’s going to be as painfully specific as he needs to be – right now, he’s not putting much stock into the Asset’s ability to extrapolate. Or its awareness of what time period it's in. It might try and find a bread line to go stand in.

The Asset nods. “Understood.”

Wilson frowns as the Asset heads to the kitchen. He turns to Rumlow. “You text Steve already?”

“Not yet,” he manages. He’s watching the Asset whistle March of the Enthusiasts as it fixes itself a bowl of cereal. “Needed a minute to process… that.” He takes out his phone – oh shit, no, that’s the Hydra phone – and quickly takes out his other phone instead. He shoots off a text to Cap.

The reply is immediate.

11:14: On my way!

Rumlow genuinely can’t tell if that’s the autosuggestion or if that’s actually what Cap typed out. He hopes he at least had time to get the burgers first. The Asset is already on its second bowl, and that cereal box was half-empty to start with.

Okay. Plus side. It still – somehow, kind of – recognizes him as its handler. Or one of its handlers, apparently – he doesn't even wanna know the mental gymnastics that led to that. 

Theoretically, that should make it easier to bring it to the Chair at the Manassas base. On the other hand, though, if Cap and Wilson start wondering why it recognizes him as any kind of authority… he’s honestly not sure if even the Asset in peak condition could get him out of that mess.

He hears the car squeal into the driveway, and then a few seconds later, Cap’s through the door, shoving the car keys into his pocket. He has paper bags of fast food with him, so there’s that, at least.

Cap and the Asset look at each other.

“Morning, Buck,” Cap says cautiously. The Asset sits itself down at the kitchen table and starts eating. Cap sets his bags on the counter – he actually managed to pick up the camping mugs, too. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah, Steve.” It smiles. “Aces.” 

Cap smiles back, big and wobbly. The Asset follows him with its eyes as he takes a seat across from it.

“Ready to comply,” it adds, and Cap goes the supermodel-bronze version of pale. Through a mouth full of cereal, it asks, “What's my mission?”

“Bucky,” Cap says seriously, leaning forward, “there is no mission. It’s okay. You’re here, you made it, you’re with me.”

This doesn't quite have the massive impact Cap had clearly expected. The Asset squints. “...Clarify ‘no mission’.”

Oh boy.

“You’re not Hydra's prisoner anymore, remember? You escaped. You’re free now. Do you understand?”

The Asset keeps eating its cereal. It looks at Cap with total incomprehension. Rumlow doesn’t blame it – weapons aren’t imprisoned, they’re stored. It and Cap are on two totally different wavelengths.

“You don’t have to follow Hydra’s orders anymore,” Cap tries. This time it seems to sink in.

“Right, champ. Ready to comply with your orders. Or his,” it adds, jerking its head at Rumlow. Wilson stiffens, Rumlow can see it in the corner of his eye. Cap is speechless. “New owners, I get it. So let’s hear ’em.”

This is not going well.

Just tell it it’s downtime, Rumlow thinks desperately. Don’t say anything that’s gonna freak it out, come on, Cap. Deescalate something for once in your fucking life.

“No—” Cap’s getting upset. “We're not your— there are no orders. No one’s ever going to make you do anything you don't want to, Bucky. Never again.”

And there it goes – the worst possible thing he could have said. It’s like watching a trainwreck. The Asset freezes with a spoonful of cereal halfway to its mouth. Then it starts shaking slightly, the milk splashing in its bowl. 

“Clarify,” it gasps, “No orders?” Rumlow can see how much it’s struggling to get the words out. “Am I… for cryo-storage?”

“No, Buck,” Cap says, and he sounds pissed in that way that means he's emotional. “No more missions, no more—” he falters, “no more cryo. It’s over. You’re safe now.”

The Asset’s hand comes down, the spoon cracking the bowl and spilling the rest of the cereal on the table. Some of it dribbles down onto the Asset’s lap. No orders, no cryo, no wonder it’s freaking out, it’s gonna think—

“This is… decommissioning, yes?” It slips into a Russian accent, which is pretty jarring after the past twenty minutes of Brooklynese. “I am for termination?”

Rumlow’s about to step in when:

“Steve misspoke,” Wilson rushes in, because Cap’s getting too choked up to say anything. The Asset turns to look at him from across the room. “You’re not getting… decommissioned.” 

Okay, yes. Good. The Asset glances at Cap for confirmation. He manages a nod. “Go into Steve’s room,” Wilson continues. “Change into dry clothes, and come out here to set the table.” The Asset looks at Rumlow this time.

“That’s right,” he says. “Think of it as... downtime.” There. That’s a protocol term the Asset’ll recognize, that shouldn’t raise anyone’s red flags, seamlessly thrown into the conversation. Rumlow pats himself on the back.

“Understood.” The Asset’s clearly still concerned, but at least that’ll keep it busy until they can figure out a plan of action. Cap watches it pad down the hallway.

“Steve—” Wilson starts.

“We shouldn’t be ordering him around like that,” Cap cuts in. “It’s not right.”

“It’s all he’s known for the last seventy years.”

“Yeah, from Hydra. I’m not—”

“You can’t just barge in and turn his whole world upside down."

Yes. Exactly. Maybe Rumlow could leave Asset Management, Third Edition lying around somewhere for Wilson to find. After he’s blacked out the roughly seven million instances of his name.

"We gotta give him time to adjust," Wilson continues. "Otherwise...” He waves at the mess of milk and cereal still dripping onto the kitchen floor. “He’s gonna need time.”

Cap slams his hand on the counter. “What he needs is for someone to treat him like a goddamn human being again.” The wood cracks a little where he hits it; he probably doesn’t even notice. “Sorry,” he adds, wilting. “It’s just... ” Cap buries his face in his hands. “It’s so far beyond not right. That any of this happened to him. And now… how do I...” He drifts off as Wilson reaches over to squeeze his shoulder.

“We’ll get there, man. We’ll get there. You got him back. The rest'll just take time.”

Wow, Wilson’s two for two calming down super soldiers. Maybe the real reason he joined up with Cap is because his therapy clients weren’t nuts enough. Not enough of a challenge for the head shrink equivalent of an adrenaline junkie.

When the Asset comes back out and starts arranging plates, it seems calmer already. Cap watches it with a crease in his brow. It sets the table as instructed, and Cap sighs. He grabs a paper towel. The Asset watches Cap get on his knees and mop up the milk it had spilled on the floor.

“Will this require punishment?” it asks idly. Cap freezes for a second, hands clenching, then relaxes.

“No, Bucky,” he says, sounding pained, but doesn’t elaborate. When he’s done, he gets up and throws the wet paper towel in the trash. Then he walks over and puts a hand on the Asset’s shoulder. Its eyes flutter, pleased. With what looks like a serious effort, Cap makes himself say, “Listen… Bucky, there’s no answer here that’s going to get you… punished.” He swallows. “But how much do you remember? Do you remember anything before Hydra?”

The Asset looks baffled. “Before… Hydra?” it repeats incredulously, trying to figure out what the hell is even being asked of it. Cap visibly wilts a little. Rumlow can see his expectations lower.

“Or anything before this month?”

“Hey,” Wilson sits down beside Rumlow, arms crossed. “Let’s give the two of them a little privacy?” He nods at Cap and the Asset talking quietly. 

The last thing Rumlow wants to do is leave the two of them alone. “Sure,” he says. They leave the kitchen, but Wilson luckily doesn’t take them any further than that.

“It’s a fucked-up situation," Wilson says, shaking his head. Rumlow grunts in agreement. Wilson doesn’t even know the half of it. 

"Yeah, Cap's having a hard time."

“Giving him orders is messing with him.”

“Makes sense.” God, Rumlow’s tired. This is the first calm, quiet moment he’s had in days and without the adrenaline he could just fall asleep right here.

“Not giving you too much trouble, though.” That’s a weird thing to say. Wilson’s looking at him with one eyebrow raised and yep, there’s the adrenaline spike waking him back up again.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just an observation,” Wilson says. He’s watching Rumlow’s face, and being obvious about it, too. Fucking head shrinks. Rumlow’s suffered his way through enough of both Hydra and SHIELD’s psych evals that it doesn’t faze him, but it’s still annoying as shit.

“You’re not exactly having a hard time with it either,” Rumlow says. “It’s not like it’s one of our best friends come back brainwashed from the dead.”

“He doesn’t listen to my orders, though,” Wilson points out, completely ignoring the second half of what Rumlow said. He’s doing that intense eye-contact thing the SHIELD shrinks liked to pull. Look away, and you’re hiding something. Keep staring, and you’re some kind of psychopath. Rumlow focuses on the kitschy landscape hanging to the left of Wilson’s head.

“Coulda fooled me,” he says, and gestures to the perfectly set table.

“He always checks in with Steve, or you. He even said you two were his field handlers or owners or whatever. Not me. So, Steve I understand. He’s known him his whole life, and obviously remembers him, on some level at least. Maybe even remembers that he served under him way back when, in the war.” Wilson pauses. Purposefully. Rumlow keeps watching the painting. “But you he’s only known a couple of days. Same as me. Less, actually, if you count Insight.”

This is not ideal. Playing dumb isn’t Rumlow’s strong suit, and the last thing he needs is Wilson and Cap feeling out how well the Asset actually remembers him.

“Probably he sees that you take orders from Cap,” he throws out, trying to buy some time to think.

“You take orders from Cap, too,” Wilson points out. Which, eh. More or less.

“I’m older?” he tries. 

“Cap’s what, twenty-nine?” Wilson sounds unimpressed. Rumlow’s kinda out of options. 

How’s he going to play this?

“Look, I didn’t want to say it,” Rumlow pauses, and makes it awkward. Chews his cheek and everything. “But have you considered it might be...”

“What?”

Rumlow winces. “Well,” he says, “there is one kinda obvious… you know, visible difference between you,” he gestures at Wilson, “and… me and Cap.”

Wilson doesn’t answer right away. 

"You know what, forget it," Rumlow says blithely.

“You’re saying it’s a race thing,” Wilson finally says.

“All I’m saying is, guy’s from the forties…”

“So is Cap,” Wilson points out.

“Yeah,” Rumlow agrees, “but Cap’s Cap. And Cap’s not coming off a century working for–” owned by “–Neo-Nazis.” Kind of reductive, but whatever. Gets the point across. “It’s just something to keep in mind,” he finishes.

Come to think of it, Rumlow doesn’t actually remember a Black handler. What was Sitwell? Half? Wilson does seem stumped, which is more than good enough for now. Rumlow goes in for the kill.

“Look, I’m not saying Bucky Barnes had a problem with Black people,” he reasons. “I'm just calling it like it is. Fact is, there’s three of us here, and so far he’s only taking orders from the two white guys in the room. And he’s known me for just a couple of days, like you said. Now, I don’t know why he doesn’t see you as an authority figure – it could be a brainwashing thing, or an I’ve-worked-for-Hydra-for-a-century kind of thing. Or…”

Wilson narrows his eyes. “Right,” he says, slowly. And then, there it is. Doubt. “Do you think?”

“Hey, man,” Rumlow raises both hands defensively. “I don’t know. I’ve read as much of the files as you have.”

“Right,” he says again.

“Probably not,” Rumlow adds, in a way that means, no, it definitely is.

When they rejoin Cap and the Asset in the kitchen, Wilson does seem shaken. He’s no longer looking at Rumlow with those suspicious squinty shrink eyes. Awesome. Maybe Rumlow can get through the next 24 hours without any more near fucking misses.

They don’t do much. Wilson and Rumlow go through files over burgers, while Cap tries his best to help but clearly keeps getting distracted by his brain-fried BFF sitting next to him and spouting nonsense. God, it needs a wipe, like, last week. The speech pattern whiplash is worse than Rumlow’s ever heard it – and Rumlow’s heard some wild anachronisms come out of the Asset’s mouth before, when it’s been a little too long out of the freezer. Whatever. At least it’s mostly sticking to English. At some point it asks if it should go secure the perimeter. Cap’s like, of what, this AirBnB? But Rumlow just shrugs and tells it sure so it disappears for twenty minutes and seems less jittery when it comes back.

With Cap encouraging it, the Asset asks a bunch of questions. For two weeks out of cryo, that tracks – it starts getting curious if you don’t keep its brain busy with new objectives or mission-relevant skills to learn. Or Sudoku. Cap clearly hasn’t done any of that – instead, he keeps trying to give it answers. Worse, he keeps trying to jog its memory, which is basically rule number one of what not to do with it.

“And that was in 1928?” the Asset says, after one of Cap’s anecdotes about Bucky Barnes’ childhood.

“Yeah, pal.”

The Asset’s quiet for a moment. For some reason, it turns to Rumlow. “What year is it now?”

Rumlow pauses. The correct answer to this is “Not mission relevant”, but since Cap is sitting right there, Rumlow has to plaster on a smile and say “2014, buddy.” All this is going to give him a fucking ulcer.

By mid-afternoon, they’re on Greatest Hits of the Howling Commandos. Cap tells a story that Rumlow swears he read in a comic book when he was a kid. It’s kind of a trip to hear Cap just tell it like something that happened.

“So,” the Asset’s trying to keep up with Cap’s infodumps. “Morita, Dugan, the rest of them – were they also my handlers?”

“No, Buck. We were all on the same team.”

“But you gave the orders?”

“I… guess.” Cap straightens up. “Is any of this helping?” he pleads. “Is anything sounding familiar? Brooklyn, or the Commandos or your family or…” Cap trails off. The Asset says nothing, and Cap eventually looks back down at the files in disappointed silence. Thank Christ. Maybe he'll finally give up.

“Cristal licorice,” the Asset blurts.

Cap's head snaps up. “What?”

“I… The Asset’s eyes pinch shut, and its flesh hand flies up to rub at its skull. Rumlow’s seen this happen a few times. Memory migraine. Fuck. The Asset looks scared. Its breathing starts to speed up. Then its face contorts with pain, and it clutches its head. Rumlow's only ever seen that happen once, and five seconds later they had it in the Chair and cranked the power up to high. 

“There was a candy factory,” it says unsurely. “a… a front, for… it was a front. Cristal. We hid there after a mission and you ate nothing but licorice, ‘cause that was the first time you could—”

“Without my insulin,” Cap finishes. There’s another teary smile. Oh joy. The Asset’s nodding. It grits its teeth when the migraine gets worse. But instead of doing something sensible, like reminding it that nostalgia isn't what it was fucking made for, Cap just watches with a concerned but hopeful smile and big encouraging blue eyes. Now this is just poor stewardship. It's gonna get all fucked up if they just let it keep remembering shit unchecked. It's already confused enough to do this roulette wheel of accents and speech patterns. 

“You still got a stomach ache,” it says blandly. Then, exhausted, it stops trying to think back and lets its hand drop.

Cap’s still smiling like a dope. He squeezes the Asset’s hand for like two seconds, then lets go. “You remember.” He beams at Rumlow and Wilson. “We each took a tin home after,” he tells them, “and I wouldn’t touch the stuff for months.”

“For the record,” Wilson cuts in, addressing the Asset, “he still can’t stand licorice.”

“Understood.”

Cap’s smile slips. “We’ve gotta find out what exactly they did to you,” he says. “The files don't go back far enough. I can keep telling you stories but… I’ve got no idea if that’s enough. And the… the rest of it.” He shakes his head. 

“Maybe there’s something on the USB,” Wilson suggests, and holy shit what USB? Rumlow can feel his heart rate double. In a nightmare moment, both Cap and the Asset turn their heads to look at him, and he knows for a fact they can hear it.

“Brock?” the Asset asks, at the same time as Cap says, “Rumlow? You okay?”

“What USB?” he asks, going for confused. Not exactly a hard act to put on.

“This one,” Cap says, frowning, as he pulls it out of his pocket. There’s a little silver Hydra logo on it. Fantastic. “Remember, that technician in Manassas,” Cap wrinkles his nose, “said she’d come back to the base to recover Hydra project files from the Triskelion. The Winter Soldier project included."

Admittedly, this sounds… maybe familiar? A little? Honestly, Rumlow was kind of distracted by the horror movie sounds of Cap tearing through a fellow Hydra member with his star-spangled death frisbee. And then the Asset had shown up, and...

"I told you I had this drive when we got back from the Manassas base. You don’t remember?”

Rumlow has no memory of being told this. 

“Steve,” Wilson sighs, “the guy passed out on the couch the second we got back here.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry. Should’ve filled you in but,” Cap gestures at the Asset. “Anyway. It’s encrypted, so we haven’t been able to get anything out of it yet.”

Thank. God. Crisis temporarily averted.

Of course that’s when the Asset pipes up. “I think… I think I’ve got some code-breaking mission sub-routines rattling around in here.”

Fuck. It definitely does. Fuck!

Cap’s looking at the Asset like one of those unreasonably proud parents at a kindergarten concert, when their kid trips on stage dressed as a tree. “It’s worth a shot,” Cap grins.

Wilson’s already standing. “I’ll get my laptop.”

Crisis definitively not averted. Crisis fucking imminent. “Wait,” Rumlow tries. “It’s Hydra tech… it might give you a virus. Maybe the computer will explode?” he says weakly.

“We’ll duck,” Wilson says. Yeah, bullshit that guy’s not an Avenger.

“Great,” Rumlow says, to no one in particular. Maybe he can still make a run for it. But then Cap claps a hand on his shoulder like the world’s friendliest vise, and Wilson’s already back and clearing a space for the laptop in front of the Asset. 

“Go ahead, Buck,” Cap says, and the Asset starts hen-pecking at the laptop. It took Rumlow three weeks in 2002 to teach it how to type. So many regrets.

The Asset finishes typing, and hits enter.

Chapter Text

There’s a pants-shitting two seconds while the cipher blinks in and out of existence; the laptop screen kind of fuzzes, like it’s thinking, and Rumlow seriously considers just fucking booking it. Just like… sprinting for the door. Maybe he’ll catch them by surprise. Maybe they’ll decide he isn’t worth chasing?

Fuck fuck fuck. Rumlow thinks desperately about what could be on that USB. Project files from the Triskelion… could be Insight stuff? He’s probably all over that. But ‘other projects’ might just mention R&D people. So maybe it’s fine? But Laurens had said Winter Soldier stuff. Which is bad. Terminally bad. But, maybe it’s just… tech shit. Right? Techs love collecting useless data on the Asset. It’s like their favourite thing to do, next to yelling at Rumlow for feeding it junk food and stealing the good parking. There’s probably terabytes of unnecessary experiments and measurements or whatever on that USB. It might not have anything on any actual Hydra missions. 

Except even if it is just tech shit, there’d still be transfers and authorizations, and Rumlow would have at least signed the transfers since he’s fucking primary handler and he signs for everything holy shit he’s about to get decapitated–

The screen shifts into focus again, and nothing’s changed. Rumlow’s Hydra phone vibrates a little in his pocket, because why not. It’s not like shit could get any more stressful. The laptop screen looks exactly the same. Rumlow’s too terrified to speculate on what that might mean. He should probably breathe. Will Cap notice that he’s stopped breathing? 

“Doesn’t look like it went through,” Wilson offers. The Asset’s staring at the keyboard. It points.

“This is not Thai,” it announces.

Cap and Wilson look at each other. “No, buddy,” Cap says gently. “...it’s not.”

“This code should be in Thai…” It starts typing again, and again the screen wiggles between blank and Rumlow’s certain death. The edges of his vision are going white from the stress of standing there watching. “No,” the Asset mutters. It adds something in what Rumlow is pretty sure is Finnish. After the third and fourth ciphers get nowhere, Rumlow’s pulse finally stops pounding in his ears. 

“Do you maybe know one in English?” Wilson offers. The Asset frowns down at the laptop keyboard.

“I’m not sure if I know English,” it says. In English. Jesus. Cap’s face goes all pinched.

“Well, it was worth a try,” Wilson shrugs. Rumlow genuinely feels his knees go weak with relief. 

Cap sighs. “Alright, pal,” he says, clapping a hand on the Asset’s shoulder. “You did good.” It looks up at him like he hung the moon. “Why don’t you go lie down for a bit?”

Because you haven’t ordered it to, Captain Idiot. The Asset’s quiet for a moment. It doesn’t do well with polite suggestions, especially if they’re phrased like questions. “Because you haven’t ordered me to, Stevie.” Yeah. Exactly.

Cap takes a deep breath. Rumlow can see him count to five. “Go lie down, Bucky,” he makes himself say. “On the couch,” he adds quickly. “Relax, okay?”

“Understood.”

‘Relax’ apparently also counts as an order, since it’s asleep almost as soon as it hits the cushions. Didn’t need permission for that one. Oh, good! More sleep! Rumlow has no idea what’s going to come out once it wakes up. Either way, no trips to the Manassas base today. He’s got to get rid of whatever’s on that USB.

“Gotta take a leak,” he announces, and books it to the bathroom before Cap or Wilson can rope him into their little pity party. He closes the door, leans his forehead against the mirror and just fucking breathes. Counts to ten, over and over. Waits until he stops shaking. It would be pretty embarrassing if he made it this far only to die of a heart attack.

When he finally calms the fuck down, he checks his phone. There’s fifteen texts from Rollins. The last few after ‘did u get to the base??’ are just increasingly long strings of question marks. Rumlow texts back.

15:27:  Hey

The response is immediate.

15:27: Where tf are u

15:27: R u ok?

15:27: No

15:27: Cap got files off Laurens the tech 

15:28: On a USB 

15:28: Need decryption key to delete them before he gets in

15:29: Can u get to base?

15:29: Not today 

15:29: ???

15:29: Cap and Wilson are around and Cap won’t leave the assets side

15:29: It was up a few hours now its sleeping again

15:29: Plus this USB takes priority. Bunch of hydra shit on there maybe. Can’t let Cap get it

Rollins is typing for a long time.

15:31: Dont ducking tell me its sleeping too long

15:31: Fucking 

15:31: I know

15:31: I got your 500 texts about it

15:32: Murphy says that could be a problem

15:32: NO FUCKING SHIT

15:32: Will need more time in the chair

15:33: Will need a fucking WEEK in teh chair

15:33: The weird slang is out full force

15:33: But worse than ever

15:34: Aces

15:34: 😂

15:34: Reply: “Aces” Asshole

15:35: Do you know how many characters are in the cypher?

15:35: This is Murphy by the way.

Yeah, no fucking shit it’s Murphy. Who else actually writes out ‘by the way’ over text? Rumlow thinks back to the screen the Asset was typing in, and winces.

15:35: 27

15:35: Fucking IT

15:36: K 

15:36: Not k. This is Murphy again. Need waaaay more detail.

Rumlow watches the three little typing dots appear and disappear.

15:36: You said Laurens? There are two Agent Laurens in tech – was it Paige or Daya?

15:36: Uhhh

15:37: The blonde one

Murphy texts back two photos of women in lab coats. They’re both blonde.

15:37: Which one?

15:37: I don’t fucking know!

15:37: Send a voice clip

15:37: ?

15:38: Just do it dickhead

Rumlow receives a video file of last year’s “Non-Denominational Holiday Extravaganza.” Pierce and his inclusivity initiatives bullshit. Like everyone doesn’t know where Hydra came from. A second before he hits play he remembers Cap’s creepy super hearing. He runs the shower and the tap, closes his eyes, and prays.

He hits play.

It’s only a twenty second clip, but it’s enough.

15:40: The one ordering a pina colada

15:40: Paige then.

15:40: Ok that’s helpful.

15:40: What did the USB look like?

There’s a knock at the door. Rumlow almost drops his fucking phone into the toilet. 

“You good, man?” Wilson calls.

“I said I had to take a leak!” Rumlow shouts back, then realizes how long he’s actually been in here. “It takes a while when you start pushing 50,” he says, and shuts his eyes, because what the fuck. Why did he say that? “Give a guy some privacy!”

There’s a beat of silence. “Sorry,” Wilson says, and walks away.

Great. Now the fucking Falcon thinks he has prostate issues. Rumlow turns off the shower and the tap. Why didn’t he just say he was taking a shit?

15:42: Silver. Hydra logo. Uhhh one little green light on the side

15:42: Ok give me a minute.

15:42: Hey me again (JR)

Rollins types for a while. When Rumlow finally gets the message, it’s not the passcode that would save his ass.

15:43: OMG the weird 30s slang is because its Bucky Barnes!

That brings Rumlow up short. Holy shit. That explains a lot, actually.

15:43: Damn

15:43: Right?

15:43: Kind of fucked if u think about it

15:43: So don’t think about it

15:43: What else is new

15:44: Lol HH

15:44: K for USB Murphys on it

15:44: Will text when we have the code

15:44: 🐙

15:44: 🐙

Rumlow takes a deep breath and comes back out into the living area, just in time to see Cap slipping the USB back into his pocket.

“No luck with the key?” he says to announce his presence. Wilson and Cap look back at him.

“Nah,” Wilson says. “Cap’s thinking his friend – Natasha?” He looks over at Cap. Cap nods. “Yeah, Natasha could maybe help us out with that. She’s another Avenger.”

“Yeah, Romanoff. We’ve worked together before,” Rumlow adds. “Good idea.” That could complicate things. Black Widow already doesn’t trust him. And doesn’t like him. You make one joke about catching more flies with honey…

“I’ll go give her a call,” Cap says, and heads back into his bedroom. 

A few seconds after Cap leaves, the Asset stretches on the couch and rubs its eyes. That was only twenty minutes or so. Small mercies. 

“Hey, morning,” Wilson says.

“Morning, sunshine,” the Asset smiles. Rumlow just barely stops himself from facepalming. That is so fucking weird to hear from the other side. Wilson’s definitely a therapist, because he just breezes right past it.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Functional,” the Asset says. “I’m able to focus a little clearer now.” At least it’s sounding more like itself. It looks around. Then it tilts its head, listening. “Someone is driving in tomorrow?”

Wilson looks a little alarmed at that, because – right, he’s not used to the super hearing, because he’s known Cap for like 45 minutes.

“Natasha,” he says, when the Asset just keeps staring. “She’s a friend.”

The Asset nods. “Non-hostile?” it asks, looking at Rumlow.

It takes all of his self-control not to say, ‘hostile, kill on sight’. “That’s right.”

“Understood.” Then it frowns. “I… I think I remembered some more.”

Fantastic. 

“Yeah?” Wilson, in what Rumlow assumes is full therapy mode, pulls up a chair beside the couch. “What about?”

“The… Howlies,” the Asset starts. It says the word like it’s not sure it’s pronouncing it right. “I think Steve led us on a mission to… Slovakia?” Rumlow’s pretty sure it was still Czechoslovakia back then, but whatever. “And… he was hurt. Him and the French one. Joual.”

Joual is not one of the Howling Commandos. Joual is on STRIKE Gamma, and he’s from Quebec. Wilson’s brows crease a little, like he’s pretty sure that’s not right, but he doesn’t say anything.

“We were in the woods. They were non-functional, even Steve, so we had to improvise. Someone else took command… ” The Asset closes its eyes, clearly struggling to remember the name. “It was…”

“What the fuck made Steve non-functional?” Rumlow has to ask. Wilson looks at him weird, and, whoops, probably shouldn’t have said it that way.

“I…” The Asset thinks about it. “I don’t remember.” It frowns. Starts rubbing its head. 

Rumlow shuts it down. “Okay, don’t worry about it. Probably something pretty crazy,” he offers, and the Asset drops its hand. Its brow smoothes out.

“Probably,” it agrees.

“That’s great,” Wilson says encouragingly. “Your memories are coming back. Try to push a little harder.” Rumlow wants to push Wilson a little harder. “Who took command?”

“I…”

“Was it… Timothy Dugan?” Wilson looks like he’s trying to remember every Commando he learned about in school. “James Falsworth?”

“No…” the Asset says unsurely. “I don’t think so…”

“Gabriel Jones?”

“Definitely not Jones,” the Asset says, shaking its head. Wilson pauses. 

“Definitely not Jones?” he repeats.

“Definitely,” the Asset confirms.

Wilson gives Rumlow a look. “Alright,” Wilson says. “I’m gonna go say a few words to Natasha. You just take it easy,” he tells the Asset, then leaves.

Once Wilson’s left the room, the Asset turns to Rumlow.

“Jones stayed at base to translate for us,” the Asset tells him. “I remember he was talking to us on the radio.”

Cool. Absolutely not gonna clear that up for Wilson.

It occurs to him that he and the Asset are alone. He thinks about what to do. There isn’t really anything: Cap and Wilson are like ten feet away and Romanoff’s en route. Even if he can somehow take the Asset and run, it still needs like six hours in the Chair, and Cap’s not an idiot. He’ll definitely check the Manassas base.

Plus Cap still has the USB, and that thing’s gonna fuck Rumlow and all of Hydra up the ass as soon as they decrypt it.

The Asset shifts in place in that way that Rumlow knows means it wants to move around. Rumlow considers for a minute, then sighs.

“Alright.” He lowers his voice. “Go do your standard downtime training and fitness regime.” That should kill three hours. “Once you’re done, go take a shower. Undress, use warm water and soap–”

“I know how to take a shower,” the Asset mutters. It goes stiff for a second then, like it’s waiting for punishment. Which, yeah. But no way he’s gonna do that right now, with the Spangles Brigade in the next room.

Rumlow snorts. “Sure, Soldier," he says. “Interrupt me again, and it’ll be cold water.”

“Understood.”

“Okay, great. Call me–” Nope. That’s not gonna fly. “Scratch that. Call Cap… Steve. Call Steve if you need clarification or instructions.”

The Asset’s eyes flash, grateful, and it gets off the couch and walks outside to find space. There. It’s not hard. God, Cap really doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Watching the way he deals with the Asset is like watching a formula one racer being made to run on dollar store motor oil.

Rumlow checks his phone. Still nothing from Murphy. He grabs a handful of Hydra files from the table and sits in front of the kitchen window where he can keep an eye on the Asset. Might as well get shredding. 

After a couple dozen pages of payroll and six months’ worth of stress tests on the magnetic cuffs, he opens a binder and finds Von Strucker’s weird seal thing, with the wolves. Creep. The strange thing is, the date is only a year old. Rumlow double checks it. Had Pierce still let that guy run anything after that shit with his grandkids in ’08? It’s just a proposal, no details on the actual Project Caduceus, whatever that is, no mention of Rumlow or anyone from STRIKE. But Rumlow’s got a nagging little itch that he shouldn’t just let this one go. He pulls out his phone and googles Romanoff data dump Hydra SHIELD.

Rumlow takes a quick glance at the Asset – it’s doing handstand pushups – before he starts reading. The first three pages are just articles about the leak, and it takes a few scrolls to find the actual thing. It’s pretty user friendly, with a search bar and everything. He probably should tell Romanoff that when she comes, score a few points. 

Project Caduceus apparently involves Loki’s scepter. Rumlow vaguely remembers a memo saying they’d acquired the thing, but has no clue what it had been for, if he’d even been told in the first place. Maybe Hydra was going old school and trying to make energy weapons again? Rumlow wouldn’t pick Von Strucker to engineer anything more complicated than an electric toothbrush. Still, Pierce clearly trusted him enough to let him run the Sokovia base. Rumlow scrolls down further and actually sees a picture of the Sokovia base. Of course the guy would set himself up in a castle. Matched his fucking monocle.

He’s about ready to close the window when he sees the first video. The thumbnail is a platinum-haired kid in a glass room. Early twenties tops. Rumlow clicks play.

Holy. Fuck.

No one had mentioned they were working on making more super soldiers. And this is… pretty fucking super. Like, not to shit on the Asset, but damn. That kid can sprint. There’s another little video of the same kid, where Von Strucker is actually in the glass room with him, and they’re chatting. The kid disappears from the video, then pops back into frame exactly where he’d been two seconds ago, now holding up two cups of coffee. Von Strucker laughs.

This guy could take out an entire base in the blink of an eye. Rumlow reads a bit further, and apparently this Maximoff guy joined Hydra for this, like three months before this video was taken. The kid seems like he was barely vetted before they gave him superpowers, emphasis on power. Rumlow watches another clip where he touches the glass. His hand goes blurry, and a moment later, the entire wall shatters. Rumlow freezes. Who the fuck approved this. And he’s just allowed to walk around and do whatever, like he’s a free agent? Power like that needs to be kept on a short-ass leash. Who knows if he’ll stay loyal to Hydra after they finish souping him up? What’s keeping him in check? What was Pierce thinking?

Why the fuck is this the first time Rumlow’s hearing about this?

Okay, he thinks to himself. He’s super-fast, but clearly still cooperative, for now at least. Maybe they can put in some kill switches in his brain or something before they send him out into the world. Fine. He’s powerful as hell, but… maybe still controllable? With the right handler? At least with some input from someone actually experienced handling super soldiers? Maybe someone with an unprecedentedly good track record doing that? For the last ten years?

There’s another video.

It’s not Zippy McSpeedman. This one’s a girl, about the same age, and Rumlow clicks play.

Nope. 

He puts the phone face down on the table. Picks it back up. Is she juggling cubes of light? What— oh, cool, they’re bouquets of flowers now. Her eyes are glowing red. Von Strucker comes by her glass box, and her head kind of glitches and morphs until it’s three heads, then quickly one again.

Rumlow crosses himself. He takes a minute before he reads the stuff on her. Oh, apparently the superfreaks are twins. Great. No conflicting loyalties there. And – yep, another volunteer.

No one who volunteers for Hydra should get enhanced like this. Rumlow knows the kinds of people that volunteer for Hydra. He’s one of them. That’s just a bad fucking idea.

Was the intent to give her whatever the fuck– ah. Apparently they just put her in a room with the scepter and crossed their fingers, then tried to figure out afterward what they’d actually done. There’s a consult note from some guy named D. Spayre, who’s apparently an expert in whatever the fuck this is, that actually, literally has the words “chaos magic” written down in it.

Chaos magic? What the hell happened to ‘order through pain’?

Rumlow closes the page. He kind of wishes Pierce were still alive, so he could shove his face into the Soviets’ files on the Asset. Was Rumlow the only one who’d read the fucking things? It had taken them literal years to control it reliably enough to put it in the field, and that was still contingent on a handler who knew what the fuck they were doing. And they still had to do regular maintenance to keep it compliant.

These two didn’t look fucking compliant.

This whole super soldier experiment was supposed to have ended with Karpov. He’d tried enhancing volunteers, too, and look how that had turned out. And again, why the fuck was Rumlow learning about this through Romanoff’s data dump? He should’ve been the first fucking person to ask, and should’ve been the one who got to nip this nightmare project in the bud. The Hydra he’d joined twenty years ago wouldn’t have pulled this shit.

…Would it? 

That’s an uncomfortable thought. He shakes his head and looks out the window again.

The Asset’s not there. Rumlow jumps to his feet. He goes outside and looks around. Nothing. Gone. He runs around the house and can’t see it. Fuck.

Rumlow considers his next move. The Asset’s not freaky twin fast, but it’s still fucking fast. The chances that Rumlow will be able to find it before Cap and Wilson do are slim. Maybe if he took the car, but… fuck, Cap still has the keys.

Probably – maybe – the Asset will eventually come back. But at the rate its memories are popping up, if it gets back here and remembers who Rumlow is, he’s back to decapitation-via-shield. Rumlow sighs, frustrated, and goes to the bedroom to get Cap and Wilson.

"What?" he hears Cap say, through the door. "No, of course not. Bucky had a ton of coloured friends."

Rumlow knocks once, and comes in.

“Guys, uh, do you have the car keys? We gotta go. It’s gone.”

“What’s gone?” Wilson asks. “The car?”

Jesus fuck. Rumlow’s life flashes before his eyes. He needs to get his shit together. “Our lucky streak,” he blurts. Wilson looks at him like he’s a fucking moron. Which is fair, because he sounds like a fucking moron. “Bucky’s missing.”

That takes everyone’s attention away from Rumlow’s little slip-up. Pronouns! It’s just habit by now! It's not like he does it on purpose to be an asshole, he knows the Asset started out as a human being – now he even knows which one – but like… it’s the Asset. ‘Where’s the Asset? Oh, it’s over there.’ You know? It.

Cap runs outside and spins around. “Bucky!” he hollers. Nothing. Obviously. He gets in the Prius, and Rumlow and Wilson barely manage to get inside before Cap’s flooring it on this little suburban street. “When did you last see him?” Cap asks. 

“I just looked away for a minute,” Rumlow tells him. They drive blindly around for like three minutes, doubling back every so often until Cap spots the Asset in a cul-de-sac, sitting hunched over on the curb, holding its head in its hands. Rumlow hears it whine when he steps out of the car. This isn’t good.

“Bucky?” The Asset flinches. "Hey, pal.” Cap gestures for Rumlow and Wilson to stay behind him as they get closer. “What’s going on?”

The Asset’s metal hand grabs a fistful of curb, crushes the concrete. Wilson goes tense. The Asset brings its hand back up to where it was, dropping white dust and gravel into its hair. This is the kind of freak out that lands techs in the hospital. Or worse.

“I… shot you,” it says.

“That’s okay,” Cap says back, and completely means it. Wow. “I’m okay.”

“I broke your face,” it says, sounding agonized.

“My nose was already crooked,” Cap says. He’s slowly approaching the Asset. “If anything, you evened it out.”

“Steve,” the Asset groans. “I fucked up.”

“No, you didn’t.” Cap steps closer. “I'm not mad, Buck.”

“Injuring a handler,” it says, and doubles over. “Disobeying direct orders…”

“I’m not your handler,” Cap says quietly, crouching down beside it, which is pretty close to the worst thing he could have said. The Asset looks up, lost. There are tears on its face. “Bucky,” he tries.

“I don’t have a name,” the Asset spits back quickly, frightened. Cap swallows.

“You–”

“I don’t— my handlers— isn’t—” The Asset shakes its head, both hands still clutching its skull. “Why didn’t I kill you?” it asks shakily.

Wilson stiffens. “Steve,” he says. Harshly, Cap waves him away.

“Because we’re best friends. Because you know me. You pulled me out of the river, remember? You saved my life.”

The Asset looks like it’s about to puke. “You were my mission,” it says. “I had a mission, you were my mission.” It starts hyperventilating. “I don’t know what…”

Cap reaches out to lay a hand on the Asset’s shoulder, which is so not what it needs right now. Come on, Cap. Does it look like it’s expecting a reward? It jerks violently away, then looks terrified that it did. Cap stands up, taking half a step back. He sets his jaw, and looks like he’s about to touch the Asset again. Rumlow’s not fast enough to stop him. The Asset grabs his wrist, looking like it’s about to attack, but then it seems to realize what it’s doing and stops, the fury on its face giving way to real, full-on tears now. The thing can’t tell if Cap’s a handler, or a failed mission, or what, and it’s freaking out. It’s not built to handle this kind of uncertainty.

Rumlow’s feet are moving. It’s not a good idea, but they’re pretty close to out of options with the Asset in this shape. It's mumbling fearfully in Russian as Rumlow comes up beside Cap.

“Let go of him,” Rumlow orders. The Asset doesn’t even pause its rambling, but its hand springs open. Cap takes a step back. A little one. There are finger shaped bruises already forming on his forearm. “Hey,” Rumlow snaps. He can’t say Soldier with Cap and Wilson right there. “Look at me.” The Asset’s eyes are red. They don’t stay focused on Rumlow for more than a couple seconds at a time. He can’t say status report, either. “Tell me where you are.”

It says something in Arabic or Hebrew or some shit that he knows is not an answer. The metal hand is clenching open and shut, tugging at its hair and scalp. There’s a dribble of snot running down to its lip. It’s trembling.

“Tell me where you are,” Rumlow repeats, slowly and louder. It’s not getting through. Rumlow pulls his arm back, winds his entire upper body like a spring, and backhands the Asset hard enough to spin its head to the side.

There’s a tight squeeze on his shoulder, and Cap yanks him around to face him. Rumlow hears Wilson shouting, “Hey!” and running forward.

“Steve,” Rumlow keeps his voice firm and level. “Let go. Right now.” Cap’s eyes flick to the Asset, which has stopped muttering, then back to Rumlow, wide and startled. He lets go, even though he seems surprised he’s doing it. “Sam,” Rumlow commands in the same tone, “stay there.” Wilson freezes in place. There’s a goddamn reason they made Rumlow primary handler.

Without another look at Cap, he turns back to the Asset and crouches down so that they’re face to face.

“Look at me,” he says, again. The Asset looks. Its eyes are still red, though the tears have slowed, at least. “Tell me where you are. That’s an order.” It doesn’t actually matter if it knows. What matters is how it reacts to the question.

It doesn't answer right away. “Suburb,” it says tearfully. Its eyes dart to the side for a second. It sniffles. “Elm Grove Court,” it reads off the street sign.

“Good.” He’d normally ask about himself, but now he points to Cap. “Do you know who he is?”

The Asset looks. “Steve,” it says.

“Two for two,” Rumlow approves. 

“He’s my mission?” the Asset adds, uncertainly. “Or–”

“Shut up.” It shuts up. Rumlow’s gotta be careful here. “You had old orders to kill Steve. They don’t apply anymore.”

“But–”

“Hey.” Normally, he might hit it again just for that, but he’s already pushing it with Wilson and Cap there. “Do you give the orders?”

“No, sir.”

“Right. So listen. The orders to kill Steve don’t apply anymore. Don’t think about them. They’re void.” He lets that absorb for a second. “You pulled Steve out of the river, then you came and reported in to us after Insight. That’s what you were supposed to do. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The Asset hesitates. It gives him a weak, “Understood.”

“Repeat it,” Rumlow snaps.

“I… didn’t do anything wrong,” it says, then repeats it again, stronger. Rumlow watches its face for another beat or so before he straightens up. He turns back to Cap and Wilson, who are staring at him with a mix of anger and confusion. The back of his hand hurts.

“No touching,” he warns Cap. “I don’t think that’s what… your friend needs right now.”

Cap’s pissed. He looks for a second like he might actually come at Rumlow. Then the Asset takes a shaky breath, and Cap’s head whips over to look at it. He… looks less pissed, seeing how it’s doing. With one last stern look at Rumlow, he approaches the Asset again. But doesn’t touch. Thank fuck.

“Come on,” he says, voice low. The Asset stands, wipes its face, and follows him to the car. Rumlow moves to come with, but Wilson calls out,

“You go ahead. We’ll walk – meet you back at the house.”

Cap nods, and he and the Asset take off. Wilson’s staring at Rumlow.

“That was a risky move,” he says, and the shrink eyes are back but ten times judgier.

“Had to try something,” Rumlow says.

“Seemed like you knew just what to try.”

Rumlow looks away. Fuck. Okay, Wilson’s a shrink, worked with vets. What would get him on board? “There’s been some guys on STRIKE,” he says, “who’ve had issues. PTSD stuff. I’ve got some experience.” This isn’t even a lie. Rumlow’s done his fair share of smacking someone out of a nightmare so they don’t give away their position. 

Wilson seems to buy it. At least somewhat. His face relaxes a little, though not all the way. Rumlow’s going to have to watch himself.

“Well, next time, let’s try some other stuff first before we get violent. I think the guy’s had enough of that.”

Rumlow’s very down to try other stuff, like giving the Asset a clear set of operating parameters and easy to follow orders and not fucking with the reward-punishment protocols. It’s not his fault that Cap’s leading them from one crisis into another.

“Sure,” Rumlow agrees. “That’s fair. Sorry,” he adds. "I was just trying to help." Wilson nods at him, but there’s a little suspicion still there.

Rumlow’s gonna have to watch himself. And pick up the pace on getting out of here. He’s on thin ice. He can’t keep this up much longer.

Chapter Text

It’s tense. When Rumlow and Wilson get back in the house, Cap’s sitting at the laptop again trying and failing to crack the USB. He nods curtly at Rumlow but doesn’t say anything else. The Asset’s next to him – it’s got a mug of tea in front of it, and it's drinking calmly. Its eyes are still a little puffy, but otherwise it looks okay.

At dinner, Cap’s still pissy. He makes a point of keeping Rumlow and the Asset from sitting next to each other, shoving himself between the two of them. He’ll talk to Rumlow about logistics and about Hydra, but trying to make actual conversation with him is a dead end. He doesn’t even reply when Rumlow asks him to pass the salt, just slides it in front of him without a word. Eventually it gets late. Cap whisks the Asset off to his room with a, “Good night,” aimed at Wilson. Rumlow just gets a grunt and a nod.

Awesome. He's in the doghouse with Captain America. 

“So I’m in the doghouse with Captain America, huh?”

Wilson sighs deeply. “Listen, man, he’s… sensitive about Barnes.”

“I was trying to help,” Rumlow offers.

“Yeah, I know.” Wilson really sounds like he means it this time. Apparently watching a few hours of Rumlow getting Cap’s cold shoulder treatment has put him back on Rumlow’s side. “Maybe you could try apologizing?”

“To Cap?” 

Wilson gives him a weird look. “To Bucky,” he says.

To Bucky? What next, is he supposed to start apologizing to furniture now, too, like some kind of fucking Canadian?

“You think that’d help?” he asks.

“Probably.” Wilson shrugs. “Or maybe Steve’ll get over it by morning.”

“Right.” Cause Cap’s known for letting things go. 

“Right,” Wilson echoes, like he doesn’t believe it either. “Well, good night, I guess. And for what it’s worth, it wasn’t the way I would have gone about it, but… you did help us out today. Even if it pissed Steve off.”

“Thanks, man,” Rumlow says, like that means dick. Wilson considering him marginally helpful isn’t exactly going to hold a lot of weight if Cap decides to hold a grudge. Maybe he should apologize to the Asset? Worst case, if Cap finds out he’s Hydra now rather than later, he might kill him a little faster. 

Shit, the stress is starting to get to him. Relax. Cap isn’t going to find out anything, because Rumlow is a goddamn professional. A professional who is considering apologizing to the Asset. 

“You gonna… head to bed, then?” Rumlow asks. If Wilson offers to switch with him and take the couch instead, he’s gonna have to find a reason to decline. The thing isn’t amazing on his back, but Murphy might send him the decryption key tonight, and he’ll want access to the laptop while everyone’s asleep.

But Wilson just says. “Yep,” and wishes him good night. Wow. Not even an offer. The guy’s fifteen years younger than him, but whatever.

Ultimately, this is better for Rumlow, but. Rude.

Rumlow settles down on the couch, phone on vibrate in his pocket in case Murphy texts. He pulls off his right boot and glares at the left one. Working up to it. “I always take you off last,” he tries, addressing the left boot. “Sorry.” This is so fucking stupid.

He’s so goddamn sleepy. If he just naps for a bit… maybe the phone vibrating will be enough to wake him up?

Ugh. Too risky. He should probably stay up and shred some more paper files. Not much else he can do, with the Asset asleep in Cap’s bed and the light in Wilson’s room still on. Maybe he’ll just lie here a little longer. 

Rumlow’s finally about to get up and when he hears Cap’s door handle twist. He turns onto his side. Cap’s door creaks a little – he’s probably peeking to see if Rumlow’s asleep – then he comes out into the living area. Cap gives Rumlow an awkward nod, says, “scuse me,” then makes his way out the main door, closing it real quietly behind him.

What’s that about? Rumlow waits a few seconds, then gets up and peeks through the peephole. Cap gets into the car, and before Rumlow can even consider where the fuck he might be sneaking off to in the middle of the night, he sees the glare of Cap’s phone screen. He’s not going anywhere at all. Cap makes a call, then just sits there for a long time talking on the phone.

That’s… interesting. If he was just worried about waking up the Asset, he could have made the phone call from outside. Maybe even in the kitchen. But he clearly wanted to make sure Rumlow and Wilson didn’t hear, either. Why the secrecy? 

Cap’s on the phone for like forty minutes before he hangs up and heads back into the house. Rumlow pretends to be asleep while Cap goes to his bedroom, and then he waits the usual hour before he can trust Cap’s out. 

What was all that about? Definitely worth looking into.

But not now. Now is Hydra file shredding time.

His phone vibrates like fifteen minutes later. Probably just Rollins, bored of hanging out with Murphy for days on end. Being on the run is lonely. Rumlow checks the message. 

23:05: DGFAMPESAND4$358765345535 space space

Rumlow’s suddenly very fucking awake.

23:05: Is that it?

23:05: Should be. Don’t leave the computer inactive for more than 20min or it’ll automatically relock and reencrypt itself. New key.

23:05: I won’t. Thx Murphy

Here we go. The USB’s still on the table where Cap left it, and Rumlow pops it in and enters the passcode. He’s in.

Okay, first things first: anything on himself or STRIKE. There’s a lot. Recent stuff, too. Thank fuck this thing was encrypted. Delete. Delete. Just project data, his ass, there’s tons of shit on here. Goodbye, mission report from 2010. Hydra’s psych evals on STRIKE? Sayonara. Rumlow pops Rollins’ open before he deletes it.

23:28: So that fuckup in mardipoor in ’11 was that because of the mommy issues, or yoru crippling fish phobia?

23:28: Eat a dick

23:29: Should i check out the med eval too lol

23:29: Stay out of my shit

23:29: U already know im allergic to lychee

Rumlow ignores the rest of Rollins’ message and gets back to clearing the USB. Adios, very tactfully written incident report for ‘unauthorized use of equipment’, Cap will never read you. McKenzie lives another day. Rumlow still can’t believe he covered for him instead of just going straight to Pierce. He’ll never be able to burn out the image of McKenzie ass-fucking the Asset over Sitwell’s desk, but whatever, the guy chilled out after Rumlow yelled at him, and he was damn good with explosives.

Rumlow should probably do the techs a solid, too. At least Murphy’s team. He skims a few files named after Murphy’s department and quickly gets bored, then just highlights all the ones with similar names and deletes. There.

Okay, now onto anything with his signature on it. He covers a yawn with his hand so it doesn’t wake Cap. So long, bone density experiments from ’05, and whatever the fuck they were trying with the Asset’s kidneys. He does not need more detail. Delete. There’s a video of some experiment – he watches it on mute and Jesus, he’s actually in the video, standing there in the background while the techs do whatever with drills and blowtorches and shit he can’t even name. Definitely delete.

There are a couple more files about the Asset, but at a quick glance they don’t mention Rumlow or Murphy or anyone else worth saving. A bunch of stuff in Russian too technical for him to understand, digitized from the ‘80s. Bunch of stuff about Pierce. Rumlow skims. There’s a paragraph about a failsafe that catches his eye, but he can’t find anything else about ‘the words’. Maybe in the Russian files? The letters are blurring on the screen. What does jump out is that Pierce had some kind of back-up plan for controlling the Asset if its primary handler slipped up. Or got power hungry.

It makes sense, and Rumlow can’t say he wouldn’t have done the same but… He’d been so fucking loyal to Hydra, for so many goddamn years. Pierce could at least have done him the decency of admitting there was a failsafe.

Between this and the Maximoff freaks, maybe he should skim less and actually do a little more reading. Yeah. That’s a good idea. He can probably get through–

–there’s a hand on his shoulder, mashing his face into the keyboard as it shakes him awake. 

“Hey, Rumlow?”

It’s Wilson.

Rumlow bolts awake like someone’s shot coffee into his veins. Fuck, the fucking computer– 

It’s locked. The screen’s the same as it was before he’d typed in Murphy’s key. Right. Re-encrypted. Guess he slept more than 20 minutes, he thinks as his heart slowly chills the fuck out. It’s morning.

“Hey,” he mutters, rubbing his face. He’s starting to sound like he’s got a pack-a-day habit. 

Wilson nods at the USB.

“You been at this all night?”

“I, uh…” Rumlow’s brain is so goddamn staticky. “I was trying to…” he waves his hand. “No luck, though.”

“Dude. Do you even know how to do this kind of stuff?”

“Thought maybe I could figure it out,” Rumlow says weakly. Wilson looks halfway between impressed and are-you-a-literal-moron. 

“Why would you think that?”

Which, again. Just plain rude. “Man, I don’t know. Cap’s pissed at me. I had to try something.” It comes out mostly on instinct, but seems to be the right thing to say. Wilson gives him the same exasperated look Cap earns when he gets called out for his stupid martyr complex.

“Cap will get over it. You’re no use to this team sleep-deprived. Go. Take my bed.” Oh, now he offers. 

“You know what,” Rumlow rubs his face. “I think I will. Thanks, man.” It’s not the worst idea. There’s not much more he can do before Romanoff gets here, and he can’t keep this up if he’s constantly about to drop.

But before he crashes, he’s gonna go… apologize to Bucky. The sleep deprivation probably helps him decide this is a good idea. He comes to Cap’s room and stands awkwardly outside the door like a fucking little kid. He’s about to knock, when he hears Cap and the Asset talking quietly.

“—any of that?” Cap says hopefully.

“I don’t know…” the Asset sounds unsure. “In my dream, there was only one girl.”

“You have—” Cap falters. “You had three sisters, Buck.”

There’s a pause. “What were their names?”

Yeesh. Rumlow waits for a less uncomfortable moment to come in, but it doesn’t seem like  there’s one coming up. Come on, Cap. Lighten the mood a little.

“I… I remember dancing,” the Asset's saying. “And music? There was a lot of music.”

“You love jazz,” Cap says, latching on. “You got real into Glenn Miller after you saw Sun Valley Serenade. For your 25th birthday, your little sisters scrounged together enough to get you a Chatanooga Choo Choo record. Remember any of that?”

The Asset’s quiet for a moment. “When’s my birthday?”

Jesus.

Cap deflates a little, but just ploughs right through. “It’s – it’s March 10th. Here, let me—” Cap pauses.

The Asset’s got a birthday. That’s… a weird thought. A couple seconds later Rumlow hears what sounds like a trombone doing its best impression of a train whistle. Then it turns into a real song. The music goes on for a minute.

“Nothing?” Cap pleads. “You don’t recognize it?” The Asset’s silent.

“It’s… pretty,” it offers.

Cap’s voice goes all quiet and heartbroken. “You’d play it all the time.”

There’s a pause. “All the time?”

“Yeah, Buck. For like six months straight.”

“Must’ve annoyed the hell out of you,” the Asset says, and chuckles. Not laughs, chuckles. That’s not a sound Rumlow’s ever heard it make. It’s sounding different, too, when it talks. A lot more… he isn’t sure what to call it. Friendly? Teasing, almost. Definitely not the way he’s ever heard it talk to anyone, even himself.

It seems to cheer Cap up, though. “Eh, I was half deaf anyway,” he says, and Rumlow can hear his sad smile. 

Okay, enough of this. He’s gonna fall asleep on his feet if he keeps waiting here. Rumlow knocks loudly, then barges in. 

“Cap,” he says, and watches Cap’s face go flat and pissed again. “I—”

“What is it, Rumlow?” Cap asks, voice clipped. Rumlow takes a deep breath.

“I, uh.” He turns to the Asset. “Listen.” The Asset immediately perks up and Rumlow mentally kicks himself. “I’m… sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have hit you like that.” He definitely should have. That’s pretty much the only thing the Asset would respond to in that state. He glances at Cap and, lo and behold, he looks surprised. And decidedly no longer pissed. Maybe Wilson was onto something with this apology thing. “I’m glad you’re in better shape today,” Rumlow adds, like a fucking Hallmark card. 

The Asset just looks at him, like it can’t totally process what’s coming out of his mouth. Which, fair. Rumlow gives it a look like I know, okay? I know it’s weird.

“...Acknowledged,” it says, finally. Which is what it says when it’s heard you but ‘understood’ would be a fucking lie.

“Thanks, Rumlow,” Cap adds. “That’s good of you.” The Asset looks at Cap, even more bewildered, like it’s not sure why both its handlers have suddenly lost their minds.

Rumlow manages the sleep-deprived version of a charming grin. “I try,” he says, and yawns. “Now I’m gonna get some sleep. Wake me up if we’re getting bombed.”

He assumes there’s a reply, but it doesn’t sound angry and Wilson’s bed is right across the hall with an actual mattress and no arm rests. Rumlow drops face down on the pillows and passes the fuck out.

He wakes up to the smell of bacon frying. Someone’s draped a blanket over him and it’s kind of nice. He feels way better. He comes out and takes a seat at the table. Cap’s cooking. When he sees Rumlow, he sets a plate with way more bacon than a normal human man could eat in front of him.

“Sleep well?” he asks. He doesn’t seem pissed at all anymore.

“Yeah,” Rumlow says. “Thanks.” He digs in.

“Thanks for trying with the USB,” Cap adds. Surprised, Rumlow looks up. He glances at Wilson, who nods slightly at him.

“Yeah,” he says to Cap. And that’s that. Apparently they’re good again. Huh. Rumlow shoves some bacon into his face. They chat a little – Rumlow asks a bit more about how Wilson and Cap met, it’s exactly as insane as he’d thought – when Cap announces that Natasha’s here. Rumlow waits. Ten seconds later, he hears the rumble of a motorcycle. He automatically slides his plate over to the Asset, who just as automatically starts eating whatever Rumlow’s left.

Cap stands up and heads to the door. Rumlow leans over and peeks as Cap opens it and Romanoff barges in like a pissed off redhead tornado. She has her zappy bracelets on and the second she catches sight of the Asset sitting at the table, she goes so tense it looks like she might snap something.

“Steve,” she says, too calm. “You said you were going to take precautions.”

“He doesn’t have any weapons,” Cap starts.

“The Soldier is a weapon,” she tells him. “You basically have a nuclear bomb sitting beside Sam and… Rumlow?” She frowns, finally noticing him. Rumlow gives her a little wave. “Rumlow? Why are you here?”

“Hey, Romanoff.” Maybe now’s a good time. “Saw that data dump website you set up. Really like the user interface—”

The Asset reaches up to put another strip of bacon in its mouth, and Romanoff jerks. She instantly snaps her arm out and unloads one of those little discs into the Asset’s metal arm. There’s a blue electric crackle and the limb drops. So does the bacon.

“Nat!” Cap snaps. Romanoff glares back at him.

“Really, Steve?” she says. “Nearly two weeks of radio silence, and then, ‘hey Nat, I have this Hydra USB and by the way I’m roommates with the Winter Soldier now.’ He could have killed you six times in the last minute! Do you even know how to operate him properly?”

No, he doesn’t, thanks for asking. 

Cap bristles. The Asset looks down at its limp arm, then calmly back up at Cap. “She’s a non-hostile?” it says sceptically, picking up a piece of bacon with its flesh hand instead. It takes a bite. “You sure know a lot of hostile non-hostiles, Steve.” See, there it is again. That is not how it usually talks to a fucking handler.

Romanoff looks just as startled to hear that come out of the Asset’s mouth. 

“How did you get him to do that?” she asks Cap.

“To do what?”

“What standing orders have you given him?”

“I haven’t given him any orders,” Cap says, offended. Romanoff makes an annoyed sound. 

“What’s your mission?” she snaps at the Asset.

“Beats me,” it says, and looks pointedly over at Cap. “I think I’m still in downtime.”

Cap pinches the bridge of his nose. “He’s not with Hydra anymore,” he tells her. “I told you already.”

“Is that right, Soldier?” she asks. “You have new owners?”

“No!” Cap shouts, at the same time as the Asset says, “You betcha.” 

There’s movement in the doorway, and it takes Rumlow a second to recognize Barton out of uniform. Of course it’s Barton. Because there weren’t enough Avengers here.

“Hey, Cap, can you move your car–”

Romanoff shifts so she’s right between Barton and the Asset, “Clint, stay behind me,” she says. “The Winter Soldier is in play.” It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but Rumlow swears he sees her hand twitch to her sidearm. Is she… scared?

Barton, though, seems unfazed. “The guy’s just eating lunch. He’s not gonna kill me with a bacon strip,” he sighs.

“He could.”

Barton rolls his eyes. “Well, then I’d shoot him and Cap would shoot me, and that’d be that. But nobody’s killing anybody. Right, guys?”

The Asset looks at Rumlow. “That’s right,” Rumlow sighs. Barton raises his eyebrows, as if he also only just noticed Rumlow was in the room.

“Understood,” the Asset says, and reaches for another piece of bacon.

“Cool,” Barton nods. “I’m Clint, by the way,” he tells the Asset, which is focused on its food. “And this is Natasha.” Still no response.

There’s an incredibly awkward beat of silence.

“Clint!” Wilson finally speaks up. He sounds a little manic. “Hi! I’m Sam. Good to meet you. You said you wanted Cap to move the car?”

Barton looks gratefully at him. “Yeah,” he says. “So we can get the motorcycle in. We took your bike, Cap,” he adds.

“Steve?” Wilson prompts.

“Sure,” Cap says, standing up. “Buck? Wanna give me a hand?” The Asset winces. Choices, Cap! Get it together. “Right,” Cap’s finally starting to catch on. He looks a bit embarrassed. “Let’s go,” he says instead. Good fucking job. Now the Asset stands up and follows him out to the driveway – even though Rumlow’s not exactly sure why Cap needs help reparking the car, but whatever. Romanoff lets them through the door and immediately turns around to stand guard.

“Permission to remove the… this?” the Asset says as they head to the car, indicating the thing Romanoff shot at its arm. Rumlow doesn’t catch Cap’s reply.

“So,” Barton pulls back a chair and digs into the plate of bacon. “Mmm. Food. So, Rumlow? Gotta say I was not expecting to see you.”

Rumlow nods. “Same.” Which seems kind of dumb, in retrospect, considering how many other Avengers are around. “Thought you were on vacation?” 

“I was on vacation. Didn’t know anything until I saw the news on TV. Nat called a few days later and I came down for the congressional hearings,” he adds.

“Seriously?” Barton’s the guy you want covering you in the field or as your drinking buddy after hours, as long as no one has the genius idea to start a game of darts or pool. Explaining the last couple weeks to congress is the last place Rumlow would put him. 

Barton grins. “I know, right? When Cap called, I was basically already out the door. At least here I don’t have to wear a tie.”

“Where have you been, Rumlow?” Romanoff chimes in, and he’s on edge right away. 

Where to even start? “Well, I was in the field, off the grid when everything went down, so… bit of a shock when I turned my phone back on.”

“No shit?” Barton shakes his head. “That’s rough.”

“Where in the field?” Romanoff presses. Her voice is doing that too-calm thing again. “I didn’t hear about STRIKE getting deployed overseas.” She glances over her shoulder, watching his face for whatever they teach creepy Russian spy kids to watch for in interrogations.

Does she even get told when STRIKE deploys? It’s literally impossible to read her face.

“Syria,” he bluffs.

“Jarabulus?” she shoots back.

Oh, so Romanoff wants to play ‘obscure Syrian cities’. He can fucking play.

“Just out of Quneitra,” he shoots back. “Didn’t even get a chance to write it up, came back and everything had already gone to hell.” So even if he was telling the truth, it wouldn’t be on her data dump. Checkmate.

Romanoff narrows her eyes, but doesn’t say anything else.

“How about you, Sam?” Barton asks, turning his attention to Wilson. “Were you with SHIELD?” 

“Nah, man,” he says. “I just joined up with Cap after Insight.”

“He’s a therapist,” Rumlow adds, because it’s insane.

“Awesome,” Barton says. “About time the Avengers had someone in-house.” 

Wilson’s brows shoot up. “Oh, I’m not an Avenger,” he says, seeming surprised that people would assume a guy who calls himself the Falcon and hangs out with Captain America would be part of the Avengers. Barton nods.

“Sure.” He grabs another handful of bacon and turns back to Rumlow. Wilson opens his mouth. Before he can add anything, Barton says, “Hey, you think we’ll still get paid at the end of the month? Or, like, what’s happening to our 401Ks?”

Rumlow blinks. Those are good questions. His SHIELD retirement savings are one thing, but Hydra had just started offering a Roth 401K plan that Rumlow’s pretty sure he’ll never see paid out. So much for the deferred fucking benefits of tax-free withdrawals. 

“Fuck,” Rumlow says emphatically. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

Barton hmms in agreement. They hear Cap say, “This’ll be faster,” from outside, and Barton glances behind him. Rumlow looks too – he leans over to watch through the door, and then a shock of adrenaline goes up his spine as Cap and the Asset stand on either side of Wilson’s Prius and hoist the fucking thing up like a couch. Jesus fucking Christ. They shuffle a few feet to the right and set the car back down.

The only person who looks as disturbed by the whole thing as Rumlow feels is Romanoff. She goes for her sidearm again and he can almost see her counting to ten before she pulls her hand back. 

“So, that’s actually Bucky Barnes, huh?” Barton says.

“Seems like!” Rumlow can’t quite keep the hysteria out of his voice.

God, how did he get here? There are suddenly twice as many Avengers around as there were twenty minutes ago. Getting the Asset back to the Chair under Cap and Wilson’s noses is one thing, but now there’s Hawkeye and the fucking Black Widow involved. And the Asset’s remembering more by the minute. Rumlow’s prognosis isn’t looking great.

“So Cap mentioned a USB,” Barton says to Wilson.

“Right, yeah.” Wilson gets up and slides past Rumlow. “I’ll get it.” This house is starting to get kinda crowded. As Cap and the Asset head back in, the Asset’s metal arm jerks and thuds against the doorframe, sending wood dust down. Cap frowns at it.

“You good?” he asks the Asset. It rolls its shoulder, twists its elbow.

“Yes,” it says. Rumlow squints at the arm. Weird. It isn’t due for maintenance for another two months. Maybe Romanoff’s little spark bangle fried something important. Speaking of, the Asset’s holding the bead-of-whatever she shot it with, rolling it around the fingers of its good hand. It holds the bead up to Romanoff and starts talking in Russian.

“You’re from the Red Room,” it says. It’s not a question. Romanoff still seems shaken to hear it speak. She shares a look with Barton, and nods.

Which fucking Soviet spy cell was the Red Room, again? It’s not a secret that Romanoff defected, but it’s not like she ever told Rumlow the details. Suddenly he regrets not checking out her file on the data dump while he had the chance.

“Do you remember me?” she asks, also in Russian. She’s using the formal ‘you’, which was the bane of Rumlow’s existence when he was first trying to learn this fucking language.

The Asset closes its eyes. It’ll give itself another migraine if it keeps this up. Idiot. “No,” it says, finally. “Have we met?”

“A long time ago,” she says.

“You were one of the children?” it guesses. Romanoff’s eyes go steely.

“I was never a child.”

That seems a little dramatic.

Cap and Wilson, who probably know six words of Russian between them, look lost. It occurs to Rumlow that Barton’s staring at him, watching his reaction. He tries to match their expressions. He doesn’t know Russian. Why would he know Russian? He’s not the Winter Soldier’s primary handler. Just regular old Brock Rumlow, agent of SHIELD. He didn’t take night classes along with the rest of STRIKE. He didn’t start doing Rosetta Stone when he got promoted.

The Asset looks at Cap. “I think I was lent to the Red Room,” it tells him, still in Russian. “There were… children. Girls. I trained them.” It scrunches its brow like it’s trying to remember, but luckily no headache comes. “I went on a few missions with them.”

“Buck,” Cap says gently. “I don’t speak Russian, buddy.”

The Asset blinks. It frowns a little, but doesn’t say anything else.

“The Soldier was lent to the Red Room,” Romanoff tells Cap, still staring at the Asset. A muscle twitches in Cap’s jaw.  “He trained us, for a time. When I was twelve, thirteen.” 

Rumlow's pretty sure the Asset’s been based in the US since at least the late ’90s. Maybe she’s misremembering.

Romanoff swallows, and goes on. “He was their weapon of choice, when one of us stepped out of line.”

That’s dark. Not exactly unheard of, but still. Rumlow could pretend to be as shocked as Cap is, but that might actually make Romanoff and Barton more suspicious. He’s STRIKE. This isn’t even close to the kind of shit that phases him. He settles for grim-faced. Missions where kids got killed were always tricky with the Asset. Rumlow would only sign off on those a week out of cryo at the max, and it was still a fuckup waiting to happen. He always made sure they ran the Chair on high afterwards.

The Asset’s eyes are pinched shut. It’s trying to remember. This time at least Cap puts a hand on its shoulder. “That’s okay, Buck,” he says softly. “Don’t worry about that right now.”

The Asset’s eyes open, and its face smooths out. It reaches up to put its flesh hand on top of Cap’s, then hesitates at the last second, hovering.

“It’s okay,” Cap says, and the hand falls. Cap gives the Asset a squeeze.

“Here we go,” Wilson appears behind Rumlow to set the laptop down on the table. He sits next to him and Barton. “We’ve been trying to crack this thing for two days. Rumlow stayed up most of last night working on it.”

Romanoff raises one eyebrow. “Did he?” Without waiting for an answer, she leans over their shoulders and starts typing. Barton looks over at him.

“Didn’t get anywhere, though,” Rumlow says, as ruefully as he can. 

“Do you even know IT shit?” Barton asks. He’s frowning. “Like, codebreaking?”

“I can google,” Rumlow shrugs, trying to play it off. Barton and Romanoff both narrow their eyes at him this time. Romanoff stiffens when Cap and the Asset come up beside her.

“Steve,” she says, without looking up. “Tell the Soldier to stand by the door.”

Cap’s unimpressed. “Is that necessary, Natasha?”

“I’m not turning my back to him,” she says calmly. For a second, Rumlow’s not sure if there might be an argument over it.

“I’d rather not, either,” Barton chips in. “No offence, Sergeant Barnes.”

Cap doesn’t look happy, but doesn’t waste time arguing. He sighs. “Bucky…” Cap gestures at the door. “Stand over there, please.”

The Asset goes. Rumlow offers Romanoff his chair, but she waves him off. She sets her phone down beside the laptop, the screen showing God knows what, and gets to work. It takes her just over an hour to crack the encryption.

“I’ll go through the Russian ones today,” she says, as she’s saving the files to Wilson’s desktop. “The rest… there’s very little on here. It mostly looks like engineering R&D projects from the ’80s and some memos for Pierce.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Cap says. “The tech said there would be files on Bucky.”

“Well, there’s nothing. Unless,” Romanoff pauses. She hits a few keys rapid-fire. “Uh-huh. There’s some deleted files.” Rumlow feels his blood freeze. Barton is still watching him and it takes every ounce of self-control not to react. “A lot, actually. I can’t tell you much beyond the file size, though. They’re corrupted. I don’t know how to recover them.”

Thank fuck. “Thanks for giving it a shot,” Rumlow offers. She gives him a flat look.

“You know,” Barton says. “Tony could probably restore them for us. Or, I dunno. Build a robot to hack them or something. It might be time to call him up.”

Wilson perks up. “Iron Man? That’s an idea.”

Oh God. Please don’t bring more Avengers into this.

Romanoff doesn’t say anything, she just looks at Cap. He bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t think bringing Tony into this is going to be helpful right now.”  

That’s… not what Rumlow expected him to say.

“Why not?” Barton asks, which is kind of what Rumlow’s thinking, but hell if he’s gonna say so. “Stark Tower – Avengers Tower, sorry – is probably a better HQ for hunting down Hydra anyways.” He glances at the Asset, standing blankly by the door. “And he might have resources for Sergeant Barnes,” he adds, softer.

“He might,” Cap concedes, and looks torn. “But I can’t– it’s not. There’s a lot that’s changed the last couple weeks, and for all we know Hydra could be buried as deep in Stark Industries as they were in SHIELD.” 

That… kinda sounds like bullshit, and one look at Barton and Wilson tells Rumlow he’s not the only one to think so.

“Cap,” Barton says. “You’re not going to tell me you think Tony’s Hydra.”

“No! No, I just,” Cap takes a deep breath. “I just know that I trust everyone in this room. I don’t want to bring anyone else in if I don’t have to. For our safety, and theirs.” 

That’s a totally different argument than what he’d just said. Something’s not adding up.

“Tony–”

“Clint,” Romanoff cuts in. “Steve’s right, the fewer people involved the better. We’ll reconsider if anything changes.”

Barton looks like he might argue further, but then he shrugs. “Alright, Cap,” he says grudgingly. “You’re in charge.”

Rumlow couldn’t be happier about the decision not to go to fucking Avengers Tower, but even he has to admit it’s a bit of a weird choice from Cap’s perspective. There’s something Cap isn’t telling them. Rumlow wonders if it has anything to do with that phone call he took earlier.

Rumlow’s Hydra phone buzzes. He can feel Romanoff’s eyes boring holes into him.

“Need a minute,” he says, and heads to the bathroom. Wilson gives him a sympathetic look as he goes. He pulls his phone out as soon as the door’s shut behind him.

13:47: Any updates?

13:47: USBs handled

13:47: Sweet

13:48: Now get the asset to the base. Murphy will walk u thru the reset. He thinks it needs 1-2 days

Rumlow stares at the message. One to two days? Fuck off. Three little typing dots bounce on his screen. 

13:48: Murphy here. It’s going to need intermittent sessions in the Chair. I’ll send you the specs, but basically 45min to 2 hour sessions at different voltages and halo configurations with rest periods 

13:48: No can do

13:49: Romanoff and Barton just showed up

13:49: No way I’ll be able to stay at the base that long without anyone coming

13:50: Sorry Commander. It’s been too long out of cryo and without wipes. And with how much sleep you said it got… those aren’t its ideal operating conditions. Needs neuroelectrical protocol 199-999.

13:50: Are you sure?

13:51: 100% sure. Might even need more afterwards, if interacting with Cap has undone its conditioning in addition to everything else.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck!

13:51: How the fuck am I supposed to get the asset away from 4 avengers for that long

There’s nothing for a while. Rumlow’s about to text again, when he sees it pop up.

13:54: JR here. Listen. Give me a few hours. I might have something.

Chapter Text

Rumlow closes the bathroom door behind him. He gets about five seconds to catch his breath and then hears Russian from the kitchen. He can’t catch a break for one goddamn second. Sure, why shouldn’t the Asset get chatty with Romanoff? Rumlow sighs. He hears the Asset go, “supposed to be a regular kill mission,” and then switch to Urdu. Romanoff doesn’t even miss a beat. Rumlow’s Urdu is exactly enough to order lunch, and ask for directions if he doesn’t then have to understand the answer - which maybe wasn’t the best way to prioritize the phrasebook, now that he thinks about it. He hears the Asset say, “Steve” and, after a long bit from Romanoff, “Brock… Rumlow”. Good. Good, good, good. 

He walks back through the kitchen and drops onto the couch beside Cap, careful not to check if either of the creepy Russian murder-bots are watching him. At some point, the Asset’s moved to sit at the end of the table - Romanoff’s at the other end, her chair pushed back far enough that she has to keep the laptop on her actual lap. Rumlow grabs a Hydra file from the stack at random and starts reading. Or, you know, looking at the words blurring on the page because the Asset’s said his name again, and now he knows they’re both looking at him, and probably Cap is, too.

It's fine. It's all probably fine.

He startles when the front door opens, which is a stupid reaction because it’s fine. It’s just Wilson and Barton come through carrying a duffel and two bags of takeout. He needs to get his shit together.

“—until she knocked me out,” Barton’s saying. “I was mostly back to myself when I woke up, like, concussion notwithstanding.”

“Right,” Wilson says, slowly.

After a beat, Barton adds, “So then we fought the rest of the Chitauri in New York, blah blah blah – that part was all over the news, but the best bit is that after Thor took Loki home–”

“Sorry, home? Like to Asgard?” Wilson takes a moment to absorb that. “I kind of assumed SHIELD would’ve kept him here… somewhere. I mean.” Rumlow catches them both looking over at the Asset.

Barton grimaces at Wilson. “Probably for the best we didn’t, huh? Anyway,” he says, way too cheerfully. He sets both bags of takeout down in front of Romanoff and pulls up a chair. Romanoff eyes the food. She asks the Asset two more questions, rapid-fire, and it just stares and shrugs. Whatever the fuck that means. Romanoff seems happy enough to drop it and focus on her takeout. The Asset pays attention when it sees the boxes, because takeout boxes, historically, mean pretty good odds that Rumlow’s gotten it some not-diet-plan-approved post-mission burgers or hot wings. It loses interest pretty quick when it sees it’s all health food shit. Techs’ wet dream. Romanoff hands one of the little styrofoam containers to Barton and starts digging in.

Well, she hasn’t announced that Rumlow’s Hydra to everyone, so the Asset probably didn’t out him, so that’s good at least. She skims through the Russian files on Wilson’s laptop as she eats.

Barton keeps looking at the Asset, and his eyes are sparkling. He’s got a stupid look on his face, and his chin’s resting in his hand like a teenage girl. “So,” Barton says, finally, “Sergeant Barnes – can I call you Bucky?”

The Asset looks at Cap. Cap looks dead inside, but he nods.

“Yes.”

“You know, Bucky, you were kinda a hero of mine when I was a kid.” Barton clears his throat. “I had your biography and the comics and the trading cards and everything.”

Starstruck. That’s what the stupid look is. Barton’s a Bucky Barnes fan. The Asset looks like it has no idea what to do with this information, but to be fair, Rumlow’s seen Cap have this exact conversation with Coulson, and the look on his face was basically the same.

“I mean you set the long-range sniping record for what, almost twenty years?” Barton continues, and that gets a flash of interest from the Asset. “Yeah, I was twenty-three when I finally got it myself. Well, with ’90s equipment. Took another month for me to get it with an M1903 Springfield. Like you used to use,” Barton adds after a beat, once he realizes that the Asset doesn’t remember its own name or birthday so probably doesn’t remember the kind of rifle it used in nineteen fucking forty-four.

“What’s on file as my record?” the Asset asks.

“1,508 meters,” Barton says immediately. The Asset looks a little indignant. “That’s from ’44, though,” Barton quickly amends. And then, clearly fishing, “You’ve probably beaten that by now…”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. Here we go. Technically, the Asset’s not supposed to have opinions. That’s never stopped it from thinking it’s hot shit.

“Hell,” the Asset starts, “I think the last time I was closer than 2 kilometers was… must’ve been ’62. ’63? Target,” it pauses, and shakes its head. “There was a motorcade… the target and his wife were in a convertible.” It looks over at Rumlow, like he’s going to give it a hint. He is not. “There was a… grassy knoll?”

Wilson’s mouth drops open.

“Are you telling us you shot–” Wilson asks, but Barton cuts him off, “You ever cleared 2.5?”

“This one time in Afghanistan,” the Asset starts eagerly, and then it and Barton are exchanging improbable long-distance shots they’ve made over the years. For the first time since the Asset’s stumbled back to Rumlow, it actually seems to be functioning well. In a good mood, even. The Asset always likes being around when people are shooting the shit.

The stories they’re telling are insane. Rumlow would accuse them of lying, if the Asset could lie, and if he hadn’t seen Barton kill a mosquito once during a stakeout by flipping a coin at it from across the room. That shit was crazy.

Cap’s watching the Asset and Barton, also looking the happiest Rumlow’s seen him since this whole shitshow started. Every so often, he looks at Romanoff frowning at the computer, and his mouth twists a little each time the Asset describes its targets, but otherwise he seems pretty content to sit there and listen to the Asset chatting. Suddenly, Cap straightens up. He takes his phone out of his pocket.

Rumlow looks over. There’s a text from ‘Tony’ from three days ago – unread. And another from ‘Deb’. Cap swipes down, and over his shoulder Rumlow reads: It’s a good day today. Nothing else. He types something back that Rumlow misses, then puts the phone face up on the armrest to watch for a reply. Code? Rumlow’d bet money it has something to do with that weird secret phone call he had last night. He’s really gotta figure out what that’s about.

Rumlow turns his attention back to the other side of the room.

“All five,” Barton says glibly, “through the keyhole. No entry hole in the door.”

“Holy shit,” Wilson says quietly.

The Asset whistles. It whistles. Rumlow has to stop himself from doing a cartoony double-take. “I dunno that my aim’s ever been that precise,” it says. 

Barton preens like a fucking peacock. “Gotta make up for my serumless, in-no-way-super eyesight somehow.”

“Pal, I’d say you’re overcompensating,” the Asset says, and this is officially weird. 

The Asset, for all that it likes being included, isn’t usually a great conversationalist. It doesn’t have much to say, since to contribute you kinda need to both have relevant life experiences and remember them. Even after some time out of cryo, when its speech patterns get a little more casual and easy, and you start getting ‘pal’ and ‘buddy’ and weird ’30s slang, it doesn’t usually… sometimes it'll say funny shit, but it’s not fun to talk to. It doesn’t joke around. It doesn’t fucking whistle.

“You know,” the Asset continues. “I’ve never actually used a bow and arrow.” 

“No shit?”

“I think there was one commander in the ’70s or ’80s that suggested training me in it, but it never happened. That guy had a bunch of weird suggestions. That’s why I learned Finnish.”

Barton laughs. “For like five years at SHIELD – before you got here, Cap – it was mandatory for us to take Sokovian classes. No one ever told us why, and then one day they just decided we didn’t have to anymore. Never even got sent to Sokovia. Remember, Nat?”

“Mmm,” she agrees with her mouth full.

“I was in Sokovia once,” Wilson offers. “It’s probably much easier to pick up if you already know some Russian,” he tells Romanoff. 

He’s right. It had been.

“I know a little,” she says tightly. She’s acting more like the Asset than the Asset is. She’s clearly already gotten the Urdu dub of whatever she wanted, and isn’t interested in shooting the shit with the Winter Soldier. Barton, though, he’s having the time of his life.

“So most people,” he goes, “think the bow and arrow is either a joke or a gimmick or something. But Steve here – best reaction so far.”

“Please don’t,” Cap says, but he’s grinning.

“Oh, this I gotta hear,” Rumlow throws in, because he hasn’t said anything in a while and also, this he’s gotta hear. Cap melodramatically covers his face with his hand.

“Steve shakes my hand,” Barton says, “says nice to meetcha and all that, and then asks me dead-serious, ‘so, what year did you get frozen?’”

Rumlow’s laughing along with everyone for a good minute before he realizes the Asset is laughing, too. Every time Rumlow looks over, it’s looking more… Rumlow knows now that the Asset was Bucky Barnes, that technically that’s Bucky Barnes’ body. But now it quirks one eyebrow up at Romanoff and kind of smiles, and it fucking looks like Bucky Barnes.

“You shoulda told him you were Robin Hood or something,” the Asset says. Then the memory migraine hits. Poor fucker. Rumlow watches it grit its teeth through the pain, which luckily fades after a few seconds. The Asset looks at Cap. It blinks. “That was your favourite one, right?” it says slowly. “Robin Hood?”

“That’s the one, Buck,” Cap says, beaming.

“You still remember the speech?”

Cap freezes. Wilson and Barton perk up. “What speech?” 

“From the movie,” the Asset says, like movies from the ’30s are a common fucking cultural reference point. “The big ‘swear this oath’ speech.”

“Bucky…” Cap’s embarrassed. 

“He knew this whole speech,” the Asset cuts in. It turns to Wilson, Barton, and Romanoff. “Learned it all by heart. I don’t know how many times he musta gone to see that picture to get it right, but he could do it even better than Errol Flynn. Ain’t that right, pal?” And it might’ve been genuinely asking, because it waits for Cap to give a grudging little nod before it goes on. “I don’t even think the kids in our neighbourhood knew it that well.”

“How old were you?” Wilson asks.

Cap says, reluctantly, “Twenty.” He looks like he’s trying his best to camouflage into the back of the couch. Romanoff huffs out a laugh.

“You still remember it?” the Asset asks excitedly.

“Oh, um.”

“Now this I gotta hear,” Barton grins. “C’mon, Cap.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow adds, because why the hell not? He’ll listen to Cap do a stupid monologue he learned from a movie. “C’mon, Cap!”

“Fine. Fine!” Cap pinches the bridge of his nose. Rumlow’s never even seen the guy embarrassed before today. Now there’s actually a hint of a blush on his cheeks. Guess that’s the kind of thing only your childhood best friend can do to you. He looks up at the Asset grinning. “You want to hear it?”

There’s a chorus of, “Yes!” from the room and Cap takes a deep breath, and puffs out his chest.

“I’ve called you here as freeborn Englishmen,” he starts, “loyal to our king.” At first it’s kind of ironic, Cap making fun of the words as he says them, rolling his eyes and stuff, but a few more sentences in, he starts getting into it. By the time Cap demands they swear to despoil the rich and shelter the helpless, Rumlow’s paying full attention. Is this… working on him? This is a speech from a ’30s movie. This shouldn’t be working on him.

“And swear to fight to the death against our oppressors!” Cap finishes. At some point he’s gotten up off the couch; Rumlow hadn’t even noticed.

Fuck. Why does he have a sudden urge to fight for England? He genuinely has to hold himself back from shouting out, ‘I swear it’, or some shit. Looks like Wilson and Barton are having the same problem. Even Romanoff’s put her food down. Cap sits again, looking a little sheepish now that he’s not orating, and they all give him a round of slightly too-genuine applause. Even the Asset joins in. Rumlow can’t tell if it’s affected – it already looks at Cap like it’s ready to follow him into Hell either way, speech or no speech.

“I remember,” it says, softly. “Five foot nothing, dukes up, muttering that to yourself before…” It frowns again. “Before…” It digs the metal hand into its temple. “I remember that,” it says, sadly.

There’s a lull.

“So…” Barton tries to lighten the mood. “You’re saying we owe Steve’s pump-up speeches to Robin Hood?”

The Asset looks up at him. “Clarify: ‘Steve’s pump-up speeches’?”

“Oh, man,” Barton says. “when you remember whatever stuff he came up with during the war, you have got to share. His pep talks are legendary.”

Cap shrugs. “It helps with the nerves, is all,” he says. “Boosts team morale.”

“I’m crap at that stuff,” Wilson says. “I usually just tell people to ‘do better’.”

“I bet you’re still better than Brixton,” Barton chuckles. “Or McKenzie.”

Romanoff throws her head back. “Oh, my God, McKenzie.”

“Troy McKenzie?” Cap asks. “Nice guy. Good… well, very enthusiastic agent. Amazing with explosives. He actually taught me how the remote detonators worked.” 

Yeah, because the alternative was watching Cap sprint across a parking lot after setting them off manually. Rumlow still hasn’t totally recovered from their first mission together. He and the rest of STRIKE had heart attacks waiting for a Cap-shaped silhouette to come out of the flames.

“Yeah, he’s nice,” Barton goes on, “but you never worked under him, Cap. Guy isn’t great at a command role. He was usually on STRIKE Epsilon, I think.” And then, for Wilson’s benefit, “This guy’s idea of a motivational speech is basically half threats, half bribes and ten percent ‘ummmmmm’. Dude’s shit at any kind of public speaking, really. Even after-action reports.”

“Gamma,” the Asset corrects, and Barton abruptly stops talking. Romanoff turns sharply to look at it. The Asset elaborates, “Not Epsilon. Agent McKenzie was primarily on STRIKE Gamma.”

Cap’s sitting up very straight now.  “You knew him, Buck?” He’s trying to sound casual, but it’s so obviously not a casual question. The Asset nods. 

“He is very bad at after-action reports,” it agrees. “He could never keep his ammo count straight. No respect for his gear in general.”

Ugh. Well, sorry, McKenzie. If you weren’t outed in the leak, you have been now.

Rumlow watches Romanoff, Barton, and Cap speedrun through the five stages of realizing someone was Hydra the whole time. A beat passes, and they all settle on looking kind of disappointed.

“Gamma, too?” Romanoff asks. It’s rhetorical. By now she mostly sounds resigned to the fact that a solid forty percent of her coworkers were double agents. 

Cap isn’t that jaded yet. “God damn it,” he sighs. Rumlow can see him mentally adding another name to his kill list.

“So…” Barton says, because apparently this is the way he deals with awkward silences. “Does this mean you have some good McKenzie-in-command stories we haven’t heard?” The Asset perks up.

“Clint,” Romanoff warns, but the Asset’s already going.

“Well, he was repeatedly written up for unauthorized use of equipment,” it starts, setting off a little alarm bell in the back of Rumlow’s head. This is both true, and not an avenue of conversation Rumlow wants to continue exploring. “This one time,” it continues, “I reported to him after a mission in Cambodia.” 

Uh-oh. McKenzie. Cambodia. Mishandling equipment. Rumlow knows where this is going.

“So it’s a tropical swamp, right?” The Asset looks over at Rumlow again to confirm, but fuck if he’s confirming anything. Can it stop looking at him. “The arm’s full of muddy swamp water and brains, some of the plates are damaged, so I know we’ve got maybe fifteen minutes tops for the techs to clean it out before it gets into the wiring. When it gets into the wiring, it’s a whole three-ring circus. Hugely delays the maintenance. I tell Agent McKenzie, but he just orders me to strip and bend over and like we’ve got all the time in the world.”

There it is. This is the kind of thing Cap and his friends are gonna make a big deal of. Rumlow just knows it. For half a second, he thinks it might still be okay. Maybe no one noticed. Romanoff and Barton don’t really react, and Wilson’s got his therapist face on so he just looks patient and ready to listen. Maybe they didn’t hear, or just didn’t read anything into it. Then Rumlow feels the couch under him slide forward as Cap leans in, every muscle tense. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something, but then just stays like that. 

The Asset either doesn’t notice the tone shift, or tries to bring the mood back up. Unfortunately, the way it tries to do this is by continuing its story. Christ, it’s like watching a train wreck itself.

“So the whole time Agent McKenzie’s going at it,” the Asset says like it’s doing a standup routine, “I’m looking to the left thinking, yep, the broken plates are gumming up. There go the heat sensors!” It grins, looking around eagerly for a reaction. Only Romanoff snickers a little.

Cap looks like he’s gearing up for battle. “Bucky.” He grips at his hands until the knuckles go white. “Are you saying, after that mission where your arm was damaged, McKenzie…”  He swallows, clearly struggling to get any words out. “Forced you?” he finally manages. Nice and vague, Cap.

The Asset frowns, puzzled. It clearly doesn’t understand what Cap’s so upset about.

“They managed to fix the arm in time,” it reassures him.

“Just to be completely clear here, Bucky,” Wilson says, and Rumlow sees him consciously relax his posture. The therapist face is a lie. He’s fuming. “What happened after he told you to take off your clothes?”

‘What happened’ is a stupid question. It’s already obvious what the Asset is going to say, and yep, there it goes. Rumlow watches Cap’s fingers dig gouges in the couch fabric as he listens to the Asset go on.

The mood’s souring fast.

Barton sighs. “Scumbag.” 

“Right? Very unprofessional,” the Asset agrees.

“Tell me that was the only time something like that happened,” Cap says tightly. Oh, so now he’s learned how to give orders.

“That was the only time something like that happened,” the Asset parrots, predictably. It's like the fucking three stooges over here. Cap keeps asking questions. He isn’t letting this go. Of course he’s hung up on this, of all things. Does Cap actually think this will get better if he has the Asset walk them through its borderline schizophrenic retelling of that one time Agent-Mills-maybe-Bradley made it suck his dick?

Rumlow misses Pierce. He’d never asked for the play-by-play of how and why one of his agents thought fucking a billion dollar weapon was appropriate workplace behaviour. Just the name and whether Rumlow thought they were worth keeping alive and reshuffling to a low-clearance desk job. He’d always been pragmatic that way. Rumlow hadn’t wanted McKenzie transferred off of STRIKE, though, which was why he’d written him up himself and left Pierce out of it entirely.

Rumlow tunes back in when Cap says, "Buck, you… understand that what they did to you was wrong, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the Asset says, slowly, like it’s making sure Cap can follow. “That’s not what I’m for. That’s why they got written up.”

“Oh, well, if they got written up,” Barton says under his breath. Wilson gives him a look.

“Except for Agent Rollins,” the Asset says idly. 

So that’s how a record scratch feels.

The Asset pauses, and thinks back. No memory migraine this time. “I don’t remember if he was ever reprimanded for it,” it muses.

"Rollins?" Rumlow hears himself asking, incredulous, before he’s really thought it through. Wilson looks at him. “Jack Rollins?" The Asset nods. "No way. No way."

"Yes, sir."

Rollins, you dumb fuck.

“Why are you so…” Cap starts helplessly, “Why are you being so offhand about this? These Hydra – they were allowed to do that to you with no repercussions.”

The Asset frowns. It’s obviously not sure what the problem is. “Secretary Pierce reprimanded them,” it points out again.

"For what?" Cap snaps. "Abuse of company resources?”

Romanoff says, “Steve, calm down. You’re getting upset.”

“Of course I’m upset!” Cap explodes. “He’s–” he turns to the Asset, “Bucky, you were sodomized and you’re sitting here telling us about it like it was no big deal!”

The Asset tries to puzzle that one out. “Will… that require punishment?”

Cap just stares, open-mouthed. He’s so furious he’s actually shaking.

“Steve, take a walk,” Wilson says, in the kind of tone that not even Captain America can argue with. Cap breathes out hard enough that it rustles the pages Rumlow’s holding, and stands up.

“I’ll – I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he has the presence of mind to say to the Asset. Barely. He sounds like he’s choking on his own words. He heads to leave. “We’re not done talking about this,” he says on his way out the door.

“We’re done for now,” Wilson insists. 

Cap tries to close the door gently behind him, but he’s pissed off and has super strength, so it still slams hard enough that the cutesy little key hanger on the wall beside it falls onto the welcome mat.

“Alright,” Wilson says. “There’s a lot to unpack here, and none of us are calm enough right now to be constructive about it.”

Romanoff waits a beat before standing up, too. “I’m going to talk to him,” she announces. 

“Nat!” Barton calls, but she’s already almost at the door. 

She doesn’t even turn. “He’s overreacting. He needs to understand this isn’t a priority for the Soldier.”

“Crap,” Barton says, as the door slams behind her. “She’s gonna tell him Red Room stories.” He jogs across the room and leaves the front door open behind him. “Hey, Nat, don’t tell Cap your rapey coming of age–”

Wilson watches the door swing for a second. Then he turns to the Asset. “Just so it’s clear, man,” he starts. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And if you want to talk about this stuff any more–” His phone rings and cuts him off. “You just let me know. For real. Whenever.” He picks up the phone. “Hey, Sarah, this isn’t a good– no, I– Now?” He looks out the door again. “Fine, five minutes though, ok? Ok, put him on.” He says to Rumlow and the Asset, “I’ll be back in a sec, just. Banks. You know?” Rumlow does know. And back to the phone. “Hi, Mr. Broussard, this is Sam, the other account holder. Yes, my PIN is–” Wilson ducks into the bedroom and closes the door.

It’s finally quiet. The second Wilson’s gone, Rumlow pulls out his Hydra phone and starts typing.

14:29: Hey idiot

14:29: Did you fuck the asset???

14:29: because it fucknig rememers and just told cap 

14:29: so hes going to extra murder you you know that right dubmfuck

14:31: why dindt you tell me you did that?

14:31: also WHY

He doesn’t really notice the Asset sitting down beside him. “Steve’s real mad,” it says suddenly. Rumlow almost jumps out of his fucking skin. The Asset blinks and points at the wall, “He’s walking in circles around the house muttering.” Goddamn super hearing.

Under other circumstances, that would be a funny image. But now the Asset just looks miserable. 

“He’ll get over it,” Rumlow says, putting his phone away.

“I… it’s not good,” the Asset says. It’s struggling to express a point. “It’s not beneficial for the mission if he’s mad,” it tries.

Rumlow’s got about a decade of experience putting his own crises on hold to deal with the Asset’s potentially much more lethal ones, so this is basically instinct.

“Well, what’s the mission?” he asks.

The Asset pauses. “I’m not sure.” Now it looks even more worried. “But Steve shouldn’t be…” it gestures vaguely in a way that Rumlow takes to mean ‘doing laps around the area and freaking out’. Then, almost as if it’s just remembered, “He’s got a bum ticker.”

Rumlow tries not to roll his eyes. “I guarantee you his heart’s fine.”

“I don’t know…” the Asset looks like a kicked puppy now. “I’m barely clear on what my objectives are, but I can tell I’m not meeting ’em.”

This is fucking cruel. This is what happens when it doesn’t have a handler worth his goddamn salt. Rumlow should write Cap up for abuse of company resources.

“Functionality impaired,” it says, and Rumlow can see tears welling up before the Asset blinks them away. It’s starting to spiral, he can see it getting stuck in its own head.

“Okay,” he says, ignoring his phone vibrating against his leg. “Listen.” He waits till he’s got the Asset’s full attention. “I agree with you that he’s making a bigger deal out of this than he should be. Steve’s got some hangups. I know for a fact he’s going to calm down. Do you believe me?”

The Asset swallows. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Now for everything else. Jesus. “You’re still in downtime. It’s a long downtime. I know that’s weird for you, but them’s the breaks. Understand?”

The Asset still doesn’t look super happy, but it nods. Rumlow runs a hand through his hair.

“Great. Objectives wise… keep yourself physically healthy. And clean. You know what, how ’bout this – keep yourself mission ready.” The Asset looks like it’s been thrown a life raft. Rumlow thinks for a second. “Don’t push yourself too hard on the memories,” he adds. That won’t help anyone. Especially not Rumlow. “Okay. Report any issues to – someone you feel comfortable with,” he says lamely, in case Wilson can hear. “Got it?”

The Asset nods again. “Ready to comply,” it says, relieved.

“Okay.” It still looks kinda fragile, though. And for the Asset, the distinction between fragile and unstable is pretty fucking fine. This isn’t the kinda thing that calls for a slap in the face. “You’ve been meeting your objectives fine,” Rumlow says firmly, and lets it sink in. Then he scooches closer and throws an arm around the Asset’s shoulders. He gives it a pat, two, then leaves his hand to rest on its bare arm, skin on skin. He knows it’s probably going to be fine when the Asset leans in.

They sit there like that for a few minutes. Asset Management, the original, Russian version – which was called something much weirder and more Russian – had actual guidelines about the physical contact, when to use it, for how long at a time. But Rumlow’s always found that kind of creepy and preferred to play it by ear. He usually gets good results his way. Before too long, the Asset lets out a sigh, like it’s breathing out the stress of Cap’s past few days of bullshit.

“The techs would get really upset about it, too,” it says after a while.  “I guess they still had just as much work whether things got written up or not.” It pauses. Rumlow feels its head lift up. When he looks, he sees it watching him.

“Sure,” he says, because it’s clearly waiting for some kind of input. “Probably.” He moves his hand up and down once over the Asset’s arm. It smiles a little at him.

“But to tell you the truth, I think they got more pissed off about the hot wings.”

Time slows to a crawl. For a second that feels like ten goddamn minutes, the Asset looks at him with what Rumlow’s nightmares would call recognition. Then it’s gone, and the Asset frowns a little, blinking. It’s still looking at him, though. That expression could turn back into sharp clarity any moment.

Rumlow’s heart is pounding. Slowly, he puts his hand on the back of the Asset’s head and kind of… pushes it back down onto his shoulder. There. At least it’s not making eye contact this way. They’re still sitting like that by the time Wilson comes back and takes in their little tableau. Rumlow’s too afraid to move. What if he moves, and that somehow makes the Asset remember more?

“Should I start my standard downtime training and fitness regime?” the Asset asks, suddenly. Rumlow literally feels himself go numb with relief. 

“Yes,” he says, and yanks his arm away like the Asset’s a hot stove. “Great idea. Go. Right now.”

The Asset gets up and prowls to the door. That’s its happy prowl though, so seems like Rumlow’s managed to put it at ease. That’s good, at least. He’s still a little shaken from how it looked at him earlier. God, if it starts doing shit like that when Cap’s around…

For the first time, he seriously thinks maybe he should just call it. Just fucking leave. Cut his losses, leave the Asset and the files and everything and just go. His chances of making sure Cap never learns he’s Hydra are slim to none. Especially with the Asset this fucking close to remembering just who he is. And if he, Rollins, Murphy, and the Asset are all that’s left of Hydra, what is he even trying to protect? At this point, his best hope is that Rollins ‘might have something’.

“‘Standard downtime training and fitness regime’?” Wilson repeats. He doesn’t seem immediately suspicious, just confused, so Rumlow assumes he didn’t hear much else. Small mercies.

“I don’t know, man,” he shrugs. “I guess he works out? Seems to calm him down. Figure it can’t be a bad idea.”

“Yeah. And hey, you handled that really well just now.”

Rumlow waits for a weird emphasis, or a drawn out pause, or something, but no. Seems like that’s just a genuine compliment. He shrug-nod-grins his way through acknowledging it. Thankfully, Wilson leaves well enough alone. Mostly, anyway.

“Though I don’t know if I’d recommend getting within hugging distance of the metal arm. He’s still dangerous,” he adds, as if that needs spelling out.

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “All of this is kind of dangerous,” he says. “Besides,” he gestures at the frankly tiny living room where four Avengers plus him and the Asset had just been crammed. “We’re all about three feet from hugging distance of the metal arm in here.”

Wilson takes a moment, and it looks like he’s realizing for the first time what a batshit situation he’s gotten himself into.

“You know what,” he says. “Fair.” He rubs his face. Rumlow can’t fault him for being fucking exhausted. “I’m gonna get some air,” he says.

“Apparently Cap’s just doing laps around the house,” Rumlow warns him. Wilson gives him a weird look. “That’s what he said,” Rumlow gestures at the Asset, which is doing jumping lunges about three feet off the ground outside. As he watches, the Asset’s metal arm spasms again like it had earlier, and this time the Asset winces like it hurts. It’s a second or two, and then the Asset wiggles the fingers, bends the arm at the elbow, and keeps going, unbothered. Rumlow frowns. Definitely something’s been fried. When he manages to get it back to base, he’ll find the repair kit after he runs the Chair.

“Right, the… goddamn super hearing,” Wilson catches on. “Thanks for the heads up.”

He steps outside. Rumlow counts to ten once the front door closes before pulling his Hydra phone back out.

14:47: Had it blow me one time. ONE time

Rumlow seriously considers throwing his phone out the window. Fucking Rollins. He reads through the rest of the replies.

14:47: I didnt damage it or anything 

14:48: Reply: “also WHY” Idk. I could? 

14:48: Reply: “so hes going to extra murder you you know that right dubmfuck” Cap already knows im hydra im already screwed hes not gonna murder me MORE

14:48: Reply: “why dindt you tell me you did that?” Because then youd have to report it and it wouldve been awkward

14:52: Didn’t want to put you in a shitty position at work

Rumlow can admit that’s kind of considerate, but–

15:07: Whatever its still a DUMB thing to do. Not to mention fucking gay

15:07: ??

15:07: Reply: “Cap already knows im hydra im already screwed hes not gonna murder me MORE” He absoluety will murder you more

15:07: Its not GAY

15:08: The asset has a dick

15:08: It sucked your dick

15:08: ergo gay

15:08: It was the ASSET

15:09: Is it gay if its Bucky Barnes? 

15:09: You get you made Bucky Barnes suck your dick?

There’s a long, long pause.

15:14: Anyway its done its whatever. 

15:14: I got news

Finally.

15:14: What news?

A group selfie is not exactly what Rumlow expects to see, so it takes him a second to process that that is what’s downloading. Then the picture comes into focus. Holy shit. That is something. Rollins is with Murphy, half out of frame in the left hand corner, focusing the camera on the thirty-something woman behind him, her violently green eyeliner, and the eight STRIKE veterans crowded in around her. 

15:15: Is that Cabrera??

15:15: Hell yeah

15:15: And most of strike gamma

Rumlow takes another look. Besides Cabrera, there’s Jenkins, Krupczak – great, she’s probably still mad Rumlow took her travel mug when they broke up – Stone, Khan, McKenzie, Kriegsverbrechen – oh, shit, he’s Hydra? Rumlow was sure that guy was actually SHIELD – Szoke, and Lindström.

15:15: Where r u exactly?

15:15: We’re in some fucking suburb

Rumlow sends through a geolocation pin.

15:15: Ok

15:15: Just a random house right? No security measures?

15:16: I think we can take care of 4 avengers while you get out

15:16: FUCK YES

Oh, thank fuck.

15:16: Thank fuck

15:16: Ok send me an inventory of what you have

15:16: Vehicles gear ammo you know the drill

15:17: Also everyones status. Anyone wounded? 

15:17: 10 min.

15:18: 👍  

Holy shit. Some actual no-strings-attached good news. Rumlow feels like he can actually breathe. There may be a way out of this. God, it feels good to have a STRIKE team behind him again. It finally hits him how much of the last week’s stress had just come from going it alone, just him and some half-baked tech backup from Murphy.

He’s distracted by the buzz of an incoming text, and it takes him a second to realize it’s coming from Cap’s phone. It’s still there on the armrest. With a quick look to check the front door’s still closed, Rumlow reaches over to grab it.

It’s another one from “Deb”. It’s just as cryptic as the first one. Rollins still hasn’t messaged back. Okay, while Cap’s phone is nearby and no one’s around, Rumlow may as well do something productive and figure out what Cap’s secret phone calls and texts are about.

On his own phone, he swipes through his apps and opens TakeItzPlace. It’s a reasonable bet that Cap’s still using his SHIELD phone and yep – Rumlow recognizes the ID number format that appears on TakeItzPlace’s nearby devices scan. SHIELD IT liked to keep a back door into all their devices, which basically means that Hydra has a back door into all SHIELD devices. Goes to show that not trusting any of your agents just makes things easier for the ones there’s a reason to mistrust in the first place.

Rumlow selects Cap’s phone and clicks “Clone Device” from the menu. It takes less than a minute to complete. He sets Cap’s phone back down where he’d left it. Then he checks his own to see a long message from Rollins, with the inventory he asked for. The fact that the message is long is promising. Rumlow gives it a read, commits it to memory. Not too shabby. Enough for him to start seeing the skeleton of an ambush strategy.

15:29: I’ll get you layout of the house. Talk soon

15:29: 🐙

15:29: 🐙

He can hear voices approaching from outside, and goes to put his Hydra phone away before everyone comes back in. He quickly checks Rollins’ last text first.

15:30: Or should I say

15:30: 🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙

Chapter Text

The Falcon is a fucking blanket hog. 

Rumlow keeps pointedly pulling at the covers in his ‘sleep’ so one half of his body isn’t uncomfortably colder than the other. At least with Wilson out cold, he doesn’t have to listen to him talk. He’s suddenly jealous of Barton – that guy can just pull out his hearing aids when he doesn’t wanna listen anymore. Rumlow’s pretty done with Wilson’s raving disbelief that he’s working with a bunch of superheroes. He gets it, okay? He really doesn’t need the details of how amazingly hard to take down each of the Avengers are while he’s in the middle of planning an attack to take them down. It’s ridiculous, too – kind of to a pathological degree – how much Wilson downplays his own superhero status. The guy was a jetpack pararescue for fuck’s sake. Avenging is not that much of a stretch. But no, it’s all Cap catching a helicopter this, Romanoff’s Soviet spy mind-games that, and Tony Stark’s might-as-well-be-magic gadgets while Wilson tries to figure out how to ask Iron Man for an upgrade to his jetpack without sounding like a complete tool. He’s worse than Barton fanboying over the Asset.

Rumlow had called it when Wilson switched to therapizing, mid-yawn, and started asking how Rumlow feels about his best friend a) being Hydra, and b) raping Bucky Barnes, American hero. Nope. No thanks to that whole conversation. Rumlow had just closed his eyes and started snoring until Wilson took the hint and eventually passed out himself. 

At least he’s not on the couch for once. There was a bit of an awkward shuffle over sleeping arrangements: Wilson had offered Barton and Romanoff the second bedroom under the impression that they were a couple, which is a mistake Rumlow and everyone at SHIELD made on first meeting them, too, and then Barton had said, “Well, since all the files from everything are leaked anyways,” and then dropped on everyone that he was married, which – what? What?

Cap and the Asset took the non-ensuite bedroom again. It had looked at Cap weird and asked “Permission to sleep again?” kind of confused and judgy, which had made Cap all flustered and upset. Romanoff had been quiet for a long moment, and admitted, “We were taught the Winter Soldier didn’t sleep,” to which Barton responded, “Not without permission, apparently,” which Cap did not find funny. 

Rumlow feels his phone buzz. Probably Rollins again. They’ve been texting back and forth all day, hashing out plans for tomorrow. He’s been talking to Cabrera a lot too – she’ll probably be field lead since they’ve agreed he should try to keep up some pretense of being not-Hydra just in case things go south. Then he feels a different buzzing pattern, frowns for a minute, and – oh, shit. That’s not his phone. That’s Cap’s phone.

A minute later, he hears the door of the other bedroom softly click shut, and footsteps padding on the carpet. Then he hears the front door. Rumlow gets up, slowly so as not to wake Wilson, and goes inside the ensuite. He opens TakeItzPlace and takes a look.

He’d read over most of Cap’s texts the day before, and there wasn’t much. Kind of sad, really. He doesn't really know anyone that isn't SHIELD or an Avenger. There are a few stilted messages between him and ‘Tony’, mostly about Avengers stuff and the occasional obligatory check-in: Saw your house blow up on the news. You good? That kinda thing. Cap hasn’t been responding very often though, lately. There’s a few awkward flirty texts to ‘Nurse Kate’, until abruptly 2 weeks ago when they become cold and mission-like and he starts sending her coordinates. Jesus, even the one girl he was kind of texting turned out to be a spy.

Rumlow sees an outgoing from Cap to 'Imelda (Night Shift)': Now a good time to call? And a response: Yep.

Looks like the call started a couple minutes ago. Rumlow hits the little ‘In Progress’ phone icon and joins in.

“—thinking about what you said,” Cap’s saying. “It feels wrong not to tell him, but…”

The woman that cuts him off sounds British, and kind of familiar. “But nothing. Steve, Tony can’t know. Certainly not if you plan to ask for his help with Bucky. And it sounds like you sorely need someone’s help with Bucky.”

Cap huffs out a sad little laugh. “Gee, thanks, Peggy,” he says. Peggy? Rumlow puts two and two together and almost drops the phone. 

“Oh, dearest,” Peggy, as in Director Margaret fucking Carter, tuts. Rumlow only met her the one time in 2001 when he got promoted, just before she retired. It’s kind of hard to square tough, no-nonsense Director Carter with the frail voice on the phone. Jesus, she must be close to a hundred by now. Her and Cap aren’t… still together, are they? Because that would be weird. And sad. “Stop. You’re doing all that you can but–”

“But it’s not enough.” Cap sounds resigned. “I know. I’m still not enough. I couldn’t pull him back onto that train and I wasn’t strong enough to go back for his body after… when I thought.” He takes a breath. Rumlow braces himself in case he’s about to hear Cap crying again.

"Steve," Director Carter says gently. "There was a war on. You didn’t even have time to write his family before we had to go after Schmidt.” Cap makes a horrible noise, like he’s had all his guts pulled out. “Even if he'd been there, chances are we wouldn't have found him."

Cap takes that in for a moment. “I didn’t help him then," he continues. "And I don’t know how to help him now. He’s… so much worse than I thought. He has to ask permission for everything, Peg. Everything. Sleeping, cleaning himself… Bucky, can you imagine?” Cap lets out a breath like he’s in pain. “He won’t even eat unless I tell him to or put something in front of him. Some things he asks Rumlow’s permission for, for whatever reason.”

Some things?

“I guess that’s better?” Cap continues. “At least, there’s another person… I don’t know. Clint found a computer version of one of our comics last night, and Bucky wouldn’t read it until I said he could. Until I said it was ‘approved’ material for ‘downtime’. He just… sat there looking away from it. ” 

Rumlow had been right there. He’d stepped out for two or three minutes, tops, to check a text from Rollins, and when he’d come back the Asset had been reading. Had it been waiting for Cap to sign off? Bigger question, why had it been waiting for Cap when Rumlow had been right fucking there?

Cap’s voice is starting to sound choked. “And it’s not just that – he’s confused, Peg. Mixes up people, places, times, languages… he gets agitated one second and then he’s blank and lost in his own head the next. He's so used to torture and brainwashing that he keeps asking me when I'm going to send him for it. Like it's just part of his routine. And, God, you should hear the way he talks about himself. Like he’s a car or something.” He finally stops for air. “I just keep failing him over and over again,” he finishes.

“You are doing all that you can,” Director Carter repeats, like she's heard all this already, which, if Cap's been calling her in secret at nights, she probably has. “And you’re lucky enough to have friends who will do all they can, as well.”

“Only if I lie to them,” Cap says. Rumlow pulls himself together. Okay. He can try and figure out whether he’s losing handler status or whatever the fuck is going on in the Asset’s brain later. For now, Cap’s hiding something from Tony Stark, and he’s got to figure out what it is. “Don’t I owe Tony the truth?” he asks like he wants her to convince him.

“You owe Bucky more,” she says firmly.

"I owe Bucky everything."

"Well, there you go, then."

"But this still feels rotten," Cap says. "Tony’s my friend.”

“Oh, please," she scoffs. “These last few weeks that you’ve spent mulling this whole thing over, that’s the most you’ve ever spoken to me about Tony.”

“Well… he’s busy with his inventions and his company and all that," Cap says lamely. "I don’t see him all that much.”

“You’ve told me more about nights out with those STRIKE boys than you have about Tony, and half of them turned out to be Hydra. Let me put it this way: if I were surveilling you, and I wanted a profile of your contacts, I would ask for a report on Brock Rumlow before I got to one on Tony Stark.” 

Rumlow’s not sure if he feels flattered that Captain America apparently talks about him to Director Carter. Actually, no, scratch that, it totally is flattering, even setting the whole double agent Hydra part of it aside. It’s also pretty fucking depressing that their once-a-month team bonding drinks and after-mission snack runs are all the social life that Cap considers worth mentioning.

“Alright, so we aren't close," Cap says. He sounds tense. "And yes, he’s kind of difficult, and I don’t text him back some of the time, and we don't really agree on much and sometimes, frankly–” Cap cuts himself off. Rumlow can hear him square his shoulders. “He still deserves to know Howard wasn’t a drunk who got himself and his wife killed–”

“Howard was absolutely a drunk,” Director Carter cuts in. “And make no mistake, he did get himself and Maria killed. Honestly, playing with super serum. Have I told you he used to invite Zola over to discuss it? After he started working for SHIELD, the two of them became thick as thieves. I had just spent the better part of a war trying to kill or capture that man, but Howard had a little science friend, which apparently meant all was forgiven. Zola ended up with far more free reign than I ever wanted him to because of Howard's influence, but it's all well and good. Nothing to be done about it now. No use dwelling on the fact that I signed Zola's paychecks while three floors under my office, he rebuilt Hydra and tortured a good friend of mine under my nose for seventy years."

Ouch. She pauses for breath. "You know they’d do couples bridge? Howard invited Zola – or, Arnim, I should say, they were on a first name basis – and his wife for couples bridge every Friday, where conversation inevitably turned to that bloody serum. Maria used to tell me how they'd get absolutely plonkered and discuss it for hours on end. Howard never invited Edgar and me to couples bridge,” she adds. “Not that I'm bitter. Why would I be bitter? I had so much more free time to dedicate to building an organization that was rotten to the core from day one, instead."

There’s a pause.

“Not that I’m bitter,” she says again.

“Of course not,” Cap says without hesitation. “Sweet as anything, Peg.”

“My point is: Howard is as much to blame for what happened as he ever was, and it won’t do Tony any good to know the details. More importantly, it won’t do Bucky any good, and right now he needs you. You owe it to him to use all the resources at your disposal.” Damn, Director Carter’s ruthless. Rumlow feels like he should be taking notes.

“I know. I… I know. I don’t see any way of telling Tony that still ends with Bucky getting the help he needs. And, God, Peg, he needs so much help.”

“‘To the end of the line’, wasn’t it, Steve?”

Cap lets out a long breath. “Yeah.”

“You’ll do the right thing, dear heart. You always do.”

There’s a long pause where Cap just breathes. “I’ll let you get some rest,” he says finally. “I love you,” he adds.

“Good night, darling.”

“Good night.”

It’s another ten minutes before Rumlow hears Cap coming back into the house. He's still not 100% on what Cap's hiding from Stark – something about his dead dad, and something big, obviously, but Rumlow's not clear on the specifics. Whatever it is, Cap obviously thinks Stark will be pissed enough at the lie not to help with the Asset.

Rumlow hears Romanoff’s voice from the living room, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. He considers going into the kitchen to ‘get some water’ or whatever and catch the last few words, but Cap’s got super hearing and Rumlow’s finally got his fair share of the covers out from under Wilson. Might as well get some sleep. He responds to Rollins' latest texts and then goes back to bed. He can still hear them whispering when he finally drifts off.

In the morning, Barton’s got his wife – his wife! – on video chat, and he’s angling the phone around so everyone can say hello. It’s kind of sweet. He’s obviously thrilled not to have to keep her secret anymore. When Rumlow steps into the kitchen, it’s his turn, apparently.

“Hi, Rumlow,” the very pregnant woman on the phone says. “Long time no see.”

He squints at her for a while before blurting out, “Tomkins? Laura Tomkins?”

She smiles wryly through the little screen. “Laura Barton now, actually.”

Holy shit. Small world. Even when she’d started to show with – their first kid, apparently, Jesus – no one knew she was married. They’d been courting her for a possible recruitment to Hydra, actually, before she quit one day and dropped off the face of the Earth.

“Well, congrats, I guess,” Rumlow says, because what else is he supposed to say. They make a couple minutes more of awkward chit-chat before he’s thankfully taken off the hook when Barton moves the phone away.

“What’s the plan for today?” Wilson asks once everyone’s said bye to Laura, 9 year old Cooper, and 7 year old Lila.

“More of the same, unfortunately,” Romanoff says, indicating the files. “We’re still trying to figure out where the bases are, I’m sure we’ll find a location somewhere in these soon, and then we’ll go smoke it out.”

“Nothing in the Russian files?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, you went through them all?” Rumlow asks Romanoff casually. 

“I finished late last night.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks lightly. She looks right at him.

“I don’t need much sleep,” she says, and Rumlow’s uneasy all through breakfast.

Breakfast, by the way, is cramped as fuck. There’s only four seats at the table, so Barton and Cap graciously take the couch. Rumlow’s elbow-to-elbow with Romanoff and the Asset. Wilson’s across from him, looking really well-rested. Probably cause he wasn’t up half the night planning an ambush. And the other half fighting for the covers.

Cap’s up making everyone coffee. When he pours some in the Asset’s cup, it raises a skeptical eyebrow and Rumlow just knows what it’s about to say – it doesn’t need stimulants, it’s had way over its usual allowances for sleep, and that low of a dose won’t do anything for it anyways – and he can’t deal with having to pretend to react to that five minutes after waking up. It’s too fucking early. So when the Asset opens its mouth, Rumlow kicks it under the table and whispers hotly, “Just fucking drink it.” The Asset shuts its mouth and takes a big gulp of coffee. Rumlow does the same.

Food comes via a doordash delivery of diner takeout that takes the delivery guy four trips to bring out of his car.

“So,” Barton says to the Asset, “maybe later we could go to the front yard and I could show you some of those knife throwing tricks we were talking about yesterday.”

The Asset’s eyes practically sparkle. “That would be… beneficial for me to learn,” it says eagerly.

“Yeah,” Barton agrees, looking just as gleeful. They’re grinning at each other like dumb kids. “And maybe you could show me some of yours.”

Wilson looks between the two of them and swallows his mouthful. “I dunno if you should be handing weapons, man,” he says to the Asset, unsurely. “That might not be the greatest idea?”

Romanoff rolls her eyes. She bites into a syrup drenched pancake and says, “Sam, the Soldier’s got at least three knives on him right now.”

“Do you?” Wilson jolts, alarmed. Then he says, after a moment's hesitation, “Put them on the table.”

The Asset looks at him flatly.

“Come on, put them on the table, Bucky,” Barton adds, casual but still pretty clearly an order. He tries it in shitty, accented Russian next, and still no response. Instead, the Asset cranes its neck and looks to Cap, questioning.

“Do it, Buck,” he says quietly, and the Asset complies at once. There’s four knives, not three. Even Rumlow isn’t sure where it was hiding them. “And please – don’t keep weapons on you.”

The Asset makes a dissatisfied face. “Understood.”

Rumlow takes an uneasy bite of eggs. He was right there beside it, but okay, whatever, so it asked Cap instead of him. So what. No big deal. Cap sets down an enormous plate in front of the Asset, and that thankfully keeps its mouth too full of food to say anything else for a while. The Asset’s arm spasms again after a bit, though, and it grunts a little. It finishes eating, and says, “Steve, I think my arm needs repairs. It’s still malfunctioning.”

Cap looks alarmed. “Does it hurt?”

“Not outside of acceptable parameters,” the Asset assures him. Cap frowns.

Rumlow shoves down the rest of his breakfast. “I gotta take a walk,” he announces, ’cause he hasn’t actually stepped out of this fucking Airbnb for days, and he’s getting antsy about how the attack prep is going.

“Don’t go too far,” Romanoff says. Rumlow walks three blocks before he takes out his phone and calls Rollins. He picks up on the second ring. 

"Hey," Rollins says, and wow, it has literally never been so good to hear someone's voice. "Murphy was just about to text you."

"How's prepping?" Rumlow asks without preamble. "Will you be ready?"

"On schedule." There's commotion in the background, bustling around and heavy thudding and the occasional barked out laugh. STRIKE getting ready for a mission. Someone calls out "Hi, Commander!" just loud enough for him to make out. He wishes he was there instead of here.

"Szoke and McKenzie are finishing up the last batch of explosives," Rollins tells him. "We're good on armour except we're one helmet short, so Kriegsverbrechen's gonna go without. You're sure the rest of us need them? Compromises peripheral vision pretty bad."

"I'm sure," Rumlow says. "Cap loves throwing shit at people's heads. So does Barton."

"Cabrera's asking what are the odds we'll actually have to fight the Asset?"

"Low," Rumlow tells him. "Tell her I'm 80% sure Cap will see Hydra coming, assume –" correctly– "that the plan is to take the Asset back, and tell it to get as far away as it can."

"80%, huh?"

"I'm working on Cap," he promises. There’s a staticky noise, some muffled yelling. Rumlow holds the phone a little further away from his ear.

"Murphy wants to talk to you," Rollins announces suddenly, then there's a rustling, and then, "Rumlow?"

"Hey, Murphy."

"Here's the situation," he says. "I'm texting you the Chair protocol you need to use. Tell me when you've got it."

Rumlow pulls his phone away from his ear, checks his texts. He skims over the long message.

"Okay, got it."

"So there's a 45 minute priming period with the first setting – bouts of 1-3 minute shocks with timed breaks. You saw that?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Then before the next set of shocks, there's a four hour rest period. You saw that too?"

"Right."

"That's the longest gap. Listen. The way Cabrera explained it to me is: best case scenario, all goes perfectly, the Avengers all end up dead and you're in the clear. Even then, though, there's still a chance they send for backup, and then they'll probably check the Manassas base and then you're screwed. That sound right?"

"Yep."

"Okay. Listen, Cabrera says there's a base with a Chair in Philadelphia." 

Rumlow perks up. "There is?"

"Drive should be 3 hours 15 with no traffic. It'll be tight, but if you put the Asset in a car and go quick right after the 45 minute priming, you should be able to make it in time to continue the reset uninterrupted. And no one will know you're there."

Holy shit. He could actually manage the best case scenario and get out of this with the Asset. If he and the scraps of what's left of Hydra are gonna be fugitives, they're gonna need it.

"Will it be able to walk?" Rumlow asks.

"Should be. Might be drowsy, might need to lean on you if it's really out of it, but yes. In principle it should be able to walk."

Okay. Okay. It’s coming together. 

“Though,” Murphy says, “maybe it makes more sense to just go to the Philadelphia base right away. Unless you think the reset is urgent?”

Rumlow considers it, is about to agree that yeah, just going straight to Philadelphia is probably a better idea, when he pauses. ‘Some things’, that’s what Cap had said. The Asset gets Rumlow’s permission for ‘some things’, and even then it’s been turning to Cap first more and more. It’s pretty fucking clear that the more it remembers Cap, the more it’s clinging onto him. If Rumlow just whisks it four hours away, without any word of approval from Cap, is that gonna be an issue? Is it gonna ask questions? Is it gonna demand authorization from ‘both’ its handlers?

The whole thing makes Rumlow kinda uneasy.

“No,” he says. “I’ll prime it at the Manassas one first. Okay, I gotta go. I’ve been out here a while already.”

When he steps back through the door of the Airbnb, there are two separate but equally chaotic conversations happening. One is between Barton and Romanoff, on the couch in rapid ASL. Their hands are whizzing around and they make faces at each other as they – argue? Discuss? He can’t tell, but it looks heated. Rumlow knows a handful of signs, and he doesn’t recognize any of – is this even ASL? Is this… RSL or something?

Over at the table, Wilson is visibly trying not to laugh.

“I – I dunno, Buck,” Cap says defensively. The Asset’s frowning. “6,000? I just kinda – I just eat until I’m not hungry anymore.”

The Asset frowns harder. “Abraham Erskine told you to just eat until you weren’t hungry anymore,” it says dryly.

“He died thirty seconds after I was enhanced,” Cap snaps back. “He didn’t have much time to give me advice.”

That’s new. Rumlow’s never heard Cap’s bickering voice before.

Rumlow sits down beside Wilson. “How’d we get here?” he whispers to him. Wilson whispers back.

“Bucky asked how come Steve wasn’t feeding him following his usual diet protocol, and Steve’s like ‘You have a diet protocol? You shouldn’t have a diet protocol.’ And Bucky’s like ‘You don’t? Aren’t you enhanced too?’”

“Got it.”

“—but you don’t have a replacement protocol for me,” the Asset’s saying. 

“No,” Cap says patiently. God, he looks tired. “Because I don’t think there should be rules on how you eat.”

“Hydra’s plan keeps me in optimal condition,” the Asset points out. It looks like it realizes something all of a sudden. “Are you in good condition? Because our nutritional needs are more than just ‘a lot of calories’.” It frowns, concerned. “Maybe you should be following Hydra’s diet protocols, Steve.”

Cap blinks. “What.”

"They're real effective. And you don't have a plan…"

“Maybe he should be doing Hydra’s fitness regime, too,” Wilson chimes in. Cap gives him a sharp look, and he shrugs. “It looks like a good workout for you super types. You did say all the SHIELD plans were too light. Maybe you can even top your 13 miles in 30 minutes.” Rumlow genuinely can’t tell if he’s fucking with Cap or being serious.

“It takes you 30 minutes to run 13 miles?” The Asset stares at him. “Do you… still have asthma?”

Wilson looks delighted. Rumlow’s a little slower on the draw – it takes him a minute to process that. By super soldier standards, Cap is… out of shape? He thinks about some of the shit he’s seen the Asset do, and what he’s seen Cap do, and… huh.

“I don’t have asthma anymore,” Cap says. It looks like a vein in his forehead’s about to burst. “I work out plenty when I have spare time. I figured out how eventually. I’m just fine.”

The Asset’s appalled. “Fine? No one gave you an exercise regime or an optimized nutrition plan – did you get any instructions on how to take care of your new enhanced body?” It looks indignant, and kind of pissed off. It’s… maybe got a point. Rumlow’s never really thought about it, but did they just shoot the guy up with mystery potion #9 and send him on his merry way? Rumlow’s read the old files and it seems like being enhanced takes some getting used to – it took the Asset over a week to learn not to accidentally shatter everything in its hands. At some point, Zola’s notes switch to pencil because the Asset had obliterated every pen in his lab. 

Here Cap hesitates. “I don’t know, they might have tried to – there were a lot of scientists and doctors, right after it happened, that wanted to talk to me about the effects. They had all kinds of tests they said they needed to do. I… kinda slipped out the back.”

The three of them take that in. The Asset shuts its eyes. “Steve.”

Rumlow’s gotta agree. “Jesus, Steve,” Wilson adds.

“I signed up to fight in the war, not be a lab rat,” Cap says, then kind of pales realizing what he’s said, and who he’s said it to. 

The Asset pinches the bridge of its nose briefly with its metal fingers. “Did you ask any questions at all before, during, or after letting them juice you up with super serum?”

Cap’s face goes through like ten expressions in the span of three seconds. “We’ve had this fight before,” he finally says.

The Asset blinks. “We have?”

“Yeah.” Cap smiles a little, wobbly. “I think you used some of those exact words.” There’s a moment of silence. Then Cap says, all in a rush, “God, Bucky, I missed you. I missed having you chew me out whenever I did something stupid. You were always the first one to call me an idiot.”

The Asset doesn’t respond. Cap’s hand twitches, but he holds back. Since the freakout incident in the cul-de-sac, and then the conversation about McKenzie yesterday, he seems even more hesitant about touching than he had been before.

“I don’t remember,” it says eventually. Cap swallows.

“That’s okay,” he tries really hard to mean it.

The Asset hesitates a moment before it nods. Then it frowns. “But I’ve been trying. Why have I… why am I… trying to remember?”

Loaded question.

Cap looks at the Asset helplessly. “Bucky,” he says.

Then slowly, it goes, “You like it when I remember.” Its eyes are starting to glaze over. “Did you order me to… did you say that was what you wanted?”

“It’s not about what I want,” Cap snaps, and immediately takes a minute to breathe when he sees the Asset flinch. “Sorry. I’m sorry. But Buck… it’s not about what I want.”

“Clarify,” the Asset says. 

“Remembering is… it’s for you,” Cap tries. “You’re trying to remember for you.” Rumlow could honestly kiss him. There’s basically no better way to stop the Asset from doing something than implying it’s doing it in its own self-interest. That shit was conditioned out back in the Soviet days. True to form, the Asset goes pale.

“Understood,” it says quickly. “I thought… when I started remembering and you were happy, I thought.” It shakes its head. When it looks back to Cap, it seems determined. On task. “Are you going to put me in the Chair now?”

Cap digs his fingers into his temples. His face is a little pinched, like he’s in pain, but too tired to express it properly.

“We’ve talked about this, pal,” Cap says evenly. There's bags under his eyes. Rumlow can't remember ever seeing bags under Cap's eyes before. “We talk about this every night. There’s no Chair here. You’re not going to the Chair. I would never put you in the Chair.” 

The Asset looks somehow both relieved and disturbed. “Without the Chair, I’ll keep remembering,” it says. “When I remember…” it trails off.

“When you remember?” Wilson prompts.

Now it just looks scared. “When I remember something I’m not supposed to, it’s meant to be reported to Secretary Pierce.”

“How come?” Wilson asks, in that way-too-casual therapisty way he’s got. 

The Asset’s voice goes very small. “So he can make sure I forget.” It swallows. “They’ve been doing that since before Secretary Pierce. Making me forget. I only remember that now, because I’ve gone too long without maintenance.”

“You mean without having your memory wiped,” Wilson prods. The Asset nods.

“Secretary Pierce,” it continues slowly, “never said how he chose what he let me keep and what he told the technicians to wipe. I never knew what I’d done or said to make him decide I needed to forget… but he always made sure I knew, afterwards, that something was gone. That there had been something… and he’d taken it away.”

“He’s not gonna take anything away from you again, Buck,” Cap says firmly. “No one’s gonna make you forget. You don’t have to be afraid of Pierce anymore. Or any of them.” The Asset shakes its head. There’s no way to convince it that that’s even a little bit true. Rumlow’s fucking tried. Pierce never laid a wrinkly, manicured finger on it, but the Asset was terrified of him. Shook in its goddamn steel-toed tactical boots every time it had to be in a room with the man. The hours Rumlow would have saved at work if the Asset had had the balls to just give its mission reports to Pierce directly. But Rumlow stopped regularly making it do that pretty early on. Better to play broken telephone and keep that on hand as a potential punishment, instead. 

“Pierce is dead,” Cap continues, and holy shit, that gets a reaction. The Asset looks about to scream, but swallows it down and goes completely still. “Nick Fury shot him. He can’t do anything to you, or anyone else, ever again.”

The Asset’s shoulders start shaking. It takes Rumlow a couple of seconds to realize it’s laughing. “He’s dead?” it repeats. “Secretary Pierce is dead?” Cap nods. There’s a long beat. “Get outta town.”

“It’s true,” Cap says. “The day of Insight.” Abruptly, the Asset stops laughing. Its face goes blank. “Natasha was there when he was shot,” Cap adds.

The Asset spins around to look at her.“You confirmed the kill?” it asks.

“Three bullets, center mass,” Romanoff says coolly. “Nobody could survive that – present company excluded.”

“There’s probably footage in Nat’s data dump,” Barton offers, and spends a while tapping at the laptop. He spins it around to show a recording of grainy security cam footage – and, yep, there goes Fury, and there’s Pierce, dropping through a glass pane. Damn. Seventy-eight years old, and it’s a bullet that gets him. The last few seconds of the video is just him laying there, dead.

It’s a short clip. The Asset watches with wide eyes, totally absorbed. Then, slowly, it reaches forward to click the replay button. They watch Pierce fall through the glass three times until the Asset finally calls it and lets its arm fall back at its side.

“He’s dead,” Cap tells it again. The Asset turns its head to gape at him. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“It’s not that it hurt,” the Asset starts. “Well, it hurt, but that isn’t– when Secretary Pierce was in control–” It looks like a memory migraine, at first.

“Bucky?” Cap reaches for it. He stops a few inches away.

“He’ll never be in control of me again,” the Asset says, like it’s slowly realizing it. And that’s… a weird way to put it. Rumlow’s never quite heard the Asset use that wording before. Is it a language glitch?

Romanoff cuts in. “But Steve controls you, and Rumlow.” And why the fuck did she feel that was necessary to add. “How is that different?”

The Asset’s shaking its head. “They’re handlers. They’re not in control.”

What the hell does that mean? 

“The way Comrade Karpov was, you mean?” Romanoff says, switching to Russian. The Asset frowns.

“Who?”

Romanoff doesn’t push it. That should make Rumlow feel better, but instead he’s just remembering Karpov. The fucking wallpaper in this Airbnb has more personality. Honestly, the guy was like a cardboard cutout: Serious Russian Man. The most interesting thing about Karpov had been the way the Asset reacted to him. It was attached to him, sure, kinda like how it was with Rumlow – clearly the guy had been a half-decent handler. But sometimes it seemed just scared of him. Not as bad as with Pierce, but still. Pretty fucking bad. Rumlow never knew what to make of it.

While Rumlow tries and fails to figure that one out, Barton grabs his quiver and the knives the Asset had put on the table at breakfast, and whisks the Asset outside to the front yard. Cap gives his permission for it, gives a thumbs up and a “have fun!” and then deflates like a balloon the moment the Asset is out of sight. He looks rough.

Rumlow heads into Wilson’s bedroom and checks his phone. Cabrera’s texted him a bunch of times with two screenshots of google maps with potential positions and ambush lines drawn on them.

09:25: Final call? I vote B but McKenzie says A has better sight lines for the secondary round of shells

Rumlow looks at it and sits on the bed. 

11:29: Go with A, but switch team 2’s position to the way it is in B

11:30: Copy

11:30: Who’s in what room?

Rumlow’s halfway through sending her a layout of the house and sleeping arrangements when the door opens. Fuck. The incredibly incriminating image file he just sent through is still loading. He moves faster than he ever has in his life and shoves the phone behind him.

It’s Cap walking through the door. Of course it’s Cap. And of course he’s moping. Rumlow waits for him to see someone’s in here, apologize, and leave, because surely he – like Rumlow – was looking for a private place to get away from everyone for a sec. But no. Rumlow gets a jolt of horror as Cap comes over and sits down right fucking beside him. Behind him, Rumlow feels his phone slide a little to the side. He didn’t even manage to flip it onto its face.

“Listen, Rumlow,” Cap says, not looking at him, and all the hairs on Rumlow’s arms shoot straight up. 

“Yeah?” he croaks out. 

“I…” Cap looks like he’s steeling himself for something. Rumlow waits him out. He finally looks up, like he’s forcing himself to meet Rumlow’s eyes. Like he’s ashamed and trying to power through it. “I’m gonna. Apologize. In advance, in case I get a bit… I know we’re pals and all and you told me all about when Krupczak kicked you out –” thanks for that blast from the past, Cap – “but we’re not that close. I get that. I’m not having an easy –” He squares his shoulders. “I need you to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

“Um.” Rumlow’s got no idea what he’s talking about. But Cap looks too caught up in whatever he’s got going on to notice Rumlow’s phone, which is definitely behavior Rumlow wants to encourage, so he just maintains intense eye contact. He hopes the fucking screen has at least turned off by now. “How do you mean, Cap?”

Cap sucks in a deep breath and lifts his chin. “I know I can be bullheaded,” he says. “But I need you to be straight with me here. What am I doing wrong with Bucky?”

Oh boy. Where does he even start?

“Huh?” he says, geniusly.

“He’s suffered so much. And it seems like everything I say…” Cap clenches his jaw. “Listen, you obviously have better instincts than I do about Bucky. I dunno if I’m just expecting him to be like he used to be or – I don’t know what it is. But it feels like you always say the right thing– like you know what he needs from you in the moment.” Cap swallows. “I have no idea what he needs.”

“Oh…” Rumlow starts. Another brilliant contribution to the conversation. Cap’s not totally done venting yet, though, so that buys him a bit of time. 

“The other day, after he told us about…” Cap steels himself again. Grits his teeth. “With McKenzie. I ran off, after,” cue Cap’s harsh judgy scoff at himself, “and you stayed there and talked to him, made him feel better. Everything I said just made him upset. It’s been like that since he came back. You put your arm around him and it actually calmed him down – I’m scared to touch him. ”

“Wilson told you about that?” Rumlow manages.

“Hmm? No, I heard through the wall.” Jesus. Of fucking course he did.

“Well, look. I just.” Have ten plus years of experience paying attention to the Asset’s subtle behavioral cues as a survival mechanism. Also a whole volume of instructional manuals dating back seventy years. “I just listen to him, I guess,” Rumlow says. Cap visibly mopes harder. “You know, move slow and play it by ear…”

Rumlow rattles off some more equally vague platitudes, and after a couple, Cap is clearly not listening anymore. 

“I used to know him better than I knew myself,” he says. “Now, though.” There’s another sad little chuckle.

Why is Rumlow the one he’s decided to bleed his heart all over? This is probably the downside of being tight enough with Captain America for Director Carter to have heard about you.

“Maybe you should ask Wilson for advice? He’s a shrink. He knows about… talking. Feelings.”

Cap shakes his head. “He just tells me it’s gonna take time, he’s been through a lot, the most important thing I can do is be there for him. All that hullabaloo.”

“He’s got a point,” Rumlow says. “I dunno what I’m doing, either, Cap. But I’m sure you’re doing fine.”

“Bucky’s a bit like you, you know?” Cap says, out of no fucking where. “When he’s more… himself. He’d know what to do, on instinct, if it was the other way around. If I was the one that’d been…” Cap trails off. “He’d know what to do.”

“Would he,” Rumlow manages. That’s an uncomfortable thought. This whole conversation’s full of uncomfortable thoughts Rumlow doesn’t really wanna examine too closely. His phone picks that moment to slide down a fold of blanket and hit him in the lower back. He shifts a little, adjusts his legs so it doesn’t fucking move any more, and Cap’s eyes dart down at the movement. “Tell me about him,” Rumlow blurts, and Cap’s eyes snap back onto his. Okay, good. Pay no attention to the Hydra agents behind the curtain. It’s the right thing to say, because Cap suddenly looks desperate to unload.

He’s told a few stories about Bucky Barnes here and there, but he usually just got kinda bummed talking about him and changed the subject. Rumlow was always pretty ambivalent, not dying to hear stories about Cap’s tragic dead BFF, but not exactly un-curious about Howling Commandos stories told by the actual Captain America. Now that he knows he’s the Asset, though… now it’s got all weird. But it’s too late. He’s already asked.

“He was the guy everyone liked,” Cap says fondly. “Little bit of a golden boy. Buck was good at everything he tried: sports. Girls. Languages. He was like that since we were little.” Cap swallows. Shakes his head. “He was the kid who’d never been sick a day in his life. I was the opposite. It’s lucky Buck liked talking to me, cause I couldn’t do much else.”

Cap’s quiet for a moment. “You know what he’d do when I was too sick to stand? It happened a couple times a winter, at least. He’d still come over, hang around my bedside, reading pulp comics together and shoving food at me, even when I was too weak to lift my own arms. He never made it seem like a chore, either. It was just another day with his best friend.” Cap blinks a little more aggressively than Rumlow would like. “And for whatever reason, that was me.”

It’s really fucking surreal to hear Captain America talk about his insecurities. And his apparent regular brushes with near-death level illnesses, good God. How the fuck did he get through the ’20s?

“Even when I was being real difficult,” Cap goes on. “Hell, especially when I was being real difficult, he was always there for me. I owe him everything,” he declares. “After my Ma passed, he offered for me to come and live with him and the Barneses. I turned him down, and he shrugged and said okay and showed up the next morning with two empty suitcases and a couple crates. Started packing up all my things and told me I could help him or not, my call.” Cap chuckles. “I wouldn’t have gone otherwise, not if he’d asked me til he was blue in the face, and I would’ve been dead of pneumonia by February if I’d stayed. Or starvation. He knew just what to do.” Cap smiles crookedly. “Good instincts. Like you.”

“How long did you stay there?” Rumlow asks, because fuck if he knows what to say to that. He doesn’t have a manual for handling Cap’s mental breakdowns. “With his family?”

Cap gives him a funny look. “Right up until I got the serum.” Rumlow must look confused, because Cap adds, “It’s not like I could hold down a job long enough to make rent.”

“It’s just hard to picture,” Rumlow says, while he tries not to picture the kind of guy who’d put up his cripple friend indefinitely. Or read him comics at his sickbed. And then tries not to picture the Asset as that kind of guy. 

Cap shrugs. “You’ve seen the photos. I was ninety pounds soaking wet and that was the least of it. I wasn’t supposed to see ten years old. And then it was supposed to be fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. For most of my life, doctors told me I had five years left. It’d take me both hands to count how many times my Ma called the priest to come say last rites.”

Jesus. “Jesus,” Rumlow says.

“People always say I must’ve been brave, volunteering for Project Rebirth.” Cap scoffs. “Bucky was always the brave one. I just had nothing to lose.”

Rumlow lets out a whoof of air. “That’s heavy, Cap.”

Right at that moment, Rumlow’s phone buzzes. The image file he sent must have finally gone through. It’s silent, just the vibration, but he feels it against his back which means Cap feels it on the bed. He kinda turns his head a little, like a dog, instinctively toward where it’s coming from.

“But,” Rumlow says loudly. Cap turns back and focuses on him again. Good. If Cap looks behind him and sees the phone, let alone what’s currently happening on it, it’s game over. “I – I mean, it sounds like you were a great friend too.” He’s scrambling for something to say. “Not like he woulda followed you into war if you weren’t.”

Cap hunches in on himself a little. “Bucky was drafted,” he admits. “If anything, I followed him. He was offered honorable discharge, after Azzano. He only stayed because of me. And he… he only died because he stayed.” 

Rumlow sees a faint blue light on Cap’s face suddenly – fuck. It’s the screen from his phone. He must be getting some kinda notification. Cap snaps out of his distracted guilt spiral and back into focus, which is not good, and Rumlow frantically tries to remember what the fuck Cap and Director Carter had talked about on the phone last night.

“I’m sure you did everything you could, Cap,” he says. “It’s not your fault they’d already got him when you went looking for his body.”

Cap’s eyes glaze over immediately, and he looks down at his lap. Good. Distracted guilt spiral means he isn’t paying attention to Rumlow’s Hydra phone and whatever shit Cabrera or Rollins or McKenzie or whoever is sending him. Please God don’t send through an audio file. Please sweet baby Jesus don’t let it autoplay.

“I…” Cap can barely say it out loud. “I never looked,” he forces out. “I was so sure he was dead. We all were.”

“Oh,” Rumlow says, and pauses awkwardly long enough for Cap to shrink another inch. “Well, okay, I get it, there was World War Two going on. Plus, no one could’ve survived a fall like that. Except you, I guess – but, it’s not like you could’ve known he’d been enhanced already. It had only happened what, like a couple weeks earlier?”

There’s a long pause. Cap not-so-discreetly wipes his cheeks. “A year. Just over a year.”

That’s genuinely kind of shocking. Rumlow had thought a few months, tops. A year is even better. “Really? A year? And you didn’t notice any–”

“No,” Cap says. Rumlow can hear how much he hates himself for it. “God,  Bucky used to notice when I was breathing different, and I didn’t even notice–” he cuts himself off.

“Damn,” Rumlow breathes, and goes in for the kill. Thanks, Director Carter. “Must’ve been horrible. I can’t even imagine – I mean, what’d his family say? After you wrote and told them he’d died?”

This time Cap doesn’t even try to wipe away the tears. “I didn’t,” he sniffles. “Write them. I just crashed a plane into the Arctic and waited to die, too.”

“Aw, Cap,” Rumlow says softly. “Well, it’s a good thing that didn’t work out for you.” He puts a hand on Cap’s shoulder. Rumlow’s phone vibrates a couple more times, but Cap doesn’t even move. He’s totally lost in his own head. Perfect. “Either of you!” Rumlow adds, cheerfully. Cap winces.

He stands, abruptly. “Thanks for the advice, Rumlow,” he says shakily.

“Hey, anytime.” Cap’s already heading for the door, probably to cry more in the Asset’s general direction. “Remember, just trust your gut. You’ll do the right thing. You always do!”

Cap shuts the door behind him. As soon as he’s gone, Rumlow lets out a deep breath. That was too fucking close a call. He takes his phone out and turns off the vibrate. Silent. Everything on silent. He’ll just… check it more often. It’s fine. He answers Cabrera and Murphy’s latest rounds of texts, and collapses backwards onto the bed. Fuck.

Okay. Just one more day. Half a day, really – they’re gonna ambush in the middle of the night. Rollins said so. They should start heading out in a couple hours.  He’s just gotta do this for another half a day. Rumlow takes a deep breath, then sits up on the exhale.

Okay. Here we go.

When he comes out of the bedroom, the front door is open and there’s a commotion on the porch. Cap’s nowhere to be seen, but Barton and the Asset are standing with their backs to the house and Wilson’s shouting something about being careful.

Rumlow gets a little closer, enough that he can see the fence around the front yard. There’s two arrows in it, one splitting the other Robin Hood-style, plus one of the Asset’s knives a couple inches off to the side. The Asset is holding a second one ready to throw.

Romanoff’s sitting on the windowsill, sipping lemonade. “Ten bucks, Wilson,” she says, and then looks at Rumlow with her patent creepy blank non-expression.

“Sure, you’re on,” Wilson says. “If he hits a passing car though, you’re handling it.”

Romanoff grins like a shark. “Done.”

“Ten bucks what?” Rumlow mutters, leaning against the doorframe.

Before she can answer, the Asset throws his knife. It clangs into the one already stuck in the fence and keeps going, splitting the first knife apart with a loud crack. Robin Hood on super serum. A couple pieces of knife thud onto the lawn as Barton whoops.

“Jesus,” Wilson breathes. “I guess you can do that with knives.”

“Pay up,” Romanoff sings.

Barton is already pulling out his own knife and handing it to the Asset. “Nice,” he says. “Can you hit the arrows this time?”

This is so, so far from the craziest stunt Rumlow’s seen the Asset pull over the years, but if it keeps the Avengers busy, phenomenal. 

“I’m gonna go hide in the kitchen,” he announces. “Not so many knives flying around.”

“Good call,” Wilson says, but keeps staring at the Asset taking aim.

Romanoff watches him as he slowly backwards-walks back inside, and shuts the door. Okay. While the Asset’s distracting everyone with his little show, and Cap’s off sobbing into his pillow or whatever, Rumlow may as well get some of his own ambush-prep done. He starts with Romanoff. Her comms are resting under the pillow on the couch where she’d been sleeping, and he pops out the batteries. It’s quick work to switch them out with dead ones. It had been Rollins who started keeping dud batteries on hand in case there was a need for sabotage. Turns out: fucking genius advice.

Rumlow goes around the house like a reverse tooth fairy, disabling comms as he goes. The only ones he doesn’t get is Cap’s, but he’ll just wait till the guy comes out to wash his face or something. Then when Barton’s asleep, he’ll do the same thing to his hearing aids. Rumlow takes a couple rounds out of any gun he can find, not that he finds many. He drops the key to Cap’s motorcycle under the fridge for good measure.

Then he goes back into the room he was sharing with Wilson, and sits down on the floor beside the jetpack. Okay. He just needs to take this thing out of commission and they should be good to go. Rumlow picks it up and twirls it around. He can’t really see any panels that come up, or obvious ports for power sources… how the fuck does this thing work? He stands up and slips it on over his head. It’s like an armoured vest, and Rumlow tries to feel around for any hint as to how it’s operated. It’s actually lighter than he expected. There’s some bracelet glove things on the ground – maybe one of those opens up the power centers. Rumlow bends down to pick one up, and when he squeezes down a little on the bracelet part, there’s a click he hears in the back and – oh no.

The right wing bursts out and slams into the wall. Rumlow’s not ready for it – he’s thrown off balance and falls down on his ass with a “Shiiiiii–”. The wing’s jammed into the drywall and follows him down, stretching out the giant crack in the plaster. Wall dust comes down in a big puff, and Rumlow’s hacking a lung out on the floor, on his ass, when the door opens behind him. He twists around to catch a glimpse of who it is.

It’s Cap. He has not washed his face, and his puffy red eyes are staring at Rumlow, bewildered. For a second, they just stare at each other. Cap takes in the whole undignified scene, then slowly curls his mouth into a smile.

“Couldn’t resist trying it on, huh?” he says. “I did the same thing.”

“Can you please get Sam,” Rumlow manages between coughs. Cap looks amused.

“Yeah, hang tight. I’ll get him.”

He shuts the door behind him. 

A few moments later, Rumlow hears it open again. In the distance, he hears the Asset’s voice, and then Cap, “No, he’s fine, he just–” Rumlow misses the tail end of whatever Cap says to the Asset, and whatever he says back. Wilson shuts the door.

“So,” he says, reaching over to grab at the bracelet thing, “couldn’t help yourself, huh?”

“Wilson, I swear to God–”

The right wing retracts suddenly, and Rumlow topples over until he’s fully on the ground. Wilson’s grinning down at him.

“No worries, man, everyone does it.”

Nevermind what Rumlow said before, he hates this fucking jetpack. It’s an idiot piece of tech for idiots. Wilson has to help him take it off.

“How the fuck does this thing work?” Rumlow demands. There’s probably stealthier ways to get the intel he needs, but right now he can’t think of them. “Where’s the charging port? Are there batteries?”

“Nah, man,” Wilson says, pressing buttons in what looks like random succession. “It’s a hybrid. Solar panels on the wings and back, and a compact electrolyzer underneath for hydrogen fuel.”

The fuck is an electrolyzer.  

“So – how do you – like, do you.” Rumlow’s got a sabotage mission and he’s not gonna let some stupid jetpack vocab sabotage him. “How do you drive it?”

Wilson’s eyes light up. “Okay so, this guy here,” he points at a red dial. “That’s to regulate the fuel to the thrusters.” There’s like ten buttons and dials that he doesn’t even go into. “These three depend on each other to balance out the angle and the force, and it’s a bit of that, a bit of how much wing you unfold here… and here. And the rest is just gliding. Or, well, thrust-punching.”

Rumlow didn’t catch any of that, except– “Wait,” Rumlow says, “you use the thrusters to throw yourself into a harder punch?”

“What you do,” Wilson says, gesturing wildly, “okay, imagine there’s four guys, two at one o’clock, one at four–”

He goes on and Rumlow can feel his jaw dropping. Cap’s stories are one thing, but at the end of the day once you’ve heard one batshit super soldier story, suspension of disbelief goes on steroids. This, though. Jetpack fight choreo is fucking wild.

“—and I just launched off of Goon Number Four back into Number Three, cut the engine so we did a freefall down toward the cave, then popped open my wings at the last second so they caught me on the entrance but he just shwooped inside.”

Okay, maybe the jetpack wings aren’t stupid.

It’s not until Wilson’s left the room – with the wings – that Rumlow realizes he never actually got around to the sabotage. Well, shit. Hopefully what he’s already done will be enough.

He’s missed a text from Rollins.

13:04: Ok we’re good to go

13:04: Hitting the road in 10

13:04: Hbu? Ready?

He texts back.

13:25: Yep

13:25: Handled comms and ammo except for whatever Wilsons got in his jetpack 

13:25: And Romanoffs sparky bracelets

13:25: Nice

13:25: Assets arm is still fucked up from those btw

13:26: Gonna try fixing it at Manassas if there’s time so it doesnt electrocute him on the drive lol

There’s a pause.

13:28: Who?

13:28: ?

13:29: Reply: “Gonna try fixing it at Manassas so it doesnt electrocute him on the drive lol” electrocute who

13:29: The asset

13:30: Since when do you call the asset a him??

Rumlow stares at his screen. Reads the past few messages back. Stares some more. He does not need this right now.

13:33: Can u get off my ducking case

13:33: I’ve heard like a blilion of caps sob stroies in the past couple days about how he took care of his crippled ass and how they were little 20s kids tgoether ok

13:34: You aren’t here

13:34: There’s a lot going on. Imabsut to ducking lose it

13:34: Leave me alone

13:35: Ok ok

13:35: Chill

13:36: Mckenzie calls it a him too lol

13:36: And that one weird tech

Rumlow almost, almost doesn’t reply.

13:38: Just get here

13:38: Fuckface 

Rumlow puts his phone away. Then he pulls it back out.

13:43: Hey if I was crippled and couldn’t work

13:43: Would you let me live in your house?

13:43: ???

13:44: Like hpotheticlay

13:44: Hypothetically would i let you live in my house

13:44: And help me and shit

13:44: Like idk. Make soup 

13:45: Did u get hit in the head

13:45: What is this

13:45: We’re friends right

13:46: Omfg

13:46: If HYPOTHETICALLY you were crippled and couldn’t work, I’d lend you money and help you fill out disability paperwork

13:46: This isn’t the fucking great depression

13:47: Reply: “We’re friends right” Friends with healthy boundaries 

13:47: Yeah ok

13:47: Stop reading into caps like idealized guilt-ridden memories of his dead bff

13:47: I guarantee you even Bucky Barnes was an asshole sometimes

Yeah, okay. Rumlow’s getting pulled way too deep into Cap’s bullshit here.

13:48: I GOTTA get out of this house

13:48: You really really do 

13:49: K we’re getting on the interstate

13:49: Let’s see if Cabrera gets anal about speeding

13:50: Floor it

13:50: Plss

13:52: Hang in there man

Rumlow some-fucking-how hangs in there all through the rest of the afternoon, and into dinner. Romanoff keeps giving him shifty little side-eyes, until Barton drags her into the game of spades he and Wilson have kicked off with the Asset. They both get way too excited when they win, which is every fucking hand, because the Asset has no poker face and he… it? He? Fuck, now Rumlow’s overthinking it. The Asset loses another hand, and laughs, and ‘it’ just seems really excessive at this point.

At 21:17, he gets a text that they’re in the city, setting up a perimeter. Ambush planned for 02:30, when everyone should be asleep. Perfect. Fucking excellent. He’s so close to getting out of here. There’s one moment, after Wilson tells some story about his sister’s boat or something back in Louisiana, where the Asset asks Rumlow, “Didn’t we go to Louisiana?” But he manages to play that off, and no one even blinks.

Finally, it’s nighttime. Rumlow lets Wilson have the whole damn blanket, since this is very well about to be his last sleep before the last sleep, and watches the digital clock on the nightstand blinking neon green. 02:03. 02:04. Come onnnn come on come on.

He gets up to piss, which he does ever-so-quietly so as not to wake anyone up, and then freezes. He hears voices from the living room. No! God damn it! Everyone’s supposed to be asleep!

He creeps out of the bedroom, and of course. Of course it’s fucking Romanoff. He steps into the living room, and Romanoff and Cap both turn to look at him. Barton’s out cold on the floor by the couch.

“Hey,” he says. “You guys can’t sleep either? We should really try to get some sleep.”

Romanoff’s expression would make a lizard look warm-blooded. “Steve and I were just talking,” she says, and adds: “About you.”

Bitch. “What about me?”

Of course she doesn’t actually answer the question. Next to her, Cap looks uneasy. “So,” she says, obviously enjoying the moment. “How long have you been Hydra?”

Enjoy a preview of Chapter 11:

Chapter Text

“How long have you been Hydra?”

Everything… slows… down. Okay. Assess the situation. Romanoff is unreadable, Wilson, Barton, and the Asset seem to still be asleep, so that basically means assess Cap. Cap looks… well, he’s not holding the shield and they’re both still in what they wore to bed. So that’s good? Incomplete intel. More information needed.

“Cap?” Rumlow says carefully. “What the hell is this?” Aside from his nightmare scenario. Rumlow’s pretty sure he should have started panicking but this is bad enough that he’s transcended panic and circled all the way back around into absolute calm. He even manages to keep his voice steady. He’s zen. “What’s going on?”

Cap looks unhappy, and very serious. How he manages to do that in four-leaf-clover flannel pants is beyond even Rumlow. “Natasha’s brought up some concerns.”

Natasha. Not ‘we have some concerns’ or ‘I have some concerns’. And they haven’t woken up Barton for this, either. Rumlow’s still got a chance. Okay. 

“What concerns?” he says, putting hurt into his voice. “Tell me, Romanoff, what are your fucking ‘concerns’, huh?”

“You can drop the act now. It’s all in the Russian files.”

Rumlow’s best move here is still probably confusion. 

“What’s all in the Russian files?” 

What the fucking fuck could there be about him in the Russian files? Karpov’s fucking interview notes? Romanoff’s watching him, and Rumlow knows he can’t give a single shit what’s in those files. Nothing has ever been less important to him than what’s in those files. He’s got nothing to hide. 

“STRIKE Alpha’s all cleared, STRIKE Alpha is reliable,” Romanoff recites, in Russian. She waits a beat while Rumlow pretends not to understand, and then translates. “STRIKE Alpha is listed as the Hydra point of contact for all operations in the US since 1989. Two of those were led by Vasily Karpov,” she adds, as an afterthought. Rumlow doesn’t even twitch at the name.

“So? Who the fuck is Vasily Karpov?” Rumlow makes a point to butcher the name. “I joined SHIELD in ’95,” Rumlow says. “And they didn’t put me on Alpha until ’96.”

“Since 1989,” she repeats. “Then there’s several years of correspondence confirming that STRIKE Alpha’s still the point of contact. All the way up to present day.”

“Most of STRIKE Alpha was Hydra, Cap already told me that. This isn’t new—”

“No. Not most. All.  Every member of STRIKE Alpha is a confirmed Hydra agent.”

“Well, I’m not.” She just looks at him. “I’m not! Show me the fucking file that has me listed as Brock Rumlow, agent of Hydra.”

“Come on, Rumlow,” she says, irritated. “You’ve had days of unrestricted access to all the documents Steve and Sam found. I’m sure you’ve got rid of anything that obvious. Not to mention—”

“If that’s true,” Rumlow demands, “then why wouldn’t I have gotten rid of those files you’re talking about?” 

She stares at him, flat. “Maybe you ran out of time.”

Rumlow shifts desperately to Cap. “Cap?” He aims for wounded. Gutted, even. “You think I’m Hydra?”

“No,” Cap says sharply. “But I didn’t think the men on STRIKE were Hydra. Or Pierce. Or anyone else. So I’m not exactly trusting my instincts right now.”

Rumlow doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Everyone on Alpha turned out to be Hydra, Rumlow,” Cap says grimly. “You can’t blame us for being careful.” He stares Rumlow down. “You led them.”

“So did you!” he says, affronted. He points to Romanoff. “So did she, I think, once or twice! The STRIKE team rosters aren’t set in stone, people get moved around!”

“Rollins has been Hydra since at least the late 90s,” Romanoff throws in. “Your buddy—”

“You know who else was my buddy? Fucking Westfahl, that’s who. Cap, you saw me blow his brains out.”

Cap looks at Romanoff. “It’s true.”

“You had to make a move,” Romanoff shrugs. “Steve and Sam were coming in, you didn’t have any time. I’d have done the same.” Cap’s eyebrows shoot up. “And while we’re on the subject, what were you doing in that base?”

This one’s easy. “The same thing they were,” he says. 

“How did you know there was a Hydra base there?”

“It was on your fucking blog, Romanoff!” 

She tilts her head. “Sam and Steve had to force their way inside. The door was intact and sealed when they got there. How did you get in, Rumlow?” 

Shit. Rumlow doesn’t break eye-contact. “I followed Westfahl,” he says.

“Without him seeing you?”

“No,” Rumlow evades, and shit, he’s on the defensive here. Not a great position. “I convinced him to take me inside. We were friends. He didn’t think I’d turn on him, even if he was Hydra. We’re all just turning on each other? That’s what we’re doing now? I killed Westfahl for this?”

“Westfahl was an idiot,” she says. “You tolerated him on a good day, and he was dead weight. There’s no way he could have kept up the act you’ve put on the last few days.” 

“What act is that, huh?” he pushes. “How exactly am I supposed to act in this situation? I thought we were making the world a safer place, but turns out it was all lies and bullshit, and I’m probably never gonna see my pension.” Whoa. That was a little too real. “What’s the correct fucking reaction to that?”

Romanoff’s answer is immediate. “Play both sides. Hydra’s screwed, so here you are looking for an in with the good guys. And lucky you, seems like you’re the only one who can connect with the Winter Soldier, Cap’s best pal. What would he do without you, Brock?”

“I’m Hydra because the Winter Soldier likes me,” Rumlow says, deadpan. “That’s your ace in the hole?”

“You’re Hydra because you’re Hydra,” she says. “And the Winter Soldier responds well to you because you interact with him like you’ve read the user manual cover to cover.”

“Nat,” Cap says sharply. He looks annoyed, and that, that gives Rumlow hope. He can play that up. Also, ‘read’ – fuck you, Romanoff, he wrote the goddamn thing.

“You’ve got a problem with the fact that I get along with Bucky?” 

Romanoff purses her lips. 

"Look," Rumlow goes on. "I’m sorry he was the monster under your communal Soviet straw pallet, or whatever, but he just seems like a guy with a fucked up brain.” Romanoff opens her mouth like she’s about to throw another insanely accurate accusation at him. “You gonna say I fucked his brain up, too?”

“I don’t know.” She puts on a wide-eyed innocent act. “Do you actually run the conditioning sessions yourself, or is that all left up to the techs?” 

It’s the techs. 

“Okay, okay – according to you I’m now in charge of the fucking brainwashing? But he just luckily happens not to remember who I am? Fuck off."

“I’m sure all the details of how you were involved are in those deleted files. You know, Tony will be able to tell us when those files were deleted hours before he manages to actually get them opened.” She hasn’t blinked in like, five minutes. “Plenty of time for us to chat more then.”

Fuck, no, let’s chat more about the Asset now. Rumlow was doing pretty good with that topic.

“Cap, are you serious with this shit?” he spreads his arms wide, incredulous. Cap’s frowning hard. Rumlow turns back to Romanoff. “Look. You don’t like me, I’m an asshole, I get it. But that doesn't make me a fucking double agent. You found some files on STRIKE Alpha, big whoop. If you actually found something on me, you would’ve told Cap and Barton right away. So stop bluffing, and stop fucking with me.”

He lets it hang there. It’s made only a little less dramatic by Barton’s snores.

“So, Cap,” he says. “Am I Hydra?”  Cap hesitates. Rumlow can work with hesitation. He turns back to glare at Romanoff. 

This is happening. He’s gotta go all in. He’s got a half credit Contemporary Theater breadth requirement under his belt from 1985, and that one night of improv workshops from Murphy’s very lame bachelor party. He can fucking do this. 

“I’ve given my whole life to SHIELD. I’m a STRIKE agent – that’s all I’ve been for over twenty goddamn years. I never had time for anything else. Never married, never had kids – but you know what, it was all worth it because I thought I was doing something important. Except SHIELD disintegrated while I was cleaning up their mess in a desert in bum-fuck nowhere, and now everything’s gone to shit. I was gone four days, and I come back and it’s the goddamn end of the world. All that time down the drain.”

Rumlow swallows.

“Now I’m not agent of anything, or commander of dick. And, you know what? Maybe I never was. I thought we were part of something important. Making the world a better place – or making the world more open to being a better place, at least. And if all that was bullshit? If Pierce was saying one thing and doing something completely,” fucking chaos magic, “twisted instead. Then what the hell was it all for? What the hell were we for?”

Rumlow feels his throat getting tight. This is getting a little more real than he’d planned for. He can’t seem to stop talking, though.

“I’ve lost friends for this fucking organization,” he says, and his voice breaks. Uh-oh. “I’ve done some fucked up shit in the name of loyalty, and improving the world, but now it turns out I was in the dark about all kinds of shit. People’s plans weren’t what I thought they were. People weren’t who I thought they were. I was a fucking STRIKE commander and nobody told me what was really going on. What am I supposed to do now, huh? What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

He’s breathing heavily. His eyes are hot. Okay, he’s got to pull this together. This is not the time.

“You think I’m Hydra, Cap?” he says, blinking really quickly. “You think I’m capable of that kind of shit? Who do you know better in this goddamn century than you do me?” The bar there’s kinda low, but his point stands.

Cap looks torn. Rumlow can’t get a read on which way he’s leaning. Romanoff stares him down, and says flatly, “You can’t bullshit your way out of this, Rumlow.”

The hell he can’t.

“You know what, Romanoff?” he murmurs. “I could stand here and turn this right back around on you. You’re the one that leaked the data dump. You’re the one with the history of defecting. Who knows what documents you held back, and what they said about you?” 

“Everything on me is out there,” she says, and she’s getting angry now but trying really hard to hide it. “I put my past on the line. I’m trying to make up for who I was.”

“Sure,” he scoffs. “Some of it. Half your missions are classified so deep that I don’t think un-redacted reports of them even exist, so who the fuck knows what you’ve really been doing all these years?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” she says.

“So why do I owe you one?” Rumlow demands. “But here I am anyway, fucking baring my soul. Just ‘cause all my buddies turned out to be Hydra doesn’t mean I get to be a coward now and assume all of you’ve got secret agendas, too. I gotta hope that goes both ways, otherwise what’s the point?” 

Okay, now that that’s been said, Rumlow has got to get control of this conversation. The Asset’s a sore point for Romanoff and Cap, just in opposite ways. Let’s go back to that. Let’s see what Rumlow can squeeze outta that.

“If Bucky can bring himself to trust people after all he’s been through, then what’s your excuse?” Bitch.

Romanoff looks pissed. “The Soldier isn’t sticking around because he trusts any of us,” she says. “It’s not the same.”

Yes, good. Take the bait. “No? Sure looks like he trusts Steve. And me. But you can’t—”

“He doesn’t trust!” she explodes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. He can’t. He doesn’t feel the way that people do, he barely thinks beyond how to complete his next mission. You, on the other hand—”

“What the hell did you say?” Cap demands. Beautiful. Rumlow wishes she’d keep going. Come on, Romanoff: The Winter Soldier has no heart, only beat of hammer against sickle in Soviet steel of his breast, keeping time to marching feet of Motherland. Shows what she knows. Rumlow’s made himself a whole career out of dealing with the Winter Soldier’s feelings. 

“Steve, don’t get distracted. This isn’t about the Soldier. This is about Rumlow being—”

“Can you use his goddamn name, Nat?” Cap snaps. Romanoff flares her nostrils.

“I’m sorry,” she snaps back. “I’ll call him whatever you want. But we need to not forget that what’s sleeping in your room right now is the Winter Soldier, only he doesn’t belong to Hydra anymore, or the Soviets, and we should trust him about as much as we should trust Rumlow.”

Fantastic. A+. Good job, Romanoff. Time for Rumlow to leave on the highest note he’s gonna get.

“Look,” Rumlow says, in his best let’s-be-sensible voice. “Why don’t we all sleep on this? It’s been a stressful fucking week. Month. I have no idea how long it’s been anymore. Tomorrow we can get Wilson and Barton in on the discussion about whether I’m Judas.”

Cap takes a deep breath. Rumlow still can’t tell which way he’s leaning, but he says, “I think that might be a good idea.”

Yes! Finally!

So of course, that’s when the wall explodes.

“Down!” Cap shouts, and kicks the legs of the table so they break and the thing falls to give him cover. Rumlow barely manages to dodge some giant chunks of flying concrete. Fuck. He’s nowhere near the position he was supposed to be in when this started. Romanoff’s jumped off the side of the couch. Barton stirred at the vibration, but he’s still asleep, and she’s about to bend down and wake him—

The second explosion sends the fridge shooting across the living room. Rumlow ducks, and hears the third one go off and—

He’s on his back and everything’s ringing and—

The couch is in front of him now, turned on its side, and Romanoff’s not—

Rumlow grabs the the couch to pull himself up and immediately crashes the fuck back down with a yell because, nope, his right leg is not carrying any weight right now. And Jesus shit, all of a sudden he can feel it. Christ, that hurts. 

He hits the ground, putting off looking at the thing for a couple seconds to calm down. He can’t see Romanoff or Cap with all the dust and smoke, but Wilson’s pulling on his jetpack in what’s left of the kitchen. Barton’s moving too, holding his side as he crawls to the shattered table where his (dead) hearing aids are lying. His hands are bloody. Rumlow sits up and—

Fuck. His fucking leg is so fucking fucked. Fuck! He clenches his teeth before he looks down. He can’t see anything through his pants, but there’s something sticking out of his right leg, and blood is spreading through the fabric over the side of his right thigh faster than he’s comfortable with. Also, it looks… he squints at his bare feet. No, yep, his right leg is definitely shorter than his left. He touches it, and swallows back a scream. Everything above the knee hurts like a motherfucker. Definitely broken. 

The STRIKE team is already coming in, all according to his goddamn plan. He can’t recognize who’s who, since everyone’s in full gear, but he has never been so happy to see a bunch of faceless people with guns as he is right now. There’s two guys on jetpacks up there. One of them is Kriegsverbrechen, who drew the short straw on helmets so Rumlow can see his face, but clearly lucked out on getting a jetpack. Everyone’s kitted out in so much weaponry, it’s like a dozen arsenals have come to his rescue. 

A big chunk of roof cracks and falls, and Rumlow just barely manages to roll out of the way in time. Now he can see the sky through the fucking ceiling. He can barely hear anything past the ringing in his ears, but Rumlow turns his head and sees the Asset sprinting down the hallway in a T-shirt and boxers, Cap’s shield in hand. He frisbee throws the thing across the room and Cap catches it one handed, like they’ve done this a million times before. Romanoff’s already pulled a gun from who-the-fuck knows where, and is firing. Wilson’s in a wifebeater and pyjama pants, covered in wall dust, but he’s most of the way into his gear. Even in their PJs, these are still Avengers, and they’re ready to fight.

But luckily, Rumlow’s got 11 people here to—

Cap shouts, "We got hostiles!" The Asset pulls a knife out from nowhere and whips it squarely into the space between Kriegsverbrechen’s eyes. 

For fuck's sake. Come on.

…But luckily, Rumlow’s got 10 people here to back him up.

The Asset finally notices Rumlow lying on the floor. He runs over, ducking out of the way of Kriegsverbrechen’s corpse, still strapped into the jetpack and spiraling above the living room like a drunk bumblebee, and crouches down beside Rumlow. He clocks the blood and rips open the leg of Rumlow’s sweats to get a better look. Rumlow kind of wishes he hadn’t. Now they can both see the metal bracket sticking out of his thigh, and the already purpling and swelling skin of his entire upper leg.

“It’s broken,” the Asset says, which yeah, no fucking shit. “And you’re losing blood.”

“I know,” Rumlow snaps at him. “Help me up.”

The Asset hoists him up from under the armpits like a goddamn toddler, which isn’t the most dignified, but it gets Rumlow to his feet. Foot.

There’s a loud clang from above, and Wilson’s knocked down by the other jetpack-er. He’s launched through the hole in the roof and hits the floor hard. Over by the kitchen, Barton’s fighting two agents hand-to-hand – Rumlow’s pretty sure that’s Szoke and Cabrera. Barton’s got nothing, no weapons, no armor, and he’s still bleeding out of his side, but he’s managed to disarm both of them down to their stun batons. There’s someone taking aim at him from behind, and Romanoff and Cap call out, but of course he can’t fucking hear, so

Wilson jetpack-thrusts himself across the floor like a fucking slingshot, and closes the wings around himself and Barton just in time to block the bullets. Whoa. You know what, Rumlow’s come around to the whole jetpack wings. That thing’s versatile.

He leans against the Asset and hops as fast as he can towards the front door. Every step is fucking agony.

One hand on the knob, and the Asset hesitates. He looks back anxiously at Cap, who’s taking most of the gunfire and also being pelted with acid grenades from like five different agents. He blocks a couple with his shield, but one hits him in the shoulder, and his white T-shirt sizzles away. He cries out. The Asset props Rumlow up against a wall, and starts running over. Cap turns when he hears him coming. Rumlow can see him make the snap decision.

“Bucky, go!” he shouts. He catches the next grenade and flings it back at the agent that threw it. It hits his helmet, which immediately starts bubbling and melting away. “Get away from here!” Cap throws the Asset the car keys. He catches them on instinct. “That’s an order!”

“You heard him, let’s go,” Rumlow barks, and the Asset helps him limp out onto the porch. “Keys,” he says, and the Asset hands them over.

Rumlow’s about to get in the driver's seat when – fuck! How is he gonna operate the fucking pedals? 

“You drive,” he says, tossing the keys back to the Asset, then scoots around the car and nearly passes out wrangling his leg into the passenger seat. He looks back at the house as they’re pulling out. Through the holes in the walls, he can see what’s going on – it’s pretty promising. Cap’s team is unprepared, outnumbered, barely dressed, some of the Avengers are already visibly injured, and, other than Kriegsverbrechen, Rumlow can’t see anyone on his side down.

The last thing he sees as they pull out is the agent Cap reverse-grenaded ripping off what’s left of his helmet. Rumlow holds his breath for a second, but it isn’t Rollins. Thank fuck.

“McKenzie!” Cap growls, and lifts his shield. Then he thinks better of it. Instead, he tosses the shield through a hole in the wall, where it hits the STRIKE truck square in the gas tank, and the thing explodes in a dramatic mushroom cloud all over the well-taken-care-of suburban lawn.

“Speed up,” Rumlow tells the Asset. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Cap pounce, ready to shred McKenzie with his bare hands. That is not the visual Rumlow needs right now. The Asset complies, and they peel down the street and around the corner. Rumlow feels his pulse noticeably steady a few minutes later as they turn onto the freeway.

So, all in all, that could have gone worse. 

Sure, he didn’t need a broken leg and that bloodstain is still spreading, which he recognizes is not great. At all. But the ambush is going well! And he’s got the Asset. Who is, by the way, also looking at Rumlow’s leg, somehow even more concerned.

“Eyes on the road, Soldier,” he says. The Asset obeys, brow still creased.

“We need to stop the bleeding.” 

Rumlow looks down.

Okay. So slight snag, but it’s fine. He just has to fix his leg first, and then get the Asset in the Chair. Then they’re off to Philadelphia. Easy peasy.

Rumlow presses down on his thigh, gritting his teeth against the pain and also swearing a lot. “Once we get to the base,” he says. “Here, exit here.”

The road sign to Manassas flashes in the headlights. The Asset makes the turn, but Rumlow can see the hesitation. 

“Why are we going to the base?” the Asset asks.

Normally, Rumlow can get away with answering questions like this with something along the lines of ‘Why isn’t mission relevant for you to know’, or, if he’s in a particularly shitty mood, ‘None of your fucking business’. But he’d rather not take any chances with the Asset’s conditioning right now.

“There’s medical facilities there,” he says. “Plus your arm’s fucked. We’re gonna patch me up, and then do maintenance.”

Rumlow watches the Asset’s reaction. Maintenance is basically shorthand for the Chair. Or, like, medical care, plus/minus repairs on the cyborg bits, and then the Chair. The Asset fucking hates the Chair, though Rumlow’s never actually seen him resist going in it – that shit was burned in deep, back in the ’40s – but even so. Who knows what fun new little glitches in conditioning the Asset’s gonna develop in the next hour.

After a moment, the Asset nods, seemingly satisfied. Rumlow relaxes a little. He better be fucking satisfied. Fuck, Rumlow’s leg hurts. He can feel his shirt clinging to him with sweat. His vision keeps trying to tunnel in on him, and he just tells it to not do that and cracks the window open so he can get some cold air on his face. There’s some tylenol in the glove compartment, and Rumlow downs like six in one go.

He spots the Ch33zy’s neon sign from two blocks away. The parking lot is empty, and the Asset pulls them up right against the curb and carry-drags Rumlow up to the door of the baser. He breaks off the padlock and shoulders it open, setting Rumlow down on the banged-up plastic bench beside the elevator shaft. Rumlow rolls his pant leg up above the fucking thing sticking out of his thigh, and hopes that’ll apply enough pressure to stem the bleeding. He really needs a fucking medkit.

The Asset reaches for the down button, then notices the soldered doors and starts looking around for an alternative way down.

“The cable's cut,” Rumlow tells him. “No other way to get in. Pull the doors off, and jump down. There’s a yellow button that should activate emergency stairs.” If Wilson’s jetpack welding-job hadn’t fried those, too. And if the back-up generator was still running. And if…

Is this a good plan? This is a good plan, right? 

Maybe they should have just gone straight to Philadelphia.

The Asset grabs the elevator door by the soldering seam and starts wrenching it free. Then he pauses and turns back to Rumlow. He looks down at his leg.

“How you holdin’ up, champ?”

No. Nope. “Don’t call me that,” Rumlow grits out. God, he needs real painkillers.

The Asset looks concerned, which isn’t unusual. He sometimes got all mother hen when someone would get injured on a mission, so this isn’t super weird behaviour. But then he reaches over and gives Rumlow’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. Which is weird. Then he starts actually trying to reassure him, which is even weirder. 

“Understood, buddy. We’re gonna patch you up. You’re gonna be cuttin’ a rug again in no time.”

Rumlow can’t wait to get him into the fucking Chair, so he can start acting like the fucking Asset again and they can all go back to normal.

Rumlow points. “Elevator,” he says. The Asset goes.

He heads over to the elevator door and takes like fifteen minutes to finish breaking the thing off. He throws the twisted metal into the shaft and watches it clatter down twelve stories. Then he steps over the edge. Rumlow sees the metal arm shoot out and catch a fistful of wall. He can hear the scraping as the Asset slides down, and the thud echoing when he hits the bottom. Then, after a couple minutes, the slow clunk of the emergency stairs fanning out of the walls of the elevator shaft one by one. After a few minutes, the Asset pops out at the top of the steps.

“Okay,” Rumlow says. So far so good. “Now…” He cranes his neck to look down. Shit. The stairs are narrow as fuck and the stripes of emergency lighting are making him dizzy. “I guess carry me down.”

This is humiliating. He’s being carried down a spiral staircase bridal-style, and every time the Asset takes another step, it jostles Rumlow’s leg. The Asset’s trying to minimize it, but there’s only so much he can do, and it fucking hurts. The Asset’s metal arm keeps spasming, too. Every time it happens, he lets out a little grunt of pain, and so does Rumlow, because he gets bumped by the motion. 

“Quit it,” Rumlow snaps after the third time, because right now he doesn’t give a shit that the Asset can’t control it.

“I can’t,” the Asset says miserably. The arm spasms again.

Rumlow sighs. Deeply. “I know.” God, it is not fucking like him to be on the Asset’s case for things that aren’t his fault. He’s a good handler, goddammit. “Sorry,” he adds, and what the fuck is wrong with him. Clearly, he’s gone into shock. “You’re doing good.”

The Asset doesn’t react to any of that. After a while, he says, “Should we…” he starts, and then pauses. “Do you think Steve’s okay?”

Uh oh. Rumlow looks up at the Asset’s face, trying to get a read on his expression. 

“He wouldn’t have told you to leave if he needed your help, right?” Rumlow tries. The Asset frowns. He doesn’t stop walking, but he flinches for a second, the way he does when he’s trying to remember something and it hurts. Luckily he doesn’t drop Rumlow.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t think that’s right...”

A few more minutes later, when they’re nearly at the bottom, Rumlow feels the Asset shift and tilt his head up to the top of the elevator shaft. 

“Someone’s here,” he announces.

What the fuck? “Who?” Rumlow asks, even though there’s no way for the Asset to know that.

“I don’t know,” the Asset says, predictably. “They’re on a motorbike.”

“They’re not coming inside, though,” Rumlow says. “Are they?” The Asset stops, and shuffles even closer to the wall. “Are they?” Rumlow repeats.

The Asset stays perfectly still, listening. His chest stops rising and falling. Rumlow tries to stay silent so he can hear better. He’s still for maybe ten whole minutes, before he gasps in air and says, “They’re not coming through the right entrance.”

Okay, great.

It’s not long before they get to the bottom. The Asset jumps down into the elevator box through the busted ceiling, landing like a goddamn ballerina so as not to jostle Rumlow’s leg. Rumlow reaches forward and presses the button.

The doors slide open, and Romanoff’s standing there, gun drawn.

How the fuck did she track them here? At least it looks like she’s come alone. She’s covered in soot and blood and plaster dust, still in the SHIELD sweats and T-shirt she’d worn to bed before STRIKE attacked, except she’d managed to put her boots on before coming here. 

No bra, though.

“No place left to run,” she says. Her gun’s aimed squarely at his head. Fuck. How the fuck did she get here before them? 

“I’m not running anywhere,” he grunts, gesturing at his fucked up leg. Romanoff’s eyes gleam like she’s just won something, and Rumlow realizes just a moment too late that she’d spoken in Russian. Double fuck.

“I knew it,” she says, in English this time. “Last chance, Rumlow. Give me the Soldier.”

“No fucking way.”

Rumlow’s gotta give her credit, she doesn’t hesitate. She just fucking fires.

There’s a shift behind Rumlow’s back, and suddenly all he sees is metal. Rumlow hears the bullet plink onto the floor. Jesus fuck, that was going to hit his head. 

“Soldier,” Romanoff snaps. “Stand down.”

“No can do, ma’am.” The Asset takes half a step forward, and Romanoff takes like three back, eyes wide. 

Then she starts rattling off a bunch of random Russian words, really quickly, like she’s had a stroke or something.

The Asset takes in a sharp breath, and then suddenly Rumlow’s being dropped. He hits the ground, and then his leg hits the ground, and he whites out. 

When he comes to, Romanoff is lying on the ground beside him, fully out cold. For a second, he thinks she’s dead, but no, he can see she’s still breathing. There’s a line of blood trickling down the left side of her forehead. It’s still wet, so he can’t have been out for that long. He’s in so much pain he throws up in his mouth a little, then swallows it down.

Okay. Another complication, but it’s still fine. He just has to kill Romanoff, then fix his leg, then get the Asset in the Chair. Piece of cake.

On instinct, he reaches for his gun before he remembers he’s in sweats and unarmed. Romanoff’s gun… is somewhere. Fuck. He could strangle her? His hands are shaking. His entire fucking body is shaking. His leg is killing him, and still bleeding, and things keep getting fuzzy around the edges, even when he’s just laying there not moving. He’s honestly not sure if he’ll stay conscious longer than it takes to choke her out. If she wakes up with him passed out on top of her cause he’s too weak to strangle someone half his size, the embarrassment’s going to kill Rumlow before she finds her gun and finishes him. 

Okay, fine, so he’ll just get the Asset to—

Speaking of. He can’t see the Asset. For a moment, he panics, but then he hears the Asset’s harsh breathing coming from the room to the left. 

“Soldier!” he calls. No response. “Soldier, get back here!” Nothing. Fuck. Rumlow pulls himself onto his stomach, kind of half-tilted onto his left, and starts dragging himself down the hallway. Motherfucker, that hurts. He has to stop a couple times so he doesn't pass out again. He maybe passes out again. It’s fine. He’s fine.

It’s an equipment storage room, and the Asset’s standing in the middle of it, breathing hard. He sees Rumlow and looks down at him with wide eyes. 

“Help me up,” Rumlow says. The Asset looks freaked out, but he blinks and gets it together enough to hoist Rumlow into an office chair. “What the fuck was that?” he demands, rolling after the Asset. He wipes sweat off his brow – he's soaked in it.

The Asset looks like he’s seen a ghost. “The… the trigger words. She was trying to take control.” His eyes unfocus. “I couldn’t let her.”

Suddenly Rumlow puts two and two together. Well. Looks like Romanoff found something in those Russian files after all. This must have been what the Asset was so scared of Pierce and Karpov doing, some kind of brainwashing cheat-code control sequence. Pierce’s goddamn failsafe. What were they? Longing? Sunrise? Some… numbers? Fuck. Rumlow really isn’t at the top of his game right now.

“Well, go back there and kill her,” he says.

Rumlow expects him to march back into the hall and do it, but the Asset just goes tense. His eyes go really wide. “Clarify,” he says.

“You know what kill her means,” Rumlow snaps. He’s in a lot of pain, and really short on patience. “Fucking do it.”

The Asset still doesn’t go. He swallows. “Steve said she’s a non-hostile.”

“Well, I’m ordering you to kill her.”

“He said…” the Asset starts rubbing at his head. “She’s a friend. Orders are not to kill his friends. I have to comply…”

What the fuck is going on. “Kill. Her.”

His eyes dart frantically between Rumlow and the door. “Steve’s orders were—”

Rumlow explodes. “I’m still your fucking handler, and I’m telling you to kill her!”

The Asset shuts his eyes tight, then mutters some more nonsense about contradicting orders. He actually walks to the door, then stops and turns around. He shakes his head, like a dog, then opens his eyes and says, “You…”

Rumlow waits, but that’s it. Then the Asset’s eyes dart around and catch on all the equipment in the store room, locking on to some of the stuff with what looks like faint recognition. Or maybe not. He grimaces, and it looks like something snaps – his eyes stop darting around and glaze over instead. 

He asks, “Where… are we?”

Rumlow freezes. “Soldier.”

“What – what year is this?” he asks next, and frowns. This… isn’t great.

“Soldier,” Rumlow says, more gently. He may have overdone it, a little. “Hey,” he says calmly. “Look at me.” The Asset’s eyes lock on him, and Rumlow goes cold. “We’re in the base,” he tries. 

“But I left,” the Asset says, and he’s looking pissed now. “I left.” He takes a very deliberate step forward, and now Rumlow’s starting to get freaked out. The Asset’s blocking the door. Rumlow can only roll a little in the chair, pushing himself along with his one good leg.

“Soldier, stand down,” he says, quietly. It’s not a great feeling knowing Romanoff said the same thing like two minutes ago, and now she’s unconscious on the ground. And the Asset was at least a bit more with it when he did that. Rumlow rolls a little to the left, so that one of the steel storage shelves ends up partially between him and the Asset. “It’s okay. Tell me where you are.”

The Asset takes another step forward and reaches for the storage shelf as he goes. He doesn’t even use the metal hand, but the steel bends and the shelves warp in on themselves. The Asset shoves the twisted mess out of the way without looking at it. 

Time to change tack. “Stand the fuck down!” Rumlow yells.

The Asset doesn’t stand down. He flares his nostrils like a bull about to charge, and the metal arm whirs threateningly. The plates shift, and Rumlow’s seriously scared now. This is a fucking crisis situation. Rumlow can’t even stand up. Talking to the Asset isn’t working. The Asset takes a third step and curls his hands into fists. Rumlow’s gotta take drastic action.

He looks around where he thinks they should be stored, and – yes, there’s one, thank fucking God. Rumlow grabs the stun baton, flips it on, then rolls forward and jams it into the Asset’s stomach. 

There’s a loud crackle of electricity – the rest of the base is completely silent. The Asset grits his teeth and goes rigid, letting out a muffled groan of pain that gets louder as Rumlow keeps holding the current. Rumlow cranks the power up, and the Asset screams, loses his balance and falls to his knees. 

Then, with a loud cry, he grabs Rumlow’s arm and rips the taser out of Rumlow’s hand like he’s taking it from a toddler. Rumlow nearly falls out of the fucking chair.

For a terrifying second, he thinks he’s wildly miscalculated – the Asset’s breathing hard, on his knees, holding the stun baton and glaring at it like he’s gonna tear it in half. Which he could. That is not how this is supposed to go. But then he looks up at Rumlow, and then slowly back down at the baton in his own hand. Rumlow can see the gears turning in his brain. He blinks, then gets this oh shit kind of expression on his face.

Then he ducks his head, casts his eyes down, and holds the taser back out to Rumlow.

Rumlow lets out a sigh of relief. He takes it, trying not to count his chickens, and says, “Yeah. That’s right.” The Asset swallows. Rumlow shocks him again, holds it for a full eight seconds, and this time the Asset doesn’t make any move to resist. Okay. That’s more like it. Rumlow takes the baton away and sets it on his good thigh. The Asset’s breathing hard, shaking a little from the fading pain. “You got your shit together?” Rumlow asks.

The Asset glances up. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly. Rumlow gives him a once-over – he looks all there, or at least as close to all there as he’s gonna get.

“Get up,” Rumlow says. He gets up. “Is Romanoff awake?”

The Asset tilts his head for a second, listening. “No.”

“But she’s still breathing?” The Asset gives him a look. “Okay, I get it, Steve ordered you not to kill his friends. I can’t fucking ask?”

“She’s breathing,” he confirms after a beat. Fucking great. Rumlow kinda hoped she’d just die now, for no reason.

“Go tie her up, then. And search her for weapons, phones – all her shit. Take all her shit.” God, he sounds like a fucking rookie taking command for the first time. They really need to find that medkit. There’s gotta be some painkillers in there. Rumlow’s sweats are totally soaked through with blood.

The Asset hesitates. “What are you going to do with her?” he asks, still half in the doorway. Holy balls, Rumlow does not need this attitude right now.

“Relax, I’m not gonna kill her,” he assures him. “Just fucking do it.”

He does not need to see how the Asset reacts if Rumlow tries to go against one of Cap’s orders. Most likely, the contradiction makes him freak the fuck out again, or – and this is a fucking horriying concept – he just decides then and there that Cap is the primary handler and straight up stops Rumlow, and Rumlow’s not sure he wants the can of worms that comes from the Asset loopholing his brainwashing into deciding he can just… not do what Rumlow says.

Rumlow needs to get him in the Chair yesterday. 

It occurs to him all of a sudden that he’s gonna have to… convince the Asset to kill Romanoff. He’s gonna have to negotiate with him. Which is something he’s literally never done, because that’s not the point of the Asset. 

Okay. This is still okay. Fine. It’s fucking fine. He just has to convince the Asset to kill Romanoff, then fix his leg, then get the Asset in the Chair. No sweat.

The Asset turns on his heel and stalks back out into the hallway. Rumlow drags behind, literally, scooting along with his one good leg to roll the office chair after him. His heart’s pounding hard, and he hopes that’s from the moment with the Asset earlier, and not because he’s going into shock from fucking blood loss. He’s white-knuckling the stun baton by the time he reaches Romanoff. The Asset’s got her arms securely tied up with some cables and he’s finishing off her legs. Just in time, too, because she’s waking up.

“Knock her out again,” Rumlow orders. 

The Asset reaches around to the front of her throat just as she starts to struggle. She gets out a “Longing,” making the Asset wince before his fingers find her carotids and squeeze. Halfway through mouthing, “Rusted,” she goes limp.

Rumlow and the Asset look at each other. “Okay,” Rumlow says. “Go find the medkits.” He is not bleeding out down here. Not to-goddamn-day. The Asset transfers him to the floor and then goes. He’s gone for a while, so Rumlow takes on ‘knock out Romanoff every couple of minutes’ duty. He wonders if just leaving her here tied up will count as ‘killing her’ to the Asset or not.

He fucking hates that he has to think about this.

The Asset comes back with a trolley of supplies as well as a few giant field boxes, and Rumlow relaxes a bit. The Asset kneels down beside him. He gives Rumlow another upsettingly sympathetic look and hands him a bottle of something – Rumlow sees the word opioid and that’s good enough for him. 

“This is gonna sting,” the Asset says, and reaches for the metal bracket sticking out of Rumlow’s leg.

Rumlow braces himself, downs like three pills, and then the Asset snaps the metal like it’s a toothpick, so there’s just a little piece sticking out instead of a five-inch rod. Then he actually gets to work.

By the time he’s cleaned it, straightened out the bone, which, fucking ow, put some kind of tight pressure-band thing on, and pinched Rumlow’s toes like fifty times to determine he’s still got blood flow, Rumlow’s more than a little lightheaded. He maybe passes out once or twice more before he gets used to how hard the pressure thing is squeezing. He’s stopped keeping count.

The painkillers are kicking in, though. The Asset gets some more shit from the medkits and splints Rumlow’s femur, meaning straps his entire fucking leg straight to a bunch of giant pieces of rigid blue something. He can’t take out the rod – Rumlow’s gonna need an actual fucking doctor for that in case shit goes bad, hopefully the others meeting them in Philly can find him one – but the Asset’s doing a really good job with everything else. Like, surprisingly good. He’s putting together this splint like he’s done it 100 times before. Since when is the Asset this good at field medicine? When was this when Rollins dislocated his shoulder hanging off that bridge in Kuala Lumpur?

The bleeding’s stopping though, which is the first good thing that’s happened since they got to this fucking base. 

“That should hold for now," the Asset says. He looks down at Rumlow’s leg. “Thigh splints are hard to get right but… it ain’t half bad, I think.”

Rumlow nods. “Good job.” Okay. Leg fixed. Big fucking step closer to getting this plan back on track. He should last the day it’ll take to reconvene with everyone at the Philadelphia base. This is gonna work. Speaking of, he hasn’t heard from anyone yet. He should probably check in.

He sends the Asset to go find his arm repair equipment and then gets out his phone once he’s gone. Rumlow can see imprints of the metal plates forming on his own forearm, where the Asset had grabbed him earlier, starting to bruise. He must have grabbed him harder than he thought. Rumlow dials Murphy.

When the line connects, there’s a loud rustling and squealing that makes Rumlow hold the phone away from his ear for a second until it quiets down. Then he hears Murphy.

“Hello?! Come in, who is this?! Rollins? Jenkins?”

“This is Commander Rumlow,” he says, suddenly all business. Those painkillers are really starting to kick in now.

“Commander,” Murphy says, out of breath. “The raid was a fucking massacre.”

Rumlow takes a second for that to sink in.

Yes!

“Fucking nice,” he says, feeling about 1000 knots of tension come loose. “Good work—”

“Oh, God!” That sounds like Krupczak’s voice in the background, except Rumlow’s never heard her that freaked out before, and they dated for like, two years. “Her guts are fucking falling out!” 

Murphy shouts, “So put them back in!” and then there’s a deafening squeal of tires. “Hold on!” Then the engine roars.

“Murphy?”

To Rumlow, he shouts, “They goddamn massacred us!”

Rumlow instantly sprouts five new grey hairs. “What,” he says.

He can hear Cabrera sobbing in the background. “They’re so much better than us… why did we think we could take four Avengers…”

Rumlow’s ice cold. “What the fuck happened?” he demands. “Are you wounded?”

“We’re all fucking wounded!” Murphy shouts. “I’m—”

“Murphy and I don’t have anything life-threatening,” Krupczak says from what’s probably the back seat. “But Cabrera’s hurt real bad—”

“It looked like it was going well!” Rumlow says, panicking. “They were in their goddamn pyjamas!”

“It was a slaughter. We were—”

“What the fuck happened?!” Rumlow shouts into the phone.

Murphy and Krupczak start talking over each other.

“–caught them off guard—”

“Cap was tearing people apart—” 

“–injured in the explosions, but then they blew up the car and—”

“Barton is so good at throwing stuff, it was—”

“—did something to Lindström’s jetpack and then chucked him into a crowd like a human bomb—”

“–none of us are nearly that good at throwing stuff—”

“Black Widow getting out of there—”

“–not even saying knives or anything. He took out Cabrera with a can of soup before—”

“–one chance to surrender, and then it was fucking open season—”

“–bare hands and super-strength, I mean Cap let loose—”

“–McKenzie’s guts on the inside of the shield like a bowl of pasta—”

“–got split up—”

Rumlow doesn’t catch most of that horrorshow, but he zeroes in on that last part. “Who got split up?” he asks. “Is anyone else alive? Is Rollins okay?”

“I dunno, Commander, I saw him running out of there, I think, but he looked hurt. I can’t reach anyone.” There’s a sudden loud noise, and then a shrieking. “Oh, fuck,” Murphy says, voice high.

“In the sky!” Krupczak screams. “He’s fucking coming for us!” Rumlow hears a distant flurry of gunfire. 

“Fuck!” Murphy shouts, then Rumlow hears rustling, screaming, then more gunfire, much closer, and then the line goes dead. All Rumlow can hear is his own breathing. 

This is officially FUBAR. No one’s coming to meet him. There might be no one left. Not even Rollins. Jesus. And if the Avengers are alive… they’re gonna come after the Asset. And Romanoff – who the Asset won’t let him fucking kill – is gonna be a problem. What the fuck is he supposed to do with her? There’s no universe in which letting her live is a good idea.

Holy shit. What if the Avengers are on their way here.

The Asset gets back with the arm stuff, and Rumlow’s gotta figure something out quick. He has no idea how much time he has. 

Okay. This could still be fine. He can make this still be fine. Maybe they won’t have time to do the Chair after all. Unless… maybe if he’s quick? Okay. So his leg’s fixed, now he just has to… convince the Asset to kill Romanoff, Chair the Asset quickly, then get the fuck out of here on the way to Philly before the Avengers show up.

Not… exactly a piece of cake. This is actually starting to get pretty complicated.

The Asset’s arm, on cue, spasms again, and that one looks like it hurt. Rumlow probably didn’t do him any favours with the stun baton.

“Come here,” Rumlow tells him, and reaches for the screwdriver from the kit. A basic field fix will cost them a couple minutes, but it’s worth it. If he’s gonna negotiate with the Asset, might as well start by playing nice. The Asset could do most basic repairs himself on mission, but that’s not the point right now. The point is to get him cooperative and fucking compliant, and wrists-deep in his hardware is not a bad place to start. 

The Asset sits down on the floor in front of him and sticks out his arm. His eyes are fixed on Romanoff. “She’s been unconscious for a long time,” he says, sounding concerned.

“She’s fine,” Rumlow says. He balances the arm on his left knee, then pulls back the bicep plate and reaches in. The rest of the Asset’s arm whirs. “Easy, Soldier. You’re good. You’re okay.” Looks like the forearm plate’s got to come off, too. Rumlow pries it off and pats a hand on the Asset’s shoulder to calm him down. Then after a beat asks, “Did you know she knew your trigger words?”

The Asset tenses. Good start. “No.” He finally looks away from Romanoff and down at the inside of his arm instead. “But I don’t always know who…” he gets a crease in his forehead. “No.”

“I don’t think Steve knew that, either,” Rumlow offers.

The Asset frowns. “No,” he agrees. Rumlow finds the couple wires that have burned out. He picks up some pliers.

“If she got a chance to use them, she could make you do anything, huh? ”

The Asset shudders. “Her orders would supersede all previous or standing commands,” he says.

“Even Steve’s?”

The Asset looks up at him, looking conflicted. He gets where Rumlow’s going with this. “Steve said she was a non-hostile,” he reiterates.

“Then why’d she fucking shoot at me?” Rumlow points out. “Why’d she know your words and not tell anyone? Seems pretty hostile to me.”

The Asset’s getting confused. “I… don’t know.”

“Think about it,” Rumlow says, twisting the loose ends of metal together. He lets the Asset get uncomfortable with the thought for a few seconds. All Rumlow’s gotta do is get him to do the necessary mental gymnastics to convince himself killing her would be complying with his orders, then his conditioning’ll let him do it. “We can’t just let her run around with that information. You left, remember? You’re Steve’s now, right? We can’t let her take you back.”

“She wouldn’t,” he says slowly. “She’s not… she wasn’t there, before.” His memories are goddamn all over the place. His eyebrows knit together, and he looks up at Rumlow, wide-eyed and trusting. “Was she?”

“Who the fuck knows, Soldier? She was Red Room. She knows all your words. She got here before us, somehow. Just left Steve and everyone to get ambushed by Hydra.”

The Asset’s quiet for a while. “I can’t kill her,” he says finally.

Rumlow sighs. He decides to chance it. 

“What if I kill her?” The Asset tenses, and Rumlow feels the plates in his wrist shifting against his own palm. “Steve’s orders were that you couldn’t hurt his friends. Right?” The Asset considers that. “You just wouldn’t be stopping me.”

The Asset thinks hard. “I think that’s the same thing,” he says eventually.

Who knew Cap’s hero complex was contagious. “As long as she knows all your words, she’s a threat to you, and me, and Steve. Think about that,” Rumlow tries, a little desperately.

The Asset glances at Romanoff, down the hallway, and back. He’s struggling. He chews at the inside of his cheek. “What if," he says slowly, "she didn’t know them anymore?”

Fucking brain damage. Rumlow snaps the arm plates back into place. “She does though,” he reminds him. “That’s the problem. Okay, make a fist. That feel better?”

The Asset makes a fist and nods absently. “What if,” he says, “she didn’t remember? Then we wouldn’t have to kill her.” He takes a breath. He looks miserable, but weirdly determined. “Then all the orders make sense,” he says desperately. “And I can comply.”

Here’s the thing: the Asset’s smart. Got a decent head for strategy, especially when things have gone to shit. When properly handled and maintained, and on task, it’s obvious, but even now when half of what he says is vocalized brain mush, Rumlow can appreciate that the guy’s got a good idea. 

“You’re thinking about the Chair,” he guesses. The Asset nods. Fantastic. Even the lowest setting on that thing runs at a stupid number of volts. If the Asset feels better killing her accidentally, that’s fine by Rumlow. “Good idea,” he adds.

“We can turn the power down all the way,” the Asset continues, and perfect, fine, whatever. “Hold it for only a second or two. Widows are enhanced, so—”

Wait, what?

“Romanoff’s not enhanced,” Rumlow says. “I feel like I’d remember her being able to pick up a car.”

The Asset’s shaking his head. He switches briefly to Russian. “Different type of formula. No enhanced strength or speed.” Then back to English. “The Red Room managed a much weaker version – it makes them long-lived, mildly faster reflexes, more durable than regular gals.”

Huh. Maybe Romanoff’s older than she looks and she had trained with the Asset as a kid, like she said before. Go figure. Doesn’t change much, though. Worst case, she actually does lose the past few days or weeks of her memories. Best case, her decaf serum isn’t worth shit and the Chair still fries her. Seems like a win-win.

“Fine,” Rumlow says. “Fuck it. Pick her up and take her to the Chair.” Looks like the Asset’s reset is just gonna have to wait till Philadelphia.

It’s gonna be a long fucking drive if he’s got to negotiate the Asset through every little step. 

The Asset helps Rumlow back into the office chair, then picks Romanoff up and starts walking. Rumlow scoots himself along, following. Drugs are great. His leg’s just an ache in the background, and the headache the emergency lighting was giving him is basically gone.

The Chair is still buried under burned-out desktops, which the Asset pushes to the floor as he sets Romanoff down in it. Once he gets her untied and fits her limbs into the open restraints, the whole setup looks about two times too big for her. Rumlow straps in her legs. She’s short enough that he leaves the ankle restraints open, her feet just barely hanging into them. The Asset skips the wrist restraints, too, since her fingers just barely reach the straps, just does the ones around the biceps, and gently pulls back her head. He moves through it like a familiar routine, which both makes sense and is creepy as shit. He stands behind her once she’s secure, the Chair’s halo hanging over both of them. The Asset’s trying hard not to look at it. Rumlow can see he’s gone pale.

“We need to check her head. For any metal. Or it’ll—” he shudders. “We need to check her head,” he repeats softly.

They check. She’s not wearing any earrings, and doesn’t have any weird piercings. The Asset picks a few pieces of shrapnel out of her hair. He pries open her mouth, and Rumlow can’t see any metal fillings—

“There’s a tracker,” the Asset says, and Rumlow freezes.

“What? Where?”

The Asset shows him. In her fucking molar. Rumlow can barely see it, but – yeah, there it is. What the fuck is that? That’s not a SHIELD issue tracker.

“Clint has an identical one,” the Asset points out. Those codependent assholes.

Wait.

“Soldier,” he says, “can you tell if it’s transmitting?”

The Asset looks at it. “I think so.”

If the tracker’s active, and the Avengers are not even a little dead, then – oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Barton’s coming, right now. And that means Cap. 

Cap is coming. 

This is not fine anymore.

There’s no way he has time to Chair Romanoff and get himself and the Asset out of the base and back on the road before they get here. That plan’s out the fucking window. Even if he could walk. Which he can’t. Cap’s coming here and Rumlow’s still gonna be here. Holy fuck he can’t walk and Cap is going to find him in a Hydra base ordering his best buddy-pal to Ol’-Sparkify his work-friend. No one could talk their way out of that. Jesus shit, okay.

Okay. Deep breaths.

It’s not okay! He’s gonna fucking die!

Okay. 

He cannot panic right now. He’s gotta work fast. That’s not what Cap’s gonna find ’cause he’s gonna do this fast and make sure Cap never finds out.

“Get the mouthguard,” he orders. Focus. Compartmentalize. If they find her with the tracker ripped out of her mouth, Barton gets suspicious. If the tracker goes dark when they shock her, then Barton also gets suspicious. Their best chance is the rubber mouthguard and, fuck, fucking pray. The Asset starts digging through one of the drawers. “Soldier,” Rumlow adds, after a beat. “You can’t tell Steve we did this.”

The Asset turns to him, surprised, mouthguard in hand. “I can’t lie to Steve,” he says.

“Listen. Remember how he reacted when you told him about McKenzie’s unauthorized use of you?” The Asset makes a face. “Right. How do you think he’s gonna react finding out you electrocuted one of his only friends?”

The Asset freezes. “She knows the trigger words,” he says defensively.

“Yeah?”

“She can’t know the trigger words. You said—”

“You’re right, that’s true. But Steve’s not gonna see it that way.”

“Steve said he wants me to be safe.”

“What about keeping Steve safe?” Rumlow says, because based on how the Asset’s been acting lately, and if all Cap’s stories are true, the Asset’s got 20-something years of instincts about keeping sickly little Steve Rogers alive. Plus years of conditioning to protect his handler. “Isn’t protecting Steve part of your mission?”

The Asset’s eyes go shiny and he lets out a laugh at that, borderline hysterical. 

“I swear that punk likes getting punched,” he says. “Protecting Steve’s been part of my mission for… for a long time.”

“There you go,” Rumlow encourages. “You have to keep yourself safe, like Steve ordered you to, and make sure Romanoff forgets the words. But you have to take care of Steve, too. So he can’t know exactly what you had to do to do it. All you gotta do is leave that part out. He’s not gonna ask, I promise. She started to say your words, you hit her in the head, that’s what happened.”

Rumlow can tell he’s struck a chord. The Asset looks at him for a long time. He’s emotional, confused, trying to work through what is basically a moral quandary in his scrambled eggs brain, which isn’t set up for that. He looks at Romanoff, queasily at the Chair, then back to Rumlow. Rumlow doesn’t have a fucking clue what the Asset remembers about what right now, but he still defers to him. Still trusts him.

“Understood,” he says finally.

Outstanding.

New plan: hopefully Rumlow can maintain plausible deniability with the Avengers long enough to get the hell out of dodge. With or without the Asset, at this point. Almost definitely without, if he's honest with himself. Whatever scraps of Hydra that made it out of Insight are toast now. It’s not like world domination is an achievable goal here. And it’s not like Rumlow’s gonna be the one to restart Hydra. That’s over and done with, and you know what, maybe good riddance. Fucking chaos magic. Rumlow’s number one goal at this point is just… to get out of this shit alive.

The Asset fits the mouthguard between Romanoff’s teeth, and Rumlow starts fucking with the Chair settings. Since the Avengers are on their way and the Asset’s watching over his shoulder, he grudgingly turns it down to nearly the lowest it goes, for almost every setting Murphy taught him about. It should still be plenty. Then he powers it up, and sees the Asset cringing by Romanoff’s side at the noise. 

Rumlow flips the—

A loud sound from the doorway makes him whip his head around. There’s a heart-stopping moment, and then – oh. It’s just one of the desktop computers that’s fallen on its side. Okay. For a second, he thought the Avengers had come in at the worst possible moment. Phew. That would have been bad.

Rumlow turns back to the Chair. Double checks the settings. He flips the—

“Brock,” the Asset says. Rumlow looks up at him. There’s a second or two of silence. The Asset looks like he’s about to throw up.

“Yeah?”

“Permission to look away?” he asks quietly. 

“Sure,” Rumlow says, and flips the switch.

It’s only a couple seconds, and the Asset’s made sure Romanoff was unconscious before they did it, so she just kinda seizes up a little, then goes limp and twitchy. Rumlow waits a few seconds, and somehow, she’s still breathing after.

“Okay,” Rumlow says when he turns everything off. “Get her out of there and set her back down on the floor where she was before.” He starts lifting the computers back onto the Chair as the Asset leaves. What’s the best play here? Cap’s on his way, expecting to find Romanoff at the base. So why is he gonna find Rumlow and the Asset here, too? Why did Rumlow bring the Asset here in secret?

Unless… maybe he didn’t?

With the last computer added back on the pile, Rumlow digs his SHIELD phone out of his pocket and starts rolling himself back towards the main entrance as he dials. Cap picks up after two rings.

“Rumlow? Wh—”

“Cap, where the fuck are you?” Rumlow shouts, in a weird repeat of the conversation he just had with Murphy. Even the speeding car background noise is the same. “Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

“We’re fine,” Cap says quickly. There’s an incredulous scoff in the background, which Rumlow takes to mean they’re not fine. “Are you with Bucky?”

“He’s freaking out, Cap,” Rumlow says. And now he can let himself panic, just a bit. “He was getting violent – Romanoff was at the base when we got here, started—”

“The base?”

“The Manassas base, the fucking Hydra base. Can you get here?”

There’s a pause, then, “We’re four minutes out.” Holy shit. Good fucking call. Rumlow pats himself on the back. There was no way he would have gotten out in time. “What happened?”

“She started speaking Russian and the—” Fucking fuck. “Bucky flipped and knocked her out cold. She’s breathing but still unconscious, and I’ve lost a lotta blood, my leg’s broken, I can’t walk—”

There’s a scuffle and Rumlow guesses the phone is changing hands. Wilson’s voice comes through. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m okay,” Rumlow says, intentionally vague.

“Are you and Natasha in a safe place?”

Rumlow reaches the end of the hall, where the Asset is holding Romanoff propped up against his knee. He’s stroking her hair a little with his human hand and muttering something in Russian.

“He’s – he’s calmed down, I think,” Rumlow says. “For now. We’re okay. Even managed to fix up his arm – but we need help, ASAP.”

“Stay there,” Wilson says urgently. “Try to keep your distance from Bucky. We’ll be there soon.”

Nice. Rumlow hangs up the phone and waits. Tries to reach Rollins. Nothing. He tucks his Hydra phone under a cabinet, in case they search him or something when they get here. 

Romanoff’s eyes start fluttering open. She brings a hand up to rub at her head, then looks up and freezes when she sees the metal arm. She’s still for a long moment. When she speaks, she sounds terrified, but somehow resigned.

In slightly slurred Russian, she says, “They finally sent you for me?” Huh. Looks like the Asset’s plan was a resounding success. The Asset shakes his head.

“You ain’t in any danger,” he says, in full Bucky Barnes Brooklyn drawl, and Romanoff’s face goes bluescreen. He helps her sit up – meaning he sits her up and props her up against the wall while she stares at him in abject terror and winces at what must be a massive headache – and offers her a bottle of water he filched from the medkit. She takes it warily. She looks over the Asset, barefoot in a T-shirt and boxers, and gets a totally bewildered expression on her face.

“Where am I?” she asks, feeling herself up for weapons she doesn’t have, and the Asset looks really sad.

“I know you’re confused,” he tells her, voice soft. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything right now. You can just rest.” He smiles, kinda watery. “You got friends coming for you. They’ll be here soon.”

Yeesh. Now Rumlow kinda wishes the Avengers would get here faster. 

She finally notices Rumlow. She starts to ask him, “Did the Soldier bring you—” He sees the moment that she realizes that she’s got no idea where ‘here’ is, anyway. “Are we underground?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he says. 

She rubs her head. She can barely tear her eyes away from the metal arm. “I stopped by the party. Then I left, and—” she cuts herself off. “Did… did you bring me here?” she asks the Asset, defaulting to Russian again. He shakes his head.

“Which party?” Rumlow presses.

“The SHIELD Christmas party,” she says, like it’s obvious.

Rumlow has to hold back a little fist-pump. He’s pretty sure even she couldn’t fake this. 

“Romanoff, it’s April,” he says. She blinks at him, eyes a little out of sync. “You don’t remember? Insight? Hydra?” She’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “You got hit in the head pretty hard,” he says. It’s true. She’s visibly pretty out of it, and her eyes don’t look right. Whether that’s from the metal backhand to the skull or the electroshock, it’s hard to say.

“Hydra?”

Cap and the Avengers pick that moment to barge in. “We’re here,” Cap calls from the top of the stairs, because he’s not a subtle guy, and a few minutes later they come through the elevator.

They look rough. Wilson’s limping and got dried blood down the entire right side of his face. He’s cradling his wrist. Barton’s even worse, being held up by Cap and covered in bruises. His eye’s on its way to swelling completely shut, and he’s clutching a still-bleeding wound in his side. Even Cap looks hurt – he’s wearing the shreds of what used to be a white T-shirt, and he’s covered in bad-looking burns and healing over bullet grazes, and if Rumlow squints he thinks he can see one actual bullet wound that hit. His arms are red up to the elbows, probably covered in McKenzie.

“Natasha, you okay?” Cap asks, coming forward. He sets Barton down beside her and keeps going towards the Asset. He’s got the shield on one bloody arm.

“She got hit pretty hard,” Rumlow offers.

“I’m fine,” Romanoff says, slurring her words. “Be careful,” she adds sharply, as Cap takes another step. “That’s the Winter Soldier.” Cap stares at her. “He’s a Soviet weapon,” she elaborates. “They used to tell us about him in the Red Room. He's been credited for over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years.” Over two dozen? Rumlow tries to keep his face neutral at that. Yeah, over two dozen, in the sense that there are over two dozen grains of rice in a bowl of rice.

Cap glances at Rumlow, looking pained. Rumlow shrugs. “Told you.”

“I know,” Cap tells Romanoff calmly. “It’s okay. I’m just gonna talk to Bucky for a minute.”

Romanoff makes a face. “Who the hell is Bucky?” 

Cap freezes, and then looks… just so done. Done with a capital D. He is the most Done Rumlow has ever seen a human being. “Later,” he promises. 

Romanoff’s not satisfied with that. She pointedly looks Cap and Barton up and down. “What happened to you?”

“The attack,” Wilson starts, then stops as Romanoff snaps her head around to look at him. “Careful—”

“Who are you?” She puts a hand on Barton’s arm. “Clint, what—”

“What?” Barton shouts back. He points at his ears. 

Romanoff somehow goes tenser. “What attack?” She repeats as she starts signing at him. Barton looks bewildered, and starts signing back at her, rapid-fire. They both look confused as hell.

Wilson moves to stand in between them and the Asset. He’s eyeing the Asset, keeping his guard up. He glances quickly at Rumlow, sweeps his eyes over his leg, over the metal plate bruises on his forearm, then keeps his eyes on the Asset.

“You okay, man? How’s your leg?” he asks Rumlow. Which, honestly, nice of someone to fucking ask.

“Peachy. Found some painkillers. Stopped the bleeding for now.” He takes a breath and asks, even though he’s dreading the answer. “Hydra…?”

“We took a hit,” Wilson admits. Then his expression goes grimly satisfied. “But they’re dealt with. Maybe one or two of them got away, but not in any shape to give us trouble.” One or two? Jesus shit. Murphy had said he’d seen Rollins running, right? That had to mean he was relatively okay.

Right?

A little down the hall, Cap crouches down beside the Asset. “What happened, Buck?” he demands.

“She tried to use the trigger words,” he says. “I couldn’t let her—”

“What trigger words?” Cap asks. This is sharper than Rumlow’s ever seen him speak to the Asset.

“They’d make her orders supersede all others,” the Asset says desperately. Cap frowns.

“She was trying to give you orders?”

The Asset looks close to tears. “I had to stop her.”

“Why was she trying to do that, Bucky?”

“I don’t know.”

“She started speaking Russian,” Rumlow offers, “and Bucky freaked out and hit her. He came at me, too, at one point, but I managed to talk him down.”

Cap looks down at the metal plate bruises on Rumlow’s arm. Then he turns to the Asset.

“Is that what happened?” The Asset nods. Cap looks like he doesn’t know what to make of any of this shit. He’s looking at Romanoff in a way that makes Rumlow really glad he’s not looking at him like that. “She was already here before you came?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cap flinches. “Why did you come here?” he asks, and Rumlow holds his breath.

“Medical equipment,” the Asset says, and gestures at Rumlow’s leg. “It was an emergency. And to do maintenance. My arm’s not malfunctioning anymore.”

“Rumlow helped you fix your arm?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had to calm him down somehow when he lost it,” Rumlow adds. That’s barely even a lie. “I couldn’t exactly run away like this.” Cap’s face softens a fraction. He’s looking at Rumlow like his story checks out, and looking at Romanoff with a little frown. These are both good things. Though there’s a nonzero chance Rumlow’s just seeing what he wants to see.

Then, loudly, Barton says, “Why was Nat trying to use the trigger words?”

Rumlow signs, don’t know. Barton narrows his eyes.

“She didn’t say?” Barton shouts. “She just showed up and started trying to take control of Barnes?”

Rumlow signs yes.

“Steve,” Wilson says. “We’re hurt. We need to get out of here, and get some help. We can figure out everything else once we’re somewhere safe. Maybe now you should call Iron Man.”

“Yeah,” Cap sighs. He doesn’t look super happy about the prospect. “Okay, yeah.” 

Okay. Now Rumlow just needs to get away from this whole situation.

“Just drop me off at a hospital,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Barton tap Romanoff’s shoulder. She starts signing. “There’s still a fucking bar sticking out of my leg. I’m not gonna be any more help to anyone like this.” Is she translating for Barton? She’s struggling to focus and keep her eyes open, so it’s not clear how much he’s getting.

“You sure?” Wilson says. “Might be safer at Stark Tower.” Cap nods in agreement.

Nope. No thanks. “I’m sure, don’t worry about it.”

“Why?” Barton shouts, and fuck, that guy is going to give him a heart attack. Rumlow blinks at him. “Why don’t you want to go to Avengers Tower?”

Reasons. Good ones. Rumlow is struggling to come up with something believable as Barton continues.

“It’s safer,” he repeats. “A few of the Hydra team that attacked us got away. And your SHIELD health coverage is probably all shot to shit.”

“I – yeah, that’s true, I just think—”

“Medical facilities there are better than almost any hospital,” Barton says, and it’s horrible how good these arguments are. Oh my God, does Rumlow actually not have a good excuse to not go to fucking Avengers Tower?

“And there’s still intel to go through, even if you can’t fight,” Barton continues. “You can still be useful, don’t worry, Brock.” Oh, Rumlow does not like the way Barton just emphasized his name. Absolutely no thanks. 

“I – I mean—”

Barton pauses. “Unless there’s a reason you don’t want to go to Avengers Tower with all of us Avengers.” He narrows his eyes. “Is there?”

Okay, this is bad.

“Clint’s right,” Cap joins in. Rumlow can’t tell which part Cap’s referring to, or where he stands with him at all. “You need urgent medical care, Stark Tower’s the best place for that, and… do you have anywhere else to go?”

His tone is kind, but what a fucking thing to ask. The worst part is that Rumlow doesn’t actually have an answer.

He really hopes Rollins is okay.

“Yeah,” Barton says. “Even after you get patched up, you can’t drive.” He says this pretty casually, but Rumlow is getting a really bad vibe from how intensely he’s looking at him. “You can’t even walk,” he adds in that same light tone, and that might actually be a threat. “Or run.”

Okay, that one’s definitely a threat. And Cap’s not saying anything about it. Not good. Though he looks pretty distracted right now. Wilson kind of shoots Barton a look, but he doesn’t say anything either.

“Um.” Rumlow laughs, nervously. “You’re making it sound like I don’t have much choice.”

Barton laughs, equally insincere and with a bit of a lag as Romanoff interprets. He doesn’t answer. 

Cap stands, and says, “I left my phone in the car. I’ll go get it and call Tony.”

Wilson’s eyes dart to the Asset. “We’re just gonna leave him like that? What if he flips out again?”

“What do you suggest?” Cap snaps. “Tie him up?”

“Yes,” Wilson says. Cap jerks back like he’s been slapped. “I think we should tie him up.”

“Sam—”

“Look,” Wilson cuts in, “I get he’s your best friend and it sucks what happened. It’s insanely unfair. But look at Natasha. Look at Rumlow. You’re gonna risk all of us? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not doing so hot right now, Steve, and none of us are super soldiers.”

Cap takes a moment, then takes a deep breath. “You’re right,” he tells Wilson. “I’m sorry.” he turns to the Asset. “Bucky. Come with me.”

“Steve—”

“Once we get on the plane,” Cap says. “For now we’re gonna need him to help carry people up.”

Wilson looks unhappy, but doesn’t argue. Cap and the Asset head up. It’s only once the two of them are far enough up the stairs that Rumlow can’t hear them breathing anymore that Romanoff seems to relax. She lets her eyes fall shut and leans against Barton, who puts a hand on her knee as he glares at Rumlow.

“What?” Rumlow snaps, reflexively.

“What?” Barton shouts back, deaf.

“Jesus,” Wilson breathes. “I need a damn vacation.”

Rumlow spends the time until Cap and the Asset get back frantically trying to think of a good reason he shouldn’t go to the Avengers Tower hospital in Avengers Tower with the Avengers. Going there would be… bad. He is officially in over his head. Let’s see: I’m scared of heights? I hate Manhattan? I’m allergic to iron?

Cap picks up Romanoff and doesn’t ask Rumlow’s permission before he tells the Asset to hoist him up and take him with them, which isn’t a great sign. But then again, Cap’s like that sometimes. Barton is clearly suspicious as hell, and Wilson seems more or less still on team Rumlow, but he’s got no idea where Cap stands, and so where the team overall stands. Would they stop him if he tries to leave? He doesn’t really want to find out. Also, how would he try to leave with how fucked up his leg is?

He’s still desperately trying to come up with something as they get to the top of the stairs, until he gets distracted by a quiet whirring in the air. They step outside, and he doesn’t see anything. He looks around for a car, or a truck, or a helicopter or something. Something with the Iron Man logo. He doesn’t fucking know what Tony Stark would send. All he knows about the man is that he’s richer than God and lives in a sentient house or something, which is probably some kind of weird tabloid exaggeration. Although who knows. He’s supposed to be some kinda child prodigy engineering supergenius mad-scientist billionaire playboy philanthropist… at some point, Rumlow’s pretty sure the tabloids just started pulling nouns out of a hat. 

And then Rumlow nearly pisses himself as a jet suddenly fades into existence, because apparently Stark sent an invisible jet plane for them. It lowers down a ramp.

Fuck. Is he actually getting in this plane? There has to be a way to not get in this plane, right? But he just can not think of one. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken all those painkillers. Rumlow’s spinning his head around, desperately looking for an alternative, but – what’s he gonna do, wriggle out of the Asset’s arms and crawl away on the concrete? The Asset starts going up the ramp, and, yep, he’s in the plane. He is in. The plane.

There are eight seats inside. Rumlow can’t see a cockpit, or a pilot. Is this thing automated? Is there a robot flying it or—

“Welcome to Stark Force One, Captain Rogers,” a tinny voice announces as they board. Rumlow can’t help looking around for the source, and it’s the barest fucking relief that Wilson and the Asset are doing the same.

“Hi, JARVIS,” Cap says. He directs the Asset to put Rumlow down in one of the seats. Wilson comes up beside him and shoves a set of heavy-duty handcuffs from the base’s storage room at him. Cap hesitates, but he takes it. He holds the cuffs like they might burn him.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Cap says. “I’m gonna restrain your arms.”

The Asset just puts his hands behind his back, instinctive. “Understood.”

Cap closes them around the Asset’s wrists, and then they take a seat. Rumlow doesn’t get tied up, which is somewhat of a good sign, but also it’s not like they’d really need to at this point.

The loading ramp rises silently behind Barton and Romanoff as they get on the plane and also take their seats. Which are, obviously, the ones directly opposite Rumlow. Barton’s still glowering at him, and fuck, is this just how the two of them work? When one is too incapacitated to maintain a creepy stare, the other takes over? Rumlow looks out the window, just for a distraction, and only then realizes that they are already in the air. He genuinely cannot tell if he blacked out again, or if takeoff was just that smooth.

“We will be arriving at Avengers Tower in twenty-eight minutes.” says the robot voice.

Rumlow whips his head around and tries to read everyone’s expressions. Is this him being captured? He’s definitely not not being captured. 

Across from him, Romanoff is dozing off on Barton’s shoulder. Barton moves her hair out of her face and stares at Rumlow the whole flight.

Chapter Text

“Hello, is this Charlie? This is – oh… did I wake you up? I’m sorry about that. This is Steve Rogers. I’ve been— …Captain America, yes. Yeah. Mhm. No, this isn’t a joke, it – Yeah, it really – I… okay. Hold on one second.” 

Across the plane, Cap pulls his phone away from his head, takes a selfie, and sends it off. He puts the phone back up to his ear and waits. 

“Oh,” he says after a pause, and adds, audibly uncomfortable, “Don’t – don’t mention it. Okay, sir, I wanted to— yeah. Mhm. No, yeah, seventy years. Well, sixty-seven. It sure was a shock, yeah. I’m – Charlie – Charlie, listen, I’m calling because of your house? Your house near Appleton. The— Prescott Street, yeah. My friend Sam was renting that place recently off Airbnb. Yeah – Sam Wilson, that’s right. I just wanted you to know that I will cover all of the damages to— oh. You haven’t… heard?” There’s a pause, and beside Cap, the Asset grimaces. “Alright, I have some bad news.”

Rumlow tunes out Cap’s awkward explanations to the Airbnb guy about how his little suburban house is now a smoking hole in the ground, and looks out the window. The country’s blurring by underneath. He’s pretty sure he can already see Manhattan getting closer. The sun’s starting to come up.

Rumlow’s painkillers are gradually wearing off, and that makes it a lot harder to think. He really, really, really needs to think. 

Problem 1: Is he a prisoner here? Barton keeps glaring at him, but Wilson’s barely acknowledged him at all. Plus, he can’t really tell if he’s just been pressured to come here or actually brought against his will. Not great. Problem 2: His painkillers are starting to wear off, and he’s beginning to feel the wreck that is his leg again. That’s quickly on its way to becoming Problem 1.

There’s probably Problems 3 through like 98 million to consider, but right now 1 and 2 are pretty high priority. At least someone will probably tell him soon if he’s a prisoner or not. Then he can reassess.

“So,” Wilson asks, as soon as Cap hangs up the phone. He’s on the edge of his seat, literally. “What’s Tony Stark like?”

Barton kinda shrugs.

“Lives up to the tabloids,” he says, at the exact same time that Cap says, “He really tries to do his best.”

Wow, okay.

“Tony’s…” Cap makes a frustrated sound. “He’s really smart. Extremely smart. A genius, all that’s true.” Cap taps on his knee. “He’s very generous, he really is. You can count on him in a crisis. Well – this kind of crisis. He can… be a lot,” Cap admits. He looks like he’s really trying here. “But at the end of the day, he’s a really good… Avenger.”

Wilson gives Cap a long look. “So you guys are close, huh,” he says flatly.

“Look,” Cap starts. Wilson throws up his palms.

“Hey, it’s your business.”

“Tony’s a good guy,” Barton adds. “I’ve had way worse coworkers. The Avengers have only gotten together for a handful of missions.”

Wilson takes that in. “Okay, what’s the tower like?” he asks, changing tack.

“It’s sweet,” Barton says. “I grew up in a circus, man, the tower’s like a seven star hotel. And the Avengers common area is sick. Easily has the second best bar in the tower. And the sound system is,” Barton mimes a chef’s kiss.

Wilson looks to Cap, who’s kind of mildly nodding along, looking a lot less enthusiastic. “It’s all technology,” he adds. “Everything in that tower…” he gestures vaguely, “moves or glows or… beeps. I keep my own razor there.”

Weird comment. What does that have to do with anything? 

Cap goes on, “It’s all like something out of a pulp nov—” then shuts up abruptly. He looks at the Asset. “Actually, Bucky,” he says, realizing, “I think you’ll love it.”

‘All technology’, yeah, okay. Rumlow just barely keeps from rolling his eyes. The guy still has to call IT to check his own email. Probably the tower has an automated coffee maker and a clapper light switch or something. A roomba. Maybe like, a robot or two that do laundry.

He’s definitely right about the Asset loving it, though. He likes gadgets. It’s a thing. Every time R&D’s given STRIKE something new and hi-tech to work with on a mission, the Asset’s found a reason to have to use it, no matter how flimsy. Rumlow figured out years ago that you could keep him happily entertained for a few hours of downtime by finding some tech willing to teach him something. Kind of weird to think he’s always been like that.

Abruptly, there’s skyscrapers outside the window. Rumlow catches a glimpse of the A on the side of the building before they touch down on the roof. It’s one of the highest ones around. Fuck. Avengers Tower. 

“Welcome to Avengers Tower,” the fucking robot voice anounces, and Rumlow jumps in his seat. “Medical assistance is en route.”

The ramp lowers again. It takes Rumlow a minute to realize what he’s looking at. He has to blink a couple of times because there are four stretchers coming towards them. By themselves. Floating. Four stretchers are floating towards them, followed by a little blue robot that is, yep, also floating.

Wilson says, “Cool,” and climbs onto the first stretcher to come up the ramp. Barton helps Romanoff onto the second before hopping on the third himself. The fourth comes inside to hover next to Rumlow, and as he’s trying to figure out how the fuck he’s supposed to climb onto that thing with his splinted leg, it grows a pair of arms. He doesn’t even have time to go what the fuck before it – they? – grab Rumlow like a goddamn baby and hoist him on board. His leg’s hanging slightly over the edge, so the fucking thing expands to accomodate his height. This all happens in about six seconds.

Okay.

Okay.

He may have underestimated the level of tech a little. 

A blue light flashes at the bottom of the ramp and quickly moves up until it shines right into his eyes, and Rumlow, now blind, hears an even more robot-y voice say, “Pre-liminary diagnos-tic scan com-plete.” Rumlow hadn’t thought robot voices came in different degrees of robot-sounding, but apparently they do and now he can’t un-hear it. 

The blue light turns out to be coming from the little blue robot, and it hovers up to him as Rumlow’s getting his fucking vision back. Everything’s still covered in black dots, but the thing looks like it’s cocking its head. The lights where its eyes might have been blink. “Rumlow comma Brock.” Why does it know his name. “Your SHIELD medi-cal files are 47% down-loaded. You re-quire e-mergen-cy care. On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your pain?” 

“What?” Rumlow manages. The little robot’s chest opens and a metal probe comes out and pricks Rumlow’s toe. 

“That is a 1.”

Jesus fuck. “Uh. Seven?”

Another little arm comes out from underneath the stretcher and jabs a syringe into Rumlow’s thigh. The pain quickly starts dulling out a little.

“Your SHIELD medi-cal files are 58% down-loaded.” The robot wobbles down to the level of the stretcher. Rumlow feels like he’s been dismissed. He can see ‘Diagnostics, Operations, and Obstetrics and Gynecology for Immediate Evaluation’ printed on its head. “Transport to medi-cal section H, floor sub 25,” the robot instructs, and the stretcher goes, accelerating suddenly enough that Rumlow’s thrown flat onto his back. He gets a few seconds of magic carpet ride over Manhattan before he’s floated into the elevator with everyone else. His stretcher stacks on top of Wilson’s, right beside Barton because of fucking course. Cap and the Asset – they get to walk – come in right behind, chased by the blue robot. The Asset’s looking over his shoulder, awkwardly with his hands cuffed behind his back, trying to get a better look at the thing until the elevator doors close behind him.

“There’s a bunch more like that inside,” Cap promises, and the Asset’s eyes light up.

“If I ask, do you think Tony’ll explain how they work?”

“He probably will even if you don’t ask,” Cap says.

There’s an insane number of buttons in the elevator, and the ones on the bottom few rows are squares instead of circles. Those must be the underground floors. One of the squares lights up, by itself, because of course it does, and they start to descend.

“Welcome, Avengers. And Agent Rumlow.”

Wilson jokes, “What about me?” and the humany sounding robot – Jarvis, Cap had called it in the jet – says, “Mr. Stark has updated me as to your new status on the team, Staff Sergeant Wilson.”

Wilson’s flustered. “Uh, just Wilson’s fine. I’m – I’m not active duty,” he corrects, and then, “What – who told him I was an Avenger?”

“I did,” Cap says, and Wilson balks at him. They get into a thing about it – “how did you think people joined the Avengers, Sam?” – but Rumlow’s not listening. He’s looking through the doors – they’re transparent, so he catches a brief glimpse of every floor they pass, and holy fuck.

There’s a whole fuckton of floors that must be R&D: more than one has Iron Man suits in various stages of disassembly. A few of the suits have people in them, and they’re walking around – or Rumlow assumes there’s people in them. Maybe there aren’t. One floor passes by and Rumlow just sees a rainbow of Lamborghinis. Then one floor that’s blinding light, and then the next one that’s pitch black. Some of them have tech that Rumlow can’t even identify. He’s pretty sure that last one had a spaceship.

When they get down to 17, the elevator stops. The doors open, and Rumlow gets hit in the face with a sudden burst of heat. The whole floor is full of smoke – he can barely see five feet in front of him. There’s a lot of hissing sounds, and then Rumlow sees the shape of a man come out of the smoke, silhouetted in blue light like fucking ET. It isn’t until he gets close that Rumlow realizes he’s backing into the elevator, and spraying a fire extinguisher into the floor he’s coming from as he goes. 

He steps in, presses his hand on some random patch of wall, which lights up red, and the elevator door slams shut. He sets down the fire extinguisher, coughs a few times, and says, weirdly calm, “Jarvis, seal off that floor, would you?”

“Shall I seal off a two-floor radius as well, sir?” asks the robot.

“Yeah, good thinking, let’s go ahead and do three.” He coughs a few more times. “Remind me to give Rao a call. We might not make that end of March deadline.” It’s well into April. 

The man turns around, and it takes Rumlow a full ten seconds to recognize him as Tony Stark. The delay is because Rumlow’s only ever seen him on magazine covers wearing suits that cost more than Rumlow’s car. Now, he’s wearing track pants and a singed AC/DC tank top, and he’s got grease and soot all over his arms and face. He smells like smoke, with the faint smell of alcohol and gas underneath. He actually fits right in in this elevator, except that he’s the only one without any blood on him. That blue light also turns out to be coming from some kind of machine strapped to his chest.

“Cap!” Stark goes in for a hug, then pulls back when he notices Cap’s shirtless and covered in acid burns. “Yikes. We can get all touchy-feely when you’re a little less Freddy Krueger.” He turns to Barton and Romanoff and beams at them, “Glad you’re alive! And only medium rare.”

Romanoff frowns. She rubs her head. “Tony, can you tell the intercom to stop making that squealing sound, please?” 

There’s a beat. The Asset swallows and looks away from her. 

“Okay, maybe medium well,” Stark says. “Let’s up the elevator speed 15%.” 

Jesus, Rumlow’s stomach falls through the floor. He swears he can hear the elevator revving up. Aren’t there regulations or something that stop you from just making elevators go as fast as you want? 

“Tony,” Cap says, squaring his shoulders. “This is Sam and—”

Stark’s already stopped listening. He’s staring at the Asset’s arm like it’s a Maxim centerfold. It’s obviously taking some willpower to keep him from licking his lips.

“Oh, Cap,” he breathes, taking a step towards the arm. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Tony—” Cap warns.

“Jarvis, unlock those cuffs for me, will you? I wanna get a good look at this beauty.”

Below him, Rumlow hears Wilson go, “Hold on, maybe—”

There’s a click and a beep, and the mag cuffs just fucking drop to the floor. Rumlow didn’t even know you could hack into mag cuffs. The Asset doesn’t move. He’s looking at Stark the way he always looks at new techs, when he’s trying to figure out if they’re a tech tech or a medical tech. 

“Um, Tony? Hi, Sam Wilson.”

Stark’s eyes tear away from the arm for half a second to look at Wilson. “Oh, hey, welcome to the team. ‘Bout time we got some air support, besides yours truly. Also, Cap said you’re a shrink? That’s—”

“Bucky’s still a little unstable,” Wilson interrupts, which is honestly kind of amazing, because Stark talks a mile a minute. He’s obviously trying to balance tact with urgency. “We thought it would be—”

Stark waves an arm. “Yeah, yeah, brainwashed super soldier, I got the gist.” When. When did he get the gist. How much could Cap have possibly explained in that 5 minute phone call? “I built my safety protocols for the Hulk. If he goes all Manchurian Candidate, Jarvis’ll take him out.” And he laser focuses back to the arm.

Nothing about that sentence isn't concerning, but the part that sticks out for Rumlow is ‘Hulk’.

Right. The Hulk. The Hulk is an Avenger. Who lives in Stark Tower. Rumlow watches another floor of sci-fi bullshit blur by through the transparent doors. He half starts keeping an eye out for the Hulk. Oh, look. They’re underground now.

Stark is still talking, but mostly to himself at this point. He’s running a finger down the Asset’s arm and muttering something about bio-compatible something-or-other and how his Uncle Arnie would have loved this thing. The Asset’s looking down at him apprehensively.

“You’re an engineer?” he asks. Stark grins up at him.

“I’m your engineer, if you’ll have me.” Rumlow’s genuinely not sure if he’s talking to the Asset or the arm. The Asset, hearing this, visibly relaxes. Tech techs aren’t harmless, but even the worst ones would still nerd out with him a little about his hardware during maintenance. Also, like 80% less chance of vivisection.

“Tony,” Cap says sharply. Stark’s like half a second away from sniffing the metal knuckles. Cap looks like he’s holding himself back from just stepping bodily in between Stark and the Asset. “Dial it back.”

Stark straightens up. “Aw, come on, your buddy here doesn’t mind. But, but,” he cuts off the start of a Cap classic righteous rant. “Okay. I’ll save it for the lab.”

“Thank you,” Cap says. “And thank you for letting us come here.”

Stark waves an arm. “What are friends for?” There’s exactly one beat. “But, just out of curiosity, is it just the arm, or are there more cybernetics—”

“Please,” Cap says desperately.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. For the lab.”

“Does that power the suit you fight in?” the Asset asks, pointing at the thing on Stark’s chest. Cap had told him a bit about Iron Man on the plane.

“Sure does,” Stark says, tapping it, and, holy shit, is that the arc reactor Rumlow had to attend like six ‘advances in nuclear technology’ briefings on? Stark’s just carrying a fucking nuclear bomb around on his chest? In this tiny elevator? 

Stark adds, “But most of the time, it’s just a glow-in-the-dark pacemaker.” He taps it again, and now Rumlow sees – that thing isn’t on his chest, it’s in his chest. The guy’s standing a foot away from Rumlow, and he’s got a nuclear bomb in his sternum. And he’s tapping it. Rumlow makes a wimpy little noise. It’s loud enough to catch Stark’s attention.

“Oh hey, other new guy. Rambo?”

“Rumlow,” Rumlow manages. That’s his name, right?

“Cool.” He can see the moment Stark loses interest. “Sorry about the whole SHIELD-is-Hydra/Fall of Hydra thing.” The fuck does that mean? Is he sorry because SHIELD is Hydra or because Hydra fell? Do they think Rumlow’s Hydra or not? How can it still be this unclear?

The elevator dings to a stop. Through the transparent doors, Rumlow sees a cute redhead in a fancy suit waiting for them with her arms crossed. There’s a faint burning smell over her perfume when the doors slide open and her shirt is singed at the collar. How many floors did Stark explode in one morning?

“Pep!” Stark hops out of the elevator and gestures back at them. “Check it out, my friends are in town! Let’s get out the good china.”

“Tony,” the redhead sighs. “Your co-workers are injured and need medical care.”

“Semantics.”

“Hi, Pepper,” Cap says. “Glad to see you’re back on your feet. And sorry for the rough morning…”

“Don’t mention it,” she says warmly. “Just putting out fires everywhere, as usual.”

Cap laughs a little uncomfortably, and Rumlow feels like he’s missed something.

“Follow me,” she says, and Cap and the Asset start walking. Rumlow’s knocked onto his back again as the robot stretchers float after her. Cap’s finishing up the introductions by the time Rumlow manages to sit back up.

“—ock Rumlow, who. Well. I’m sure Jarvis filled you in.”

Pepper looks over her shoulder at him. “Yeah, he did.” Her expression is totally unreadable. “Good to meet you.”

Rumlow wishes someone would fill him in. It would really be helpful to have someone fucking say it out loud: is he a prisoner here or not? Hydra never pulled this shit. If they took a prisoner, they didn’t play mind games with them – they called them a fucking prisoner. That person knew they were a fucking prisoner.

Well. Except for the Asset.

Rumlow shakes off the thought. “My pleasure,” he manages. That does get him a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

They pass through what looks like a set of elevator doors, except they open diagonally for no reason. There’s a dead end wall in front of them, and the doors slide shut behind them. Stark presses a button on the dead end wall, and the entire little bit of hallway that closed off rotates 180 degrees. The elevator doors open again, this time on the lobby of a hospital way fancier than anything SHIELD or Hydra’s insurance had ever covered. There’s a whole arsenal of floaty stretchers and little blue robots in here, and the beds have panels with like 50 buttons on the sides. The Asset’s expression flickers between ‘yay, cool robot shit’ and ‘oh no, medical equipment inevitably leads to pain’.

“So ER’s mostly still on your left,” Stark tells Cap, sounding like a video playing at 3x speed. The floaty stretchers are already headed that direction, so Rumlow has to strain a bit to listen as they get further away. “That’s all where you remember it, but I moved the MRI machine downstairs to make room for the hot tub.” Cap nods along, like he’s used to this. Rumlow’s pretty sure he can see a minibar in the corner. “What else, let’s see… oh! There’s a new arc-based-plasmapheresis prototype over there if anyone gets poisoned.”

Stark waits two seconds, which is probably how long he ever leaves for anyone else to speak, then claps his hands together.

“Okay! Bruce and Cho will be down in a bit, D.O.O.G.I.E.’s got it from here.” He turns to the Asset. “Let’s go, terminator. I’ve got a biomechanics diagnostics protocol with your name all over—”

Rumlow doesn’t catch what Cap cuts in with.

“Oh, come on,” Stark needles. “Rossum’s Universal Robot over here doesn’t mind if I take a quick look at his beautiful, beautiful arm before we figure out what kinda Nazi knickknacks are floating around in his head. Hey. Tin Man, with me.”

Cap and the Asset start talking at the same time. “Bucky has—”

“Did Steve approve your access to me?”

“—kind of a hard time saying ‘no’ right now.” 

Rumlow sees Cap’s stoic, pinched face, even though he can’t actually see anything other than the ceiling right now.

Stark takes a moment to process that. “Gotcha. Gotcha. So, how does it work, Steve’s in charge of you?”

“Well—” Cap starts.

“Yep,” says the Asset .

“Okay, then,” Stark says purposefully. “So, Cap, give me admin privileges and let’s get this show on the road.”

Rumlow’s distracted by what he thinks is just another especially human-y robot talking to him, until he turns to look.

“You’re Agent Rumlow, is that right? I’m Dr. Cho,” the only-kind-of-hot lady tells him. She’s got a transparent clipboard in her hand, except the more he looks at it the more Rumlow’s sure it’s actually a hologram of a clipboard floating above her hand, which just seems fucking unnecessary. Dr. Cho sends the blue robot – D.O.O.G.I.E., apparently. Hilarious – to hover over Rumlow’s leg. She glances at its little display and makes a note. Her pen’s a hologram, too.

“Hi,” he says.

Suddenly, the stretcher’s arms are back, this time unwrapping the dressing around Rumlow’s leg. Before he can get a good look at the damage, the D.O.O.G.I.E. snaps out a syringe of thick, black ooze and Rumlow watches the stuff shoot into his leg above the knee. 

“What the fuck?” His voice comes out way higher than it should.

“You still have about 4.5 inches of carbon steel embedded in your right thigh,” Dr. Cho keeps going as if he hadn’t said anything. “The nanobots are mapping its perimeter now—”

“What’s this black shit that just went in me?!”

Dr. Cho’s eyebrows slant down. “The nanobots,” she says, enunciating really slowly like he’s retarded. “They’re mapping the steel in your thigh now, and they’ll determine our extraction options just about—” There’s a ding! that comes from inside Rumlow’s fucking leg. “Now.”

For all he knows, the nanobots came with some kind of paralytic something, because Rumlow cannot fucking move as he watches a hologram of his leg project up through his skin above his actual leg. Dr. Cho reaches down and grabs the part of the hologram that shows the break. Rumlow flinches.

“Good news!” Dr. Cho’s turning the piece of leg around in her hands, pulling back the layers. Rumlow’s not a squeamish guy, but anyone would be uncomfortable watching their own leg get stripped down to the bone, even as a projection. “Firstly, your broken femur is definitely going to need surgery.”

Fuck if he’s gonna let this crazy bitch do surgery on him in Avengers Tower.

“How is that good news?” he demands.

“It isn’t. The good news is that the rebar isn’t embedded in the bone, and, more importantly, there’s an 82% chance it hasn’t actually penetrated the deep branch of your femoral artery. That means we should be able to remove it manually without any complications!”

Rumlow watches in horror as she snaps on a glove and pinches the bit of rebar sticking out of his leg, like she’s about to pull it out right then and there.

“Wait!” Rumlow shrieks. She looks up at him.

“Yes?”

“These nanobot things are in my fucking leg, how can they only be 82% sure there won’t be complications?”

“These nanobots are a prototype. The amount of scarring—”

“These are a fucking prototype?” Rumlow squeals.

Dr. Cho nods slowly. “Yes. I work primarily with experimental research and technology.” She waits to see if Rumlow’s got anything else to say to that. He nods for her to continue. “So the amount of pre-existing scar tissue you have in your leg, along with the clotted blood interfering with the sensors make it difficult for them to be any more certain.” She firms up her grip on the rebar chunk. Another morphine syringe pops out of the stretcher and jabs into his thigh. Then she pauses.

“Do I have your consent to proceed?”

“No!”

“Oh.” She looks disappointed. She lets go of the rebar.

Rumlow clears his throat. “What, uh… are the other options?”

Dr. Cho frowns, like this is the first time she’s had to consider other options. “Well, we could just leave the bar in there until your internal fixation procedure—” which he’s not having here, thanks— “and take it out then. But the longer we wait, the greater the risk of infection… and I’m legally required to inform you that I’m not licensed to practice surgery in the United States. Though I do have experience.” 

Rumlow blinks at her. 

“...where are you licensed to practice surgery?”

“Oh, I’m not a surgeon. I’m a clinical research geneticist certified in South Korea.” That doesn’t sound like the same thing at all. “But I’m legally required to inform you that I no longer have a license to practice medicine in South Korea.”

“Why not?” Rumlow asks tiredly.

She makes a face. “I believe medical research is for saving lives, not publishing papers. Let’s just say the government’s restrictions on human testing are way more stringent than what the patients themselves are willing to agree to.”

Jesus fuck. Obviously no normal people would ever work at Avengers Tower, but… Jesus fuck.

“SHIELD gave me authority to practice in the United States,” she adds. “But now…”

Right. Of course they did. And of course she came to work here, to play doctor with a bunch of enhanced people. Using Stark’s insane fucking prototypes.

It occurs to Rumlow that the Avengers might not be as legit an operation as he’d thought.

“What about…” Rumlow’s starting to feel desperate. “Stark mentioned someone named ‘Bruce’?”

“He’d be assisting. He’s had some experience treating patients in South Asia, but he’s a physicist.” What is with all the unlicensed medicine? Rumlow’s used to SHIELD and Hydra, and neither of them pulled this shit. There aren’t any real doctors here?

“There aren’t any real doctors here?” Rumlow demands.

Not-allowed-to-work-as-a-doctor Cho’s looking off into space, clearly distracted. “Or… I suppose we could leave the nanobots in there, have Tony reprogram them remotely to dissolve the rebar and hold the bone together in the process?” Rumlow waits for a full minute for her to propose a not-totally-batshit alternative. Nothing.

“82%?” he confirms.

Cho smiles. “82%.”

Fucking fuck.

“Alright, fine, pull it out.”

Carefully, she pulls it out. There’s a half-second, and then blood starts spurting out like a goddamn geyser. She frowns. “Agent Rumlow, you’re going to need emergency surgery. You’re bleeding out.”

Rumlow watches, freaking out, as her blue scrub-dress thing gets sprayed with his blood. The sprays start getting more frequent as his heart rate speeds up.

“You said 82%!” 

“And those were, in fact, the chances. 18% is a significant risk.” She hastily ties the tourniquet back around his upper thigh. His toes already are starting to feel cold. Hang on, is—

“Prep-ping OR num-ber 1,” D.O.O.G.I.E. says, and—

Rumlow wakes up.

For a minute, he stares at the smooth white ceiling without understanding where the hell he is, before it all comes rushing back.

He’s not in the hospital anymore. Not even on the same floor, judging by the window. It looks like it’s nighttime out there. The room he’s in is huge, and fancier than anything he’s ever been able to afford. Slowly, he sits up in the bed and braces himself to check his leg. It’s fine. Brand new cast and shockingly pretty painless and nope, still definitely not able to hold his weight. So much for not letting the crazy bitch do surgery on him. 

Rumlow drops back onto his side, panting. He’s in some kinda hospital gown dress thing. There’s also a splint on his right wrist – the Asset must have grabbed him harder than he’d thought – and a bottle of pills on the bedside table with a card of instructions for how often to take them. He squints at the cityscape glowing out the window.

That doesn’t look like Manhattan.

He grits his teeth and pulls himself up again, set on hopping over to get a better look, when a whir-click, whir-click sound from across the room distracts him. A pair of crutches are walking over to him. If they’d been floating, he could maybe have been fine with that by now. Or like, if a floaty robot was carrying them. But no, they’re just walking towards him, one moving forward at a time like a pair of legs.

He vividly remembers Cap in the plane saying “It’s all technology.” This is what he gets for not fucking listening.

Rumlow gets out of the bed – there’s slippers helpfully there for him – and hops along the wall towards the window. The crutches change course to follow him.

“Agent Rumlow,” Jarvis comes on, from the fucking walls. Or from the ceiling? Where is the voice coming from? “Dr. Cho has instructed that you be on crutches for at least the next 6 weeks. The crutches have been informed of this as well,” he adds. It adds? He? Is Jarvis a he or an it? Does it even matter at this point?

“How long have I been out?” he asks.

“Approximately 7 hours,” Jarvis says.

“Where… am I still in Stark Tower?”

“Of course. You are on the 94th floor.”

The crutches catch up to him. Grudgingly, Rumlow shoves them under his arms and lets them walk him the rest of the way to the window. It is, he admits reluctantly, easier than using normal crutches.

“Does the tower teleport or something? Because,” he jabs his thumb at the glass. “That’s Tokyo.”

“There is no teleportation function yet that I’m aware of.” Is that a joke? Does this thing tell fucking jokes? “Would you prefer a different view?”

And then suddenly, he can see the Taj Mahal. He can even feel the afternoon sun. Or maybe that’s just in his head. Rumlow feels around the edge of the window frame until he finds a panel. He touches it, then presses harder, then swipes around. When he swipes left, it changes to a view looking down on Nana Plaza in Bangkok. Not 94 floors up, but low down enough to see ladyboys in the windows.

It takes Rumlow six more swipes to get across the Pacific to a view of what he assumes is Malibu. He keeps going, trying to find the actual outside instead of fucking, whatever Midwest winter snowscape just came up, and accidentally presses both hands to the panel. Immediately, the room goes pitch black. Rumlow fumbles in total darkness until he can paw at the panel again.

Finally, he sees Manhattan, 94 floors below him. Thank Christ. He kinda wants to check that’s actually Manhattan, and not just a screen showing Manhattan. He tries to feel around for a window latch. There’s nothing.

“Hey, um…” he says. “Does this window open?”

“It has that functionality, yes.”

Rumlow waits. Jarvis doesn’t say anything else. “So… could you open it?”

“I’m sorry, Agent Rumlow. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Concerning.

Rumlow’s suddenly aware that he really has to piss. They’ve left a bedpan on the little table beside his bed, but fuck that. He abandons the window and crutch-walks over to one of the doors in his room, which opens not to the bathroom but to a fully stocked walk-in closet. There’s a bunch of shoes, a three-piece suit, a few comfy looking sweats and hoodie sets, gym clothes, a winter coat, and what Rumlow’s pretty sure is a sherwani. Rumlow closes the door. He could just ask where the bathroom is, but he doesn’t really want to talk to HAL 9000 any more than he has to.

When he finally opens the right door, soft classical music starts playing. Everything’s gently glowing and beeping, and it takes him a few minutes to figure out which glowing, beeping, chrome looking thing is the toilet. He crutch-walks over to it, and the crutches, apparently realizing he’s about to take a piss, take a couple steps away from him as he shifts onto his good leg. He keeps losing his balance in the process of taking his dick out, and flailing wildly until one of the crutches comes to rescue him, so he finally gives in and sits down.

So. Status report. He’s at least a little bit imprisoned in Stark Tower, with a broken leg that he’s had some questionable surgery on, no SHIELD phone or Hydra phone, and he’s got to sit to take a piss. While at least three robots watch him. And the Asset’s with Cap and the other Avengers, somewhere else in the giant building. And Rollins is MIA. Hopefully just MIA. Rumlow leans forward and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He had a plan this morning, goddammit. He was this fucking close. 

Rumlow sniffs, and reaches back to flush. Just before he does, another robot voice, this one unsettlingly deep and coming out from the toilet bowl so he can feel the bass rumble in his thighs, goes, “NO URINARY TOXINS DETECTED.”

Rumlow nearly falls off the toilet. He sits there for a second, trying not to have a fucking meltdown about the fact that the thing apparently analyzed his piss. He flushes, gets up, and crutch-walks over to the sink. He looks like shit because, well, for one, the mirror has zoom settings, and he accidentally zooms in until his pores are the size of fingernails, and for two, obviously he looks like shit. Who wouldn’t after two weeks of barely sleeping, and also surgery? It’s been too long since he’s had a chance to shave, too. He rubs his cheeks in the mirror. It’s gotten way past stubble at this point. He starts looking around for a razor.

“Are you all right, Agent Rumlow?” Jarvis asks, but the voice isn’t coming from the bathroom ceiling. It’s coming from outside, through the door. Rumlow peeks his head out.

“You can’t see in there?”

“There is an override in case of an emergency, but normally, no. That would be what Mister Stark calls ‘not cool’.”

Good to know. 

“I’m fine. I’m just looking for a razor.”

“There is an electric shaving device on the wall to your left,” Jarvis tells him. “If you like, I can help you through the device’s functionalities.”

Rumlow can figure out how to use a goddamn razor, thanks. He shuffles back inside and pulls on the glowy chrome box Jarvis indicated. Instead of opening like a normal fucking cabinet, the thing unfolds like wall-mounted origami into the shape of a face.

“Place your face flush with the device for a closer shave,” Jarvis says through the door.

“That whole thing’s a razor?” 

“It is a Stark Industries shaving device,” Jarvis says.

You know what, fuck it. Fuck this whole fucking thing. His cheeks itch. Rumlow sticks his face into the Stark Industries shaving device.  He waits, and, as predicted, it senses there’s a face in there and boots up. The next five minutes of his life are an extremely unsettling experience where there’s a loud whirring sound too close to his head, and he feels what seems like ten electric razors tag-teaming him at once.

The device peels back from him and Rumlow rubs a hand over his cheeks. It is, admittedly, a pretty good shave. Except for a big patch it missed on his chin. And his upper lip. And just under his bottom lip? 

Slowly, he turns to look at himself in the mirror and sees Stark’s goatee.

He blinks at it. Touches his own face again. Blinks some more. Then he examines the stupid shaving device more closely and sees a little panel on the side that reads ‘DEFAULT PRESET’.

Rumlow peeks his head out the door.

“Can I change the settings on this thing?” he asks the ceiling.

“I’m sorry, Agent Rumlow,” Jarvis says pleasantly. “You do not have administrative permissions to adjust the settings.”

Is this the Avengers’ idea of torture? Because it’s weirdly effective.

“And I also didn’t have permissions to open the window?” Rumlow guesses.

“Correct.”

“What other permissions don’t I have?”

“Several. The Tower has many functionalities, and to list your specific permissions and restrictions would take approximately three days, nine hours, eleven minutes, and eighteen seconds. Would you like to begin?”

Ugh. “Do I have permissions to leave this room?”

“Of course.”

Okay, that’s a good sign. Right? Rumlow crutch-walks back into the bedroom and changes into the sweats and hoodie. He pauses. “Which one of these is the door to get out?”

He only needs to ask Jarvis directions like six more times to get to the elevator in the hall. There’s two other rooms on his floor, but he can’t see inside them and doesn’t have permissions to enter, which means the door handles just straight up get sucked into the door when he touches them so there’s nothing to grip. Are these privacy settings or safety settings or Rumlow’s-definitely-Hydra-let’s-kill-him settings or what?

The elevator opens, and Rumlow hobbles inside. Only three of over a hundred buttons light up blue for him – the one he’s on, thirty-six, and sub-twenty-five, which was the medical floor. He tries pressing one of the ones that don’t light up, but nothing happens.

“You do not have—”

“Permissions, yeah, thanks, I figured.”

Rumlow presses thirty-six, and the elevator starts going down. The doors are not transparent this time around, and all he sees is mirrors and white light. From all sides, his own face with Tony Stark’s goatee looks back at him.

The door opens on a random floor, seventy-something, and a rumpled nerd steps inside. As soon as he does, nearly all the other buttons light up green. Rumlow tries to see what happens if he tries to step out on a floor he doesn’t have permissions for, but the crutches don’t go, and what’s more, they grow little grippy things that grip his upper arms. Figures. Once the doors shut, the grippy things release him. What would happen if he wasn’t on crutches? Would something grow out of the fucking floor to grab his feet?

“Oh, hey there,” the nerd says. His eyes are red, like he’s been either crying or getting high. “I’m Bruce. Uh, Bruce – Bruce Banner.”

This must be the physicist.

“I, uh, helped with your – your leg,” he says, gesturing at Rumlow’s cast. “It went well.”

“Thanks,” Rumlow offers. “Brock Rumlow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There’s a lull. Bruce Banner. That name sounds really familiar. It’s just on the tip of Rumlow’s tongue, but he can’t quite place it.

“So… not to be a dick, but are there any actual doctors in this tower?” Rumlow asks.

“Dr. Cho’s a medical doctor,” Banner says. “Well, there are some issues with licensing… but she, uh, you know. Has a degree and everything. But uh, no. Not a lot of people are willing to work here full time, and there’s the issue of vetting people, especially now with the whole Hydra thing…” Banner pauses. He looks uncomfortable. “Well, you’d know about that.”

“Yeah, the whole Hydra thing,” Rumlow echoes. He waits a beat to see if Banner will tell him anything else. God, where does he know that name from? “So should I go to a hospital or something, once I get out of here?” Can he get out of here?

“You’ll need some PT in a few weeks,” Banner says, which doesn’t answer anything. “But your leg should be okay. It was a pretty clean break. The plate went in easy.”

Rumlow can’t figure this guy out. “So what’s Cap told you about me?” he tries.

“Oh, you know. Just what you’d expect, the basics, all that. We haven’t had a lot of time to catch up yet.”

Banner coughs, and adjusts his shirt. It’s this nice purple colour, and he’s got this really distinct…

Holy shit. It hits him like a train. Bruce Banner. Rumlow’s read those briefing reports.

“Um,” he squeaks. There’s really no good way to ask this. “Are you… the Hulk?”

Banner kind of half-grins, half-cringes. “Not at the moment,” he says, and holy fuck. He’s really close to him. In a probably unbreakable metal box. The elevator’s what, eight by eight feet? How big’s the Hulk? Is Rumlow gonna just get squished like a pancake? Oh, my God – what does he weigh? Rumlow frantically tries to find where the load capacity of this elevator is listed.

“You know,” Banner says, “I have some good breathing exercises I’d be happy to teach you.”

“What?” Rumlow wheezes.

Banner shrugs. “I bet this is a stressful time for you,” he says. Rumlow can’t tell if he means because of the whole fall of SHIELD thing or because he’s imprisoned here. “And I have a few other tricks, too, for calming down. I’ve basically tried everything there is. Here, Jarvis? Please give Agent Rumlow permission to access my floor.”

“Authorization granted, floor 71.”

“Just come on up whenever you need to mellow out,” Banner says with a smile. Okay, so he was definitely getting high, then. The elevator dings, and the door opens to floor thirty-six, whatever the fuck that is. Banner steps out. Rumlow’s crutches let him walk out this time.

“Hey,” he calls, “Banner?” Banner turns. “What floor is this?”

“Oh, this is the common area. Kitchen, TV, pool table. Tony would say the third best bar in the tower.” How many bars are in this fucking tower? “Come check it out.”

“Thanks,” Rumlow says, and steps out. This place is huge. About a third of the home theatre section is taken up by what he assumes is the aforementioned third best bar in the tower, which leads into a restaurant-grade kitchen. It’s empty and quiet except for the sound of the toaster dinging. Something smells like burnt poptarts. Rumlow decides not to investigate and heads down the hall into… Jesus. Okay, he’s in another bar. Maybe that alcohol and gasoline he’d smelled on Stark earlier hadn’t been from his workshop. Maybe it was just booze.

This one’s got floor to ceiling shelves, with a little robot in a little bowtie waiting at the counter. Slowly, hoping the thing didn’t notice him, Rumlow shuffles back into the kitchen. There isn’t a drink in the goddamn world that would be worth talking to another robot for. Not today.

The kitchen isn’t empty anymore. Pepper and Wilson are in there – he’s sitting at one of the stools at the counter, a splint on one of his wrists and a bandage on his head, and she’s giving him a rundown on the coffee machine. Or what Rumlow assumes is a coffee machine, anyway. 

“—pre-set the way Tony’s Uncle Arnie used to make it, apparently. And that’s about it,” she finishes. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks for the tour.” Wilson turns around, and Rumlow sees he’s got the Stark goatee look going on, too. “Hey, Rumlow. You’re back on your feet.”

“Foot,” Rumlow manages. He can still smell burning in this kitchen even though the poptarts are gone. Pepper’s pulled out her StarkPad and the more she scrolls down the stronger the smell gets. It’s almost like–

“If you’d excuse me,” she says cheerfully. “Help yourselves to anything on this floor. I have to go make a few phone calls.”

The moment she’s gone, Wilson turns to Rumlow. “This place is sweet,” he says. “Right?”

“Sure.”

“Check it out, it gave me the Stark ‘stache!”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says weakly. “Me too.”

“I’m gonna see if they’ll let me in the lab. They said something about permissions.”

There’s hope. “You too?” 

“It hasn’t really come up yet,” Wilson says, so nope, no hope. “But I think a couple of the elevator buttons didn’t light up for me. Guess we’ll see.” 

Rumlow’s stomach growls. “Where’s everyone else?” he asks. Might as well try and get some intel. And some food. He makes a beeline for the fridge as Wilson answers.

“Mostly still in medical. Tony’s running some scans on Bucky and Steve wouldn’t leave them alone. Couldn’t, honestly.” Wilson sighs. “Bucky has a hard time with scans. And I think he’s a little freaked out by Dr. Cho.” 

Yeah, that figures.

Wilson continues, “Natasha’s still getting treated and Clint’s staying with her for now.” He pauses for a beat. “Look, everything’s gonna be fine, man.” That’s his shrink voice. Rumlow is willing to bet that that means things are not gonna be fine. “But maybe stay out of Clint’s way for the next… while. Cool?”

“What’s up with Barton?”

“Short version? Dude’s pretty sure you used to be Hydra.” Rumlow’s heart… would have stopped, if this had been a week ago. Now, though, he just grunts. Wilson’s got his hands up, calming everything down like a pro. “I can’t imagine how frustrating that’s gotta be, but everyone’s a bit tense after the attack. And Natasha really isn’t doing great.”

Good.

“It’s all gonna get cleared up once the investigation’s done, anyway,” Wilson continues. This time Rumlow’s heart definitely does skip a beat.

“What investigation?”

“Well, you know. They’re looking into it.”

“Into whether I… used to be Hydra?”

“Yeah.”

There’s an awkward silence. “Which I didn’t,” Rumlow clarifies.

“You seem like a decent guy,” Wilson offers. That’s shockingly not comforting. 

“So… if they suspect I’m Hydra,” Rumlow says slowly, “why am I… you know, not locked up somewhere?”

Wilson shrugs. “Where?”

“I don’t know, a prison?”

“Man, Tony Stark lives here. This is like, living quarters, not a full Avengers Facility. I don’t think there’s anything like that in the tower. I think they’re figuring all this out on the fly.”

Oh. So he’s not in a prison because there is no prison. 

“Also, they’re not 100% convinced you’re Hydra. Well, Clint is, and I think Cap’s st—”

“Wilson—”

“Man, I’ve only known you a few days and it’s been a stressful few days.” Wilson shrugs. “I think Clint’s a bit paranoid, but you can’t blame the guy. Half his coworkers were—”

“Half of our coworkers.”

“Right. Exactly. Look, just hang tight until they finish the investigation and everyone calms down.” Wilson flashes him a smile. “Don’t rock the boat. Trust me. I know boats.”

What the fuck does that mean? “Like… literally, or—”

“Hey, you wanna check out the rest of the floor?”

Rumlow shakes his head. “There’s another bar with a robot bartender.”

“Sweet. It’s probably got Tony’s drink order preset. I’m gonna go check it out.” Wilson gets up and leaves. 

Investigation. Fucking fantastic. Not exactly unexpected, but not super pleasant either. Okay, so Rumlow’s on a ticking clock. Or, well, he has been this whole time, but… now it’s ticking faster. He’s gotta figure out how to get the fuck out of this tower.

But not right this moment. Right this moment, food.

The fridge is packed, but Rumlow’s too hungry and has too many broken bones for anything fancier than a couple of grilled cheeses, so he takes out butter and a block of cheese and takes them to the thing of bread on the counter. He doesn’t recognize any of the brands. It’s probably ninety bucks an ounce cheese from some near-extinct breed of cow or something. 

Rumlow opens the cupboard by the stove, and finds a frying pan. He goes to pick it up. It doesn’t budge. 

The fuck? He tries with his not-splinted hand. Nothing. Okay, he’s not at his best right now, but he’s not that weak. He can definitely pick up a frying pan. He tries a few more times, and no dice. There’s a much smaller one underneath it, and he tries that one instead. When he touches the handle, it glows blue for a second, and then the thing comes off its stand with a quiet click. 

Unbelievable. The fucking frying pans are biometrically locked?

Okay, fine. He’ll have one grilled cheese. 

He puts the tiny fucking frying pan on the stove and turns the burner dial to 2. Nothing happens. He frowns, waits a bit, hovers his hand over the burner. Turns it up to max. It doesn’t go. He tries all eight burners – it’s a huge stove – and nothing happens. Does he… not have permissions to use the stove?

Fine! He’ll just make some regular fucking sandwiches! Are you happy, Avengers? No dangerous pans involved for him to swing at people, or hot stoves to use to burn them, or whatever the fuck these stupid safety protocols are supposedly keeping him from doing. He finds ham, a tomato, and mayo, and puts the tomato on a cutting board before reaching over to the butcher block—

Rumlow just knows before he even touches the fucking knife that it’s not gonna come out for him. He just knows.

Even the butter knives won’t budge for him, so he’s gotta spread mayo around with a spoon and slice the fancy cheese with the other side of the spoon. His sandwich tastes like bullshit.

While he’s eating his bullshit sandwich, Banner comes back into the kitchen. He walks over to the coffee machine, clicks like 10 buttons, and leans on the counter beside Rumlow while he waits. His eyes seem less red. The guy takes a ziploc bag out from inside his jacket, and pulls what looks like one of those two-bite brownies out. He pops it in his mouth and puts the ziploc bag away.

“Hey, um,” Rumlow says to Banner, quietly, so as not to fucking startle the guy into Hulking out, “Wilson just told me I’m being… investigated?”

“Mmm,” Banner agreeds, chewing. “Yeah.”

“No one’s asked me any questions?”

“Oh,” Banner nods. “Yeah, it’s – Jarvis is going through files. Analyzing data, sorting through it all. A lot of it’s encrypted, and a bunch of it is digitized paper documents and there’s a ton of it, so it’s taking a while.”

“Jarvis is going through Romanoff’s data dump?” That’s not so bad. A bunch of Hydra shit isn’t even on there, and anything to do with the Winter Soldier seems to not have made it into the news, so maybe Rumlow’s okay?

“The data dump and the data from every person and organization mentioned in the data dump.” Rumlow’s stomach drops. “And people they worked with,” Banner adds. Rumlow’s stomach drops more. “And, you know, any leads Jarvis finds from their stuff. So it’s a massive project, Jarvis has got to hack into all sorts of personal computers and encrypted servers and it’s a mess. Alexander Pierce’s stuff alone is under like three dozen layers of security. But by the end of it, if there’s any mention of you being Hydra at all, anywhere, we’ll have it.”

“Oh,” Rumlow manages. Banner gives him a smile.

“Don’t worry, they put me through the ringer, too, before they brought me onto the Avengers. For what it’s worth, I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks,” Rumlow forces out.

Rumlow is not feeling sharing more confined spaces with the Hulk, so he heads back to the living room. There’s an enormous leather sectional probably a mile long. He props his robo crutches down beside it and sits down. At first, it feels like someone had just been sitting there, but then he feels around the other seats and the back of the couch, and, no, the thing is fucking heated. Who heats a couch? He reaches around the side, and luckily, Rumlow’s got permissions to prop the feet up on the recliner while he eats. 

“—at the same time, or did they put the ones in your spine in before the arm or what?” He can hear Stark before the elevator doors – clear this time – open, and Cap, Stark and the Asset file out. Cap and Stark are too focused on whatever they’re talking about to notice Rumlow, but the Asset sees him. They lock eyes for half a second. Which is apparently too long for Stark to wait for a reply. “Robocop?”

“I don’t remember,” the Asset says. Beside him, Cap looks grim.

Stark’s staring at another one of those holograms, like the one for Rumlow’s leg, but it seems to be the Asset’s whole body, coming out of some glove-like device on Stark’s hand. The left arm and shoulder are glowing red, and there are a bunch more red glowy bits scattered all throughout.

“It looks like there used to be something behind your left eye, too, but they took it out,” Stark presses. “What’d that do?”

The Asset shrugs. “Your guess is as good as mine, pal.”

“Jarvis, scan Romanoff’s data dump for experimental vision enhancements in the… let’s say 70s? That sound right? It looks like some of dear ol’ Dad’s prototypes from around then. Let’s go 70s to 80s.”

“I think there were some upgrades made to the arm in the 80s,” the Asset offers. Stark groans.

“Cap, you have to let me get a look at that thing. Pretty please, with a new suit upgrade on top?” 

Cap’s barely listening. He’s staring at Stark’s Asset-hologram like he can’t tear his eyes away. “These must have taken… what, dozens of surgeries?”

“Probably,” Stark says.

“When we find the names of these doctors…” Cap says darkly, and the hairs on Rumlow’s arms all stick up. He can finish that sentence himself, and it ends with a death frisbee slicing through Hydra necks like the butter knives Rumlow’s not allowed to use.

Cap turns away from the hologram. “Buck, are you sure you don’t want to get any of these old pieces of tech removed?” he asks the Asset, who immediately goes sheet-white. “Aren’t they hurting you?”

“I’ll comply with surgery,” the Asset says shakily. “If required,” he adds. Which is as close to an explicit no as Rumlow’s ever heard. 

Cap takes a deep breath. “Of course it’s not required,” he says. “I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to. There’s not gonna be any surgery.” The Asset lets out a sigh of relief.

“That’s gonna make dealing with the layer-cake of scar tissue in his brain trickier,” Stark warns. “I’ll ask Cho about it. She’ll know more.” Stark looks up at Cap. “You sure you won’t let us take him to the OR? Even just to fix up his brain? It’ll make the un-brainwashing a hell of a lot faster.”

Cap looks at the Asset, who goes even whiter this time.

“It’s not my call,” Cap says firmly.

“Uh, it seems like it is your call? Right?” he asks the Asset. The Asset nods. “See? It’d be to help him,” Stark says.

“You’re right, but—”

“If he gets too freaked out before we start, we can figure out sedatives or paralytics or restraints or whatever we need to—”

Cap looks horrified. “How would that make us any different than Hydra and what they did to him?”

Stark makes a face. “The obvious ways? Is that an actual question?”

Cap and Stark look at each other like they each think the other one’s crazy. Cap blinks first.

“We’ll do the targeted treatments you were talking about. Once Bucky’s well enough to decide for himself, we can talk about surgery,” Cap decides. Stark grimaces and zooms in on some charts and graphs near the Asset-hologram’s head.

“We’ll know more once we skype the shrinks and the brain docs,” he says, “but conservative estimate here, we’re months away from your boy being able to choose his own pizza toppings.” 

Cap’s face falls. He absorbs the blow with the same exact expression Rumlow’s seen him make when taking actual, literal bullets to the gut. He’s quiet for a full five seconds.

“If that’s what it takes,” he says with full Cap Stoicness.

“Okay,” Stark sighs dramatically. “Fine. But until then, you’re really not gonna let me get a peek under the hood?” Cap watches Stark rap his knuckles on the Asset’s metal bicep. 

“I think we should only do what’s medically necessary,” Cap says diplomatically. “While Bucky can’t…”

“You know I’ve never been good at waiting for Christmas presents, right?”

“Tony—”

“Come on, I’m not gonna hurt him. It’ll be fun! If we’re killing time anyway because brain surgery’s no bueno, we—”

“It’s not gonna be fun. It’s—” Cap clenches and unclenches his fist. Rumlow’s never seen someone this good at getting under Cap’s skin. Cap wrestles himself back into politeness. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for Bucky, I just don’t think…”

“It is gonna be fun. You know all work and no play makes Tony a dull boy.”

“Bucky’s not one of your toys,” Cap snaps, and wow, zero to bitchy in two seconds flat.

“Obviously, he’s yours, no questi—”

“That’s not what I meant! He’s not my property, either—”

“He says he is,” Stark shoots back. “Are we just totally discounting the guy’s opinion, now?”

“He doesn’t have an opinion!” Cap snaps. Then he freezes, mouth still hanging open. He turns to the Asset. “Bucky, I’m sorry.” He puts a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not what I… I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s all good, Steve,” the Asset assures him. He puts a hand over Cap’s hand. “I don’t have opinions.”

Stark jabs a thumb in the Asset’s direction. “See?” And he goes right back to molesting the arm.

Rumlow’s treated to the sight of Cap doing actual breathing exercises. “Tony, I’m not trying to be a wet blanket,” he says. “I know there’s a lot of… academically interesting stuff in what Hydra did, but… I really need you here. We need your help. 

Stark looks kind of offended. “And you’ve got it. You’ve got me. This is me, helping.” He takes another dramatic sigh. “Look, I’m sorry I’m not as focused as my Dad was during World War Two but—”

“What?” Cap cuts in, looking taken aback. “Hold it. I never said—”

“But you were thinking it. You’re always thinking it, I can tell. ‘Oh, golly gee,’” Stark puts on a terrible aw-shucks voice. “I sure wish my pal Howard was here to—”

“If Howard were here—”

“However you were gonna finish that,” Stark is suddenly dead serious. “Don’t.”

This is getting kind of awkward to watch. Turns out Cap gets under Stark’s skin almost as well as the other way around. The two of them need couples counseling or something. How the fuck do they co-lead a team together? 

The Asset looks back at Rumlow. “Brock?” he says. Thank fuck, he still doesn’t remember, even after the shitshow at the base. “How’s your leg?”

“Hey, Agent Grouchy,” Stark glances over and notices Rumlow’s face. “Ooh, Agent Snazzy now. Love the new look.” Fucking narcissist. Rumlow rubs at the Stark-tee like that will make the hairs fall out. 

“Thanks,” Rumlow forces out. Then, “Leg’s fine,” he mutters. “Arm’s fine, too,” he adds, when he notices the Asset looking at it. 

“Probably shouldn’t be on your feet, though,” comes Barton’s voice from the air vents, and Rumlow jumps. He continues, “Or handling weapons, what with that broken wrist. Take it easy, rest your arm. Really, you shouldn’t even be opening doors.”

This guy isn’t as fucking subtle as he thinks he is.

“Hey, Tweety!” Stark shouts. “One, I already asked you not to be creepy in the air vents, this isn’t that kind of hotel. Two, pretty sure Big Green told you to stay in bed.”

“A week of bed rest,” Bruce clarifies, coming in from the kitchen. Rumlow tries really hard not to look at him, because if he even thinks he sees green he is probably gonna piss his pants. Can this guy stop entering rooms that Rumlow’s also in? How do the rest of them just hang out with him like it’s fine? At least the living room is spacious. “Come down.”

A ceiling panel slides open and Barton rappels down to the floor. He lands with a thud and immediately doubles over, holding his side. “Ow.”

“Serves you right,” Stark says. “Next time, I’m replacing your room with a bird cage.”

“Hilarious,” Barton grunts. He limps over to the couch and sits down right beside Rumlow. Which seems unnecessary. Rumlow fills his mouth with another bite of cold, tomato-less sandwich before he can say anything to incriminate himself any further in Barton’s eyes.

“How’s Natasha?” Cap asks.

“Processing all the SHIELD-was-Hydra news,” Barton says, staring right at Rumlow. “Again.”

It’s painfully obvious he’s waiting for Rumlow to say something. “That’s rough,” he offers.

Barton doesn’t break eye-contact. “Yeah. Rough. The one thing that’s better the second time around, though? I can just ask Jarvis to read out the list of convictions and black-site renditions. Then I can tell Nat exactly who was stabbing us in the back and how and when they got what was coming to them. Beats the hell out of sitting around not knowing for sure.”

“I’ll bet.” Rumlow deserves a fucking Oscar. 

Also, what was that about black-sites? 

Shit. He figured the government wouldn’t be happy about Hydra but… that might actually be worse than he thought.

It’s not until Cap speaks up that Rumlow realizes how quiet the room got. “Clint,” Cap says. “Steady.” His eyes dart to Rumlow. “We’ll know soon.”

There’s a long period of silence and people shooting meaningful looks at each other Rumlow can’t decipher.

It’s tense.

Suddenly, Rumlow smells ozone. All the lights flicker, there’s a gust of wind inside the kitchen, and then there’s a blinding flash of rainbow light on the balcony and Stark’s shouting, “I said twenty feet, Thor!” 

When Rumlow opens his eyes again, two of the windows are just gone. There’s no broken glass on the floor, just a glowing rune thing on the patio and a gigantic dude in sweatpants and only sweatpants, eating a poptart.

That is a fucking Viking. He’s got an 8-pack and biceps the size of Rumlow’s head. A beard. Blonde hair in a bunch of gay little braids, with tiny bits of lightning still sparking in them. 

Right. Thor.

“Forgive me, Stark!” Thor – nope,  Rumlow is not even thinking ‘thunders’ – booms. “I misjudged my landing.”

“I’m tired of replacing the windows!” Stark bitches.

“Ah.” Thor nods gravely. “Allow me to remedy my fault.” He pulls two little shimmery squares out of thin fucking air and shiruken-throws them into the empty window frames. They stop in mid-air, hover there for a second, then start spinning. Thin silvery vines grow out of the corners and wrap around the frame, and Rumlow is pretty sure he hears a woman singing. She hits a stupid high note and glass fucking manifests, appearing in the spaces between the vines. The singing stops.

Stark whistles. He points his glove thing at the window, and a screen comes up with a bunch of letters scrolling, but that isn’t any language Rumlow’s ever seen. 

“Huh,” Stark says. “Neat. You got a dictionary? Tourist phrase book?”

“I shall seek one when I return to my travels,” Thor says, then greets his Avenger friends with big giant Viking hugs. It’s wild watching him touch Cap in the same careful way Cap usually touches regular human people. How strong is this guy?

Finally, he notices Rumlow. “Ah, hello,” he says, and offers Rumlow a hand to shake. Rumlow’s genuinely kind of scared to put his broken hand in that space-Viking grip. He does it. Thor shakes his hand the way you would a baby’s. “I am Thor, Son of Odin,” he says, lets go, and bows deeply.

“Hi, I’m—” 

“Prince of Asgard,” he keeps going. “God of Thunder. Wielder of the hammer Mjølnir. Giantslayer and Jotun’s Bane—” he falters a bit, smile dimming, “Last One Standing at the Nine Realms Millenium Drinking Games. Protector of Midgard. Lover to Dr. Jane Foster.  And Avenger.”

Rumlow waits a minute to make sure he’s finished. “Brock,” he says. “Rumlow,” he adds, and then, scrambling, “I, uh, worked for STRIKE. In SHIELD.” Should he bow too? He’s sitting down. Should he get up and bow?

“Well met. A new shield-brother is ever welcome.” Is that a pun? Thor gives Rumlow a sidelong little smile, which makes him think it’s a pun. He’s not sure he can cope with Thor doing wordplay at him.

Fuck, he should have said Commander Rumlow..

Thor turns to the Asset. “And it seems we have many new shield-brothers in our midst today?”

“Bucky, this is Thor,” Cap says. “He’s…” Cap pauses, and Rumlow can see him mentally decide to explain later. “Another Avenger,” he settles on, then turns to Thor. “Thor, Bucky.” This one is somehow even harder to explain. Cap takes a bracing breath.

Stark jumps in. “Childhood best friend turned brainwashed flash-frozen Soviet-Nazi cyborg world’s-greatest-assassin, recently semi-broken out of the brainwashing by the power of love. Brain’s still a little deep fried. Not doing so great on the whole ‘I’m my own person’ thing. Think of him less as a gun-for-hire and more as just… Cap’s gun.” 

Thor takes a moment to puzzle that out. Then he nods, like he’s got it. “Ah. Then he is your thrall?”

“No!” Cap sounds aghast. At the same time Stark’s muttering, “You said it, not me.”

“Bucky’s not my–” Cap takes a minute to compose himself. “No, Thor. Jesus.”

Ra, Zeus, Yahweh, Quetzalcoatl. Rumlow’s gonna have a stroke listening to this.

“The custom is quite common on Asgard,” Thor assures him.

“Earth doesn’t – it is?” Cap looks horrified for a second, then shakes it off. “Well, Earth doesn’t–” he falters. “Shouldn’t–” He looks like he’s about to say a lot, then picks his battles. “Bucky’s my best friend,” he settles on.

“Good Captain, do not misunderstand me,” Thor says. “It is clear he is very dear to you and there is no shame in this, particularly for one so plainly skilled in battle.” He gestures to the red star on the Asset’s arm. “He bears your mark well.”

Cap goes a few shades redder and tries again.

Rumlow tunes out Cap trying to explain the Asset to Thor and how He Didn’t Used To Be Like This, Really, and Hydra Should All Burn For What They’ve Done.

Banner settles onto the couch beside Rumlow, which might be worse than having Barton at his other side. It’s uncomfortably close to the Hulk, but Rumlow’s not sure how much of a difference it makes versus being in the same room to start with. He can smell himself starting to sweat. Is it better to be closer to the Hulk or Thor?

He’s so fucking out of his depth. 

“Thor lives here, too?” Rumlow asks, because if he does, he’s amazed that never came up in any of the Avengers briefings he got from Pierce.

“Not technically, but he’s around a lot. Especially these days,” Banner adds. “The guy lost his mom and his brother last year, and he’s been taking it hard.”

“Both of them?” Rumlow forces himself to focus back on the conversation instead of how he’s close enough to the Hulk that their knees are touching. “At the same time?”

Banner nods. “Just about, yeah. They were close. He’s been living out of his ship since they passed, grief-traveling on and off.”

Rumlow double-takes. “His ship?” He stares at Thor, who’s obviously trying to be polite about the whole thrall thing but isn’t quite sure what he’s said wrong. Banner probably doesn’t mean a boat. “Like, he’s been traveling around… space?”

“Yeah,” Banner says, like it’s not a big deal. Like nothing’s a big deal, really. Maybe Rumlow should take Banner up on his offer to come by his floor and ‘mellow out’. “I mean, sometimes he uses the ship, sometimes he just goes by Bifrost.” Rumlow has no idea what the fuck that is. “I think it’s good for him, you know? He goes to a bunch of different planets, gets into adventures, sees new places, relaxes.” Banner’s talking about it like the guy’s been backpacking through Europe. “He stops by here every few months for some company. Sometimes he brings—”

“Souvenirs!” Thor calls out cheerfully, and starts pulling giant multi-coloured bags out from… the air? Fucking pocket dimensions? And starts handing them out to everyone. Cap reaches into his bag, and pulls out a shirt. There’s way more than two sleeves on that thing. 

“I thought you all might enjoy these volcano-season garments from Muspelheim. Light as Yher’mer-emekesian silks, but woven with strength enough to shelter the wearer even against the harshest blaze-storms and ice tempests. More than enough, I wager, for the extremes of Midgardian weather. There’s an extra one in there,” Thor points out to Cap, “for your Winter Soldier.” 

“I… thanks, Thor,” Cap says. “That’s good of you.” He fishes it out and hands it to the Asset. It’s neon blue.

“Though I may lack the gift of prophecy and foresight my mother possesses – possessed,” he amends, and pauses for a second too long before shaking it off. “Though I lack the gift, the Nørns did whisper to me that I should return with presents for the new shield-brothers I was fated here to meet. A wing’d warrior they said, and a one-armed th… friend.” Thor glances at Rumlow. “The Nørns did not say anything about him, though.”

Fantastic. He’s a psychic space-Viking. And now all the Avengers are looking at Rumlow.

“Investigation’s ongoing,” Barton says. Thor’s eyebrows go up at that.

“On that note,” Cap says. “Do you all mind if Rumlow and I have a moment alone together?”

Rumlow’s heart rate doubles instantly, and this time Cap, the Asset, and Thor all look up at him. Maybe he should take Banner up on those breathing exercises.

“Don’t mind at all,” Barton says, and grunts getting to his feet. He throws Rumlow a pointed look before he walks out of the room. The rest of the Avengers file out, chatting amongst themselves. 

“Go with everyone, Buck,” Cap says. “I’ll be there in a bit.” The Asset has a moment of hesitation, eyes lingering on Rumlow for a second, then goes, and Rumlow’s alone with Cap. He’s standing, looming over Rumlow on the couch. It’s an unpleasant echo of yesterday, when the Asset loomed over him in the equipment room. This seems like less of a chance of being killed, though. Probably. Maybe.

“How’s your leg?” Cap asks, and it honestly throws Rumlow for a loop. He was bracing himself for the guy to go in guns blazing. He doesn’t point out that the Asset already asked him that.

“Uh. Fine. Well – there’s a plate in there or something. But should be fine.” 

“Good.” 

There is nothing Rumlow can say to make this silence less awkward. Finally, Cap pulls up a chair. For a horrible moment, Rumlow’s sure he’ll sit on it backwards like in one of those Don’t Do Drugs, Kids PSAs they had him film soon after the ice. He doesn’t.

“Jarvis,” Cap says to the ceiling. “What’s the progress on the investigation?”

“Review of the Romanoff Data Dump and associated databases and personal files at 37%. No definitive proof towards Agent Rumlow’s affiliations has been uncovered as of yet. Current probability that Agent Rumlow is involved with Hydra: 68%.” Sixty-eight? That’s not bad! That’s not that high.

“Sixty-eight percent?” Cap repeats, sounding all cold and disappointed, and suddenly that number seems way too fucking high. “How long until you’re done the review?”

“Estimated time to completion: 48 hours.”

Oh fuck.

“I don’t know about you,” Cap turns back to look at Rumlow. “But I don’t like the idea of sitting here biting my nails for forty-eight hours, trying to figure out which way it’s gonna go.” 

“Cap—”

“Rumlow, listen,” Cap says. “I’m not gonna make any promises I can’t keep. If you are Hydra, and it looks like…” He looks hurt. Rumlow can see him make an effort to unclench his fists and lay his hands flat on his knees. “If you’re Hydra, you know where I stand. But.”

Okay. Okay, a ‘but’ is a good start. Cap might be frothing at the mouth for Hydra, but he’s still got an honor code. It’s not like Cap was set to decapitate Laurens before she tried to kill him. And even Cabrera’s guys got a split-second chance to surrender.

“To be honest, I’m tired of being betrayed by people I thought I could trust,” Cap says. He sounds it, too. “Sam still thinks we should give you a chance and wait but… I don’t want to wait forty-eight hours. I just want this over and done with. And I’d really rather hear it from you. So if there’s anything you’ve got to tell me, now’s the time.”

Cap lets the offer hang there. Rumlow’s instinct is fuck that, but then… he thinks about it. He honest-to-God thinks about it.

Cap’s still talking. “I’m really holding out hope it’s not true. Clint thinks I’m crazy, but… if you tell me you are Hydra, but you’re willing to take accountability and face the consequences, I can…” Cap looks like he’s swallowing a lemon, “respect that, at least. It would count for good character with a jury, I’d make sure of that.”

A jury sounds nice. Cap’s staring at him with big earnest baby blues.

…how bad would it actually be?

Look, it’s not like he’s got a lot of cards left to play. Cap’s giving Rumlow the closest thing to a deal he’s gonna get, and he’s injured, outnumbered, and shit out of luck. What the fuck else is he gonna do? It’s a risk, but so’s anything he does at this point.

They’re gonna find out anyways. Imminently. Within forty-eight fucking hours. Maybe he could potentially swing this in a way that gets him something, at least. Sorry, Cap, my bad, you caught me. I was one of those Hydra no-goodniks but now I’m trying to go straight. I’ve seen the error of my ways. I was just following… that one might be pushing it.

Cap squares his shoulders. “If that’s what you tell me and, you know, you didn’t have anything to do with what they did to Bucky, we can… talk about it, man to man.”

Aaaaand nevermind. Rumlow’s pretty confident that anyone who had anything to do with Bucky won’t get an endorsement to a jury. Or a chance to surrender. Which is a shame, because that did look like his best option for a second there. But unfortunately, he’s got ten-plus years of being the guy in Hydra who had the most to do with ‘Bucky’. It’s all gonna go to shit once the supercomputer finds whatever it’s gonna find. As soon as Cap sees any of the handler stuff, it’s over for Rumlow, confession or no. That much is clear. 

But while he’s still in the grey, Rumlow at least has some freedoms. What’s the point of giving that up now? He can at least try to use those forty-eight hours of small amounts of flexibility to figure out how to escape this fucking place and go into fucking hiding. Maybe somehow get in touch with Rollins, or at least someone else. Whether he comes clean about being Hydra or Jarvis finds out isn’t gonna matter once Cap sees exactly what he’s done. Might as well stay in the grey as long as he can.

Cap’s still waiting for an answer. Rumlow takes a deep breath.

“What Jarvis is gonna find,” he says seriously, “is my exemplary service record with SHIELD. Just SHIELD.” He lets that sink in. “Steve,” he says, in what may be the first time he’s ever used Cap’s name, “I get it – you can count on two hands how many people you have left to trust. Guess the only thing I can do is wait here until you count me in.”

Cap takes a deep breath. “I hope that I can.” He sounds so unbearably sincere that Rumlow almost cracks. “I really hope so.”

Rumlow’s gotta get out of this tower. Before his time runs out. 

Chapter Text

Cap leaves Rumlow alone, and it’s a relief not to have his grim, let-down face in front of him anymore. Rumlow’s been getting lectures from that face in cartoon form since he was six, and it’s not a great feeling to know you’ve Disappointed Captain America. Once Cap finds out everything, he’s probably gonna make Rumlow feel real shitty about it for about four seconds before he fucking murders him.

Okay. How the fuck is he gonna get out of this tower?

There’s that weird burning smell again, and Rumlow looks up in case Stark has blown up this floor too, but all he sees is Pepper walking down the hall. He shakes his head. He’s really starting to lose it. Rumlow had an epileptic cousin growing up who always smelled burning right before he’d drop to the ground shaking and pissing himself. Maybe all this stress is activating whatever seizure gene he’s got buried in there somewhere. Pepper walks past him into the kitchen to join everyone. 

Rumlow’s started on his second sandwich, thinking about how he’s gonna try to escape,  when Thor walks back in and sits on the other arm of the sectional. He’s eating an entire Costco rotisserie chicken.

“I’m told you are to be kept here,” he says, and chomps off half a drumstick. “At least until such time as the Captain might ascertain your true loyalties. Tell me,” the rest of the drumstick disappears. “Are you still permitted in the games room? There is a device there that Stark calls a fool’s ball table.”

Rumlow takes a minute to process that. “You want to play foosball?” he checks. Just to make sure he heard that right. Thor beams.

“Then you shall join me!”

Jesus, Rumlow’s pretty sure the windows rattled. “Back up just a second here. You want to play foosball with me, when all the rest of the Avengers are 90% convinced I’m Hydra?”

“77%,” JARVIS cuts in. “To be precise.”

Motherfucker.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

Thor shrugs. “Stark’s automatons deliberate. If my shield-brothers tell me you are their enemy, then you are my enemy. Until then, foosball?”

Wow, that’s compartmentalization even Rumlow’s impressed with.

“Thanks, Jarvis!” Rumlow hears from down the hall, and the sound of approaching – kinda uneven – footsteps. “Love you, man.”

“You are welcome, Mr. Wilson.”

Wilson almost passes by them, then stops when he notices Thor and takes a hard left into the living area. He’s carrying a girly looking cocktail with a bunch of fruits on sticks in it, that must pack a punch because he’s a little unsteady on his feet.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m Sam.”

Thor grins at him and whips out another brightly coloured pocket dimension bag.

“I am Thor,” he says, and does the whole spiel again. Wilson takes it much better than Rumlow did. “Forgive me, I was told you would be wing’d,” he says, handing him the bag. Wilson takes it and sets his drink down.

“Thanks, man. I’m winged. Just, you know, they come off.”

“Ah,” Thor says. “Intelligent design.”

“I’ll pass the flattery on to Tony. They’re TechStark.” Wilson pauses. “StarkTech,” he corrects himself, and glances suspiciously at his girly cocktail. 

“Preemptive thanks don’t mention it,” Stark says, coming through with a martini glass in each hand. This is kind of a lot of drinking for barely after noon on a – actually, what day is it? “Who’s flattering me?”

“I was just telling Thor how you designed my wings. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Stark looks up and pauses. He thinks for a second. “EXO-7?”

“Yeah!”

“You’re still using those?”

Wilson blinks. “What do you mean?”

“EXO-7. They’re basically an antique, design-wise anyway.”

“These were military-issued four years ago. Max.”

“Yeah, but the specs are forty years old.”

Wilson pauses. “No, that can’t be right,” he says. He struggles to do some tipsy mental math. “Forty years ago, you’d be like ten.”

“Fine, thirty-five then. Definitely had a prototype before ‘78.” Stark walks over to the end of the room, sets one of his glasses down, pokes some blank patch of wall, and pulls a wire out. He tugs it under the hem of his shirt and plugs it into the arc reactor, not explaining at any point what the fuck he’s doing. “I remember,” he continues, “‘cause my Uncle Arnie was still alive. He helped me recalculate takeoff mechanics. The new prototype worked way better.” He clicks his tongue. “But not enough for Dad to stop saying they were a waste of time.”

Stark downs one of his martinis. 

“Anyway,” he continues, “threw ’em in a box for give or take twenty-five years, then overslept for a client meeting one day and had to bring something so I grabbed the wings. Turns out the client was the DoD. And, voila.” He makes a flapping gesture with one hand.

Wilson looks like he can’t decide between being impressed, offended, or retrospectively terrified. “So you designed these when you were a preteen?”

“Yep. Well. Technically I didn’t finish them till I was a teen teen.”

“Dude, we flew these in a war zone.”

“Yeah, that’s what I designed them for. Twelve-year-old me says, you’re welcome.”

“But someone reviewed them, right? Like, an adult?”

“My uncle, I just told you. Summer project.” Stark gets a sad look on his face. “Our last one, I think, actually.” He finishes the other martini. “My Aunt Millie helped out, too. She picked the colour scheme. That lady had style.” He brightens up and yanks the cord out of his chest. It zips back into the wall, and Rumlow can’t even tell where the panel was that opened up. “All revved up and ready to go. You know,” he says to Wilson, “I got a few ideas for a new model, if you want a version made by a me that’s a big boy now.”

Wilson blinks. “Wow. Um – wow, that’d be great. Are you sure?”

“Sure, it’s a slow day. And Pep’s got appointments at Burnes Eshe Medical all day, so I’ll be bored. Come swing by the lab and watch? Love a peanut gallery.” Stark glances at Rumlow. “I’d say you can come too but, you know.”

“Permissions?” Rumlow checks.

“Got it in one. Catch you later, Randall.”

“I’ll be here,” Rumlow says weakly. 

He actually does play a few games of foosball with Thor, and loses almost all of them, because obviously he does. Then after a while, Thor makes an excuse, yells “Heimdall!” at the ceiling, and fucks off somewhere in a flash of rainbow light. The weird magic windows he put up manage to stay in place. Most of the other ones don’t.

Well. At least now Rumlow has an open window or ten. That’s as good a place as any to start.

“Jarvis,” Rumlow says, “ETA on the investigation?”

“47 hours,” Jarvis reports.

Rumlow takes a couple steps closer to the blasted-open windows. Thirty-six floors down. That’s not that high. He’s probably rappelled down… twenty-eight floors before? Maybe? European apartments start at floor zero, right?

He doesn’t have any gear, but he’s also in Stark fucking Tower. There has got to be something here that he has permissions to use. Maybe he’ll tie some bedsheets together like a fucking kid in a family sitcom. He’s got two broken limbs, but he can probably work around that. If he has to. Somehow. He doesn’t even mind breaking another one if it gets him out of this fucking tower. He takes another look down, eyes watering in the wind.

This might be kinda desperate.

Maybe first he should try other options? Or at least to look for stairs?

Three hours and forty minutes later, Rumlow’s back standing at that exact same window but this time with an armful of bedsheets. 

Turns out, there are no stairs. Like no stairs. In the whole tower. Apparently, there used to be stairs, but something happened to them in 2012, so Stark just did away with them altogether because he’s fucking crazy. That definitely violates some kind of building code, but Stark probably just pays the fine every year like overhead costs. 

Also, the emergency stop in the elevator doesn’t actually stop. He tried pressing it when the elevator was passing by the ground floor, but each time it just said ‘sending you directly to medical’ and ‘no emergency detected’ and when he tried to argue, it started doing a psych assessment. There’s probably override codes or something, but Rumlow doesn’t fucking know them. There was one other door on the common room floor that didn’t suck the handle in when he touched it, but all he found was Thor just kinda sitting in the dark with a little storm cloud hovering a foot above him, raining down on his head. Rumlow noped out of that one.

His Hydra probability odds keep fluctuating. At one point, they went all the way down to eleven percent, which – what the fuck did they find that made it go down that low? But last he checked, it’s back up to twenty-nine. 

He’s literally tried everything he could think of. He left his Hydra phone behind at the base, and he doesn’t know where the fuck his SHIELD phone is and Jarvis won’t tell him. He saw a couple computers in the common area before, but as soon as he went back and fucking looked at the things, Jarvis really loudly told him that any non-private device in the tower is heavily monitored. Heavily. It didn’t actually say ‘especially when you use it’, but the implication was pretty obvious. So that’s out. And it’s not like he can fight his way out. He lost a fight with the fucking elevator earlier.

Rumlow looks down at the bedsheets again. How long are king-sized sheets, like 8 feet? He’s seriously considering this.

“Do you require assistance?” Jarvis asks. Rumlow doesn’t answer. He just plonks down on the couch and starts tying his sheets together.  

“I… I’m okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

He walks over to the window and leans out of it, looking down. There’s gotta be some midway point he can stop at between here and the ground…

“Would you like to talk about it?” Jarvis says suddenly.

What the fuck? “What?”

“You may find it easier to discuss whatever is distressing you with me, as I am an artificial intelligence and so cannot pass judgment.” 

Bullshit it doesn’t pass judgment. “I’m not… distressed – I’m fine, thanks.” Rumlow looks down. There’s kind of a spot five floors down he could probably re-anchor…

“Positive affirmations are a healthy practice at times like these. Would you like me to suggest a few?”

Rumlow pauses. Hold up. Does it… does it think he’s–

“You have a lot to live for, Agent Rumlow,” Jarvis tells him.

“Yeah, I know that,” he snaps. Just maybe not a lot of time left to live it.

“My psychological profile of you is still incomplete, but Mister Stark tends to find it helpful to be reminded of the people who depend on him. Though,” Jarvis adds, “This protocol has not been utilized in several years. And it is almost exclusively implemented for a higher blood alcohol level than yours.”

“How the fuck do you know what my blood alcohol–”

“Perhaps you could tell me about the people who are important in your life?” Jarvis suggests. “Or perhaps there is something weighing on your mind? A secret you’ve been keeping, maybe?”

Unbelievable. “Are you trying to stop me from offing myself,” Rumlow demands incredulously, “or working on your investigation?”

“The two imperatives are not mutually exclusive.” 

Wow. This fucking guy. “What happens if I don’t step away from the window?” he asks Jarvis.

“Then I am authorized to implement the next stage of preventative measures.”

Fuck it. Rumlow steps back from the window. He doesn’t need to risk whatever stupid suicide protocol happening. It was a doomed plan anyways. He’s not getting out that way. Dejectedly, Rumlow goes back to the kitchen. He tries to make some fancy tea from Stark’s giant billionaire collection, but the kettle turns off for him as soon as the water gets hotter than tepid. Apparently he only has permissions up to like 100 degrees.

He drinks down his gross, warm-bath tea, and last-ditch goes back down to the medical floor, in a Hail Mary attempt to find something there he can use. Like, literally anything. His standards could not be lower right now. Plus, his leg is itchy as fuck, and maybe he can get some cream or something. He may as well not spend his last forty-eight hours of life pointlessly scratching at plaster. 

When the doors slide open, there’s a shitshow happening. Cap is standing with his back to the elevator, leaning heavily against the wall and cradling his head with his free hand. Rumlow can see a little dent in part of his skull where his hair doesn’t stick out as much. “—not mad,” he’s calling out into another room. 

“Just order him to come out,” Stark says, exasperated.

“No,” Cap snarls. He opens his eyes to glare at Stark, then shuts them again, obviously in pain. He swallows like he’s holding back puke.

“Jarvis, dim the lights ten percent,” Stark tells the ceiling. 

“We should have done this tomorrow,” Cap says. “It was too much… medical stuff in one day. Plus all the saws and the,” he waves an arm, gesturing to all the robotics shit sprawled on the floor, “lying around…”

“Well, now we know for sure he’s not gonna blow up,” Stark says cheerfully. “Which I guess doesn’t really make a difference if he stays forever in my utilities closet. You sure you’re fine?”

Cap sighs deeply. He rubs his head. “It’ll heal in thirty minutes.” He opens his eyes again. “Bucky?” he calls. “How can I get you to come out of there?” There’s either no answer, or whatever the Asset says is too quiet for Rumlow to hear. 

“Come on, it’s okay,” Stark tries. “I swear I’m not gonna cut off any more limbs. Or… put any more on. Whichever you’re freaking out about.”

Cap and Stark pause, waiting for an answer.

“Maybe I should try going in again,” Cap says.

“Yeah, cause that worked so great the last time when you could walk in a straight line. I think one brain damaged super soldier’s enough.” Stark looks at Rumlow. “Hey, Rammstein!” For fuck’s sake. He’s got a name. It’s not even that hard to pronounce. “Cap said you were good at handling his murder-borg buddy’s meltdowns. You gonna help?”

“It’s fine, Rumlow,” Cap says sharply. 

“Cap here’s got kind of a skewed definition of fine. Come on, cyborg whisperer, get over here.”

“No,” Cap says. “Stay there.”

“Uhh,” says Rumlow.

“Cap, either we tranq him – which I’m not saying we should do,” Stark adds quickly. “Or someone needs to talk him down and get him away from all this flashback-inducing state of the art medical tech. For his sake. And ours. And my tech’s.” 

There’s a long stretch of silence. Cap clenches his jaw so hard Rumlow’s afraid his teeth might crack. Well, this isn’t how Rumlow had expected his day to go. He didn’t come down here to deal with an Asset incident, but this is literally his job, so. Or, well, it was. Plus, he might get a few more temporary points with Cap. 

“I… could give it a try…?” Rumlow offers, making himself small and non-threatening. Not that he could be any less of a threat right now if he tried.

The way Cap glares at him makes him regret saying anything at all, or frankly breathing loudly enough to be noticed. 

Cap caves, though, and they fill Rumlow in – the Asset saw some piece of equipment, remembered some shit from 1940-whatever, and flipped out. Cap did all the wrong things at the wrong times and got himself concussed, which made the Asset freak out worse, which made Cap bla bla bla. Rumlow kinda tunes half of it out. The details don’t super matter.

Anyways, it takes him a couple minutes to get the Asset to stop having a panic attack and come out of his hiding place. He’s distracted, but not in a spaced out kind of way, more like he’s thinking.

“Sit,” Rumlow tells him, and he drops. Rumlow joins him, because that usually helps. It’s not super easy with the broken leg. Stark and Cap sit on the floor, too, and Cap looks more than a little relieved about it, given the concussion and possible brain bleed he’s not doing a great job of hiding.

“I’m… remembering,” the Asset says. “First it was just bits and pieces, but now it’s – it’s – it’s too much all at once.” He shuts his eyes. “I dunno if this ever happened before. I don’t think I ever went this long without them–” he digs a metal finger into his temple. Cap swallows. The Asset looks up at him. “I’m remembering. That…” his face twitches. “That saw made me remember the… the arm.” He shudders.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Cap says quietly.

“It’s not only that, though,” the Asset says. “It’s everything. The smallest things. Every time I look at you, every time I…” his eyes dart to Rumlow, hold just a second too long, then he looks away. “It’s like everything’s making me remember. Even, I dunno…” he looks over at Stark’s desk and points. “That funny looking paperweight.”

Rumlow looks over. There’s a pile of papers on one of the surgical trolleys, and there’s this red car paperweight – well, weight isn’t really the right word, since the thing is hovering half a foot in the air and shooting down some kind of propulsion beam to keep the papers down. It seems really unnecessary.

“I look at that and I can see lights and there’s girls laughing and… I remember, but I don’t know why – it doesn’t make much sense.” The Asset rubs his head.

But Cap’s eyes have gone all soft, which means he’s probably about to tell another childhood anecdote of him and the Asset that’s gonna make Rumlow uncomfortable.

“Actually, Buck,” he starts, and ugh. “That’s, uh – we saw that car. The real one.” It’s like Cap’s forgotten Rumlow’s there. Like he’s just furniture. He kind of zones out, trying to figure out if it’s weird to just… get up and leave, and by the time he tunes back in Cap’s got his phone out and he’s got google images loaded.

“You dragged me out to the Stark Expo every year we could afford it,” Cap says. The Asset frowns at the photos, then looks up at Cap.

“The car was 1943?” he says. “Then – not Tony Stark.”

“No, uh. Howard. His dad. Here, let me see if there’s any other Expo photos–”

“I know that name,” the Asset interjects. Then he looks uncertain. “Right?”

Stark scoffs. “You better, cause, he never shut up about knowing you either,” he starts, and the Asset blinks at him.

“Yeah,” Cap says, though he looks kinda reluctant. His eyes dart quickly to Stark and back. “Yeah, Buck, you knew him during the war.”

The Asset blinks. “Which war?”

Oh boy.

Now the Asset’s taking Cap’s phone and tapping at it. Rumlow gets vivid flashbacks of the techs in 2008 bitching about the 24-hour shifts they had to take to get the metal hand touchscreen-compatible last minute before the Asset’s next mission.

“You recognize him?” Stark asks.

The Asset frowns, scrolling. “No,” he says. Then he stops, and stares for a while. He turns the phone toward Cap. “Maybe?”

The man in the photo’s got white hair. Howard Stark in his 60s or 70s. Cap swallows.

“No,” Stark says, “you didn’t know him then.” He reaches over and scrolls down. “Here, you’d have known him like this. Look, there’s the two of you together.” The Asset glances at it, then shrugs. Stark scrolls down further, and Cap and the Asset both freeze. “Oh, hey, there’s Dad and Uncle Arnie,” Stark comments.

Cap pauses, then looks up in confused horror. His pupils are still different sizes, which just adds to the baffled what-the-fuck on his face. 

“Where?” Cap says, and there’s an edge to his voice.

Stark points. “There.”

Cap clicks the photo so it enlarges. “This?” Hey, wait a minute, Rumlow knows that face. “That’s. Tony, that’s your Uncle Arnie?”

“Yeah! Look, right under it, there’s one of all of us.”

Rumlow cranes his neck a little to see. There’s a photo of Howard and Maria Stark, with a black-haired toddler in Maria’s arms. There’s another couple next to him, and a bunch of kids – Rumlow doesn’t know the woman or the kids, but he’s 95% sure the man is—

“Tony, your Uncle Arnie was Arnim Zola?” 

Cap takes the phone from the Asset. Rumlow’s kind of glad for the distraction, because Cap and Stark aren’t focusing on him at all. Now that Zola’s face is out of his line of sight, the Asset looks okay again. He’s looking at Rumlow. He’s… kinda staring at Rumlow, actually. And squinting a little like he’s thinking. It’s kind of making Rumlow uncomfortable.

“—and my dad were friends at SHIELD,” Stark’s saying. “Why? Was he famous or something?”

“What about – that’s his wife?”

“Yeah. Aunt Millie.”

Cap clicks on the photo and reads the caption. “Milagros Zola, née Vasquez Garcia?”

“I think they met in Argentina, after the war.”

“Of course they did.” Cap stares harder at the photo. Zola comes up to around the woman’s shoulder. “Is she a model or something?”

“Tango dancer. But I think she modeled a little once in a while.” 

“Of course,” Cap says. “Of course she did.”

These two will find fucking anything to fight over. They snip at each other for a while longer, Zola this and Zola that and “Don’t they teach this stuff in history now?” “How the hell should I know? I never went to any class that wasn’t math, physics, or chem.” The Asset’s still looking at him, and the only thing that breaks his intense staring is the way he kind of flinches at every mention of Zola’s name.

“—what do you mean, ‘the Zola cousins’, how many—”

“Hey guys,” Rumlow interjects, because they did ask him to help with the Asset. He jerks a thumb at the Asset. “Um. Maybe he should get out of the lab now?”

Cap and Stark both turn to look at him. Then Cap looks at the Asset. He shuts his eyes for a second because he turned his head too fast.

“God. Sorry, Buck. Let’s go.”

“Whoa,” Stark says. “No. You’re not standing up. I don’t even think you can stand up.” Just to prove him wrong, Cap stands up. Or, you know. Tries.

“See?” Stark continues. “Most people would be dead, with the kind of hit you just took. We know you didn’t mean it, don’t say any more creepy stuff about punishment,” he says hastily, to the Asset. Then back to Cap. “The two of them can go up to the common area,” he says, waving in Rumlow’s direction.

Cap glares.

“Oh, come on, what’s he gonna do?” Stark says dismissively, which Rumlow would be offended by if it wasn’t totally fair.

Stark eventually convinces Cap to let Rumlow take the Asset up to the common area while Cap stays in the med bay until he isn’t seeing double anymore. Cap insists he’s fine, but then pukes a little on his own shoes, which kinda undermines his argument.

The Asset doesn’t say anything at all. He just follows Rumlow into the elevator and stares at the floor. 

Then, five floors up, he comes out with, “Thanks.” Which, what the fuck is that?

“Don’t mention it,” Rumlow says, and means it in the most literal sense. For a couple seconds, he thinks maybe the Asset’s gonna stay quiet. But then he speaks again, and it’s not any less weird.

“You were on STRIKE, right?” he says, and Rumlow freezes. “Same team as Agent Rollins?” Rumlow knows the Asset can hear his heart pounding. He doesn’t say anything. “I remember… I remember I got issued to STRIKE Alpha a lot. Is that where I know you from?” he presses.

Rumlow hopes the elevator cable snaps. It doesn’t, which means he’s actually got to answer that. Somehow. Knowing anything he tells the Asset is probably going straight to Cap. And is also probably being recorded by Stark’s fucking robot house. 

“It’s been a long day,” he says, going for tired. “Lay off the memory stuff a bit, why don’t you.”

“Did we play cards?” the Asset tries. He looks determined. “Or… was that before?”

“Before,” Rumlow says, with no hesitation. The Asset’s undeterred.

“So where do I know you from?”

“Does it matter?”

The Asset shrugs. “If I tell Steve I know you,” he says, all 1930s Brooklynese, “he’ll wanna know where from.” Rumlow stares at him in disbelief. Credit where credit is due, that’s a good threat. The effect is kind of ruined by his big, scared eyes, but still. Kudos.

This is gonna be a problem.

“Listen, Soldier,” Rumlow snaps, “I don’t know where you think you know me from, okay?”

There’s a pause.

“Probability of Agent Rumlow’s involvement with Hydra: 87%.”

Fuck!

The elevator doors open back on the common area. All the broken windows from before are now glowing with weird Asgardian magic panes. 

“I’ll see you later,” the Asset says, stepping out. “Brock.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says weakly. He’s gotta be careful how he refers to the Asset in this tower. “Bu…” Nope, still can’t do it. “...bye.” Maybe if it wasn’t such a dumb name? 

He’s about to press the button for his own floor and go back up to mope on his king size prison bed, since he’s accomplished literally nothing, but a voice from the TV catches his attention.

“—controversy about extrajudicial, what some are calling ‘black-site’ renditions of convicted Hydra members. No former members of SHIELD leadership could be reached for comment.”

…that doesn’t sound great. Rumlow comes out of the elevator and walks over to get closer.

“—supposed plea agreements, but so far no lawyers have come forward who can corroborate that any legal proceedings have taken place. Human rights groups are expressing concern as to whether or not Hydra members have been–”

“Did they ever send you on black site ops?” Barton’s sprawled out on the couch in the living room, eyes glued to Stark’s plasma screen. He doesn’t turn to look as Rumlow comes in.

“A few,” Rumlow answers.

“Hmm. They sent me on a few more than a few.” Barton turns up the volume. “And even to me, this looks bad.”

Rumlow looks up at the news report playing. There’s some blurry photos of people with black hoods over their heads. One looks like he’s in a STRIKE uniform. Jesus. He wonders if he knows any of them.

“—demanding proof of due process in light of alleged extrajudicial executions. No convicted Hydra members are available for comment. The cases have also garnered international attention and condemnation. The Sokovian President—”

Barton whistles. “If the Sokovians are getting squeamish,” he shakes his head. “Hope all the hailing Hydra was worth it.” He gives him a sideways smile. “Hey, order through pain, right?”

Extrajudicial executions, fuck. They’re just straight up killing anyone Hydra? And black sites, Jesus Christ. What are they doing to them before they kill them? This is what’s waiting for him if Cap decides not to shield-chop his head off then and there? He’s just dead either way?

Rumlow’s started to sweat. He hears a few steps to his right, and the Asset’s also there, frowning at the screen. On the news, they’re now showing drone footage of one of the alleged black sites. The Asset squints at it.

“Is that Camp Phoenix?” he says, and Barton turns back to him, surprised.

“Yeah. You know it?”

The Asset makes a face. “I think I was kept there for a while.” Any place the Asset makes a face at has gotta be hell on Earth. “I wonder if they ever finished building the sewage system,” he comments.

Okay, that’s enough. Rumlow doesn’t need the mental picture of Barton torturing him to death in a pile of his own shit. It’s getting hard to fucking breathe. He’s officially starting to freak out. Quickly, he turns around and heads back to the elevator.

“Hey, Jarvis,” Barton calls as he leaves. Rumlow speeds up as much as he can. The crutches do their best to help him. “How’s the investigation going?”

“Current probability 87.5%. 42.2 hours remaining.”

The elevator dings as it arrives and Rumlow basically throws himself into it. He punches the close door button. And then a few more times for good measure. Fuck. Forty-two hours. There’s no way to escape. He’s not getting out of here. He’s gonna fucking die. 

The doors slide shut, and all Rumlow hears is himself hyperventilating. His heart’s hammering against his chest. Once he can’t hear the newscaster anymore, the pressure in his chest finally eases up a bit. He takes a few minutes to breathe. It’s not as easy as it should be.

Three buttons are lit up. He could go to the medical floor with concussed Cap, who is not worth dealing with even for the chance to fix Rumlow’s itching leg. He could go to his own floor, where he can sit and stew in his anxiety. And then… oh. Yeah. Seventy-one lights up for him now. The Hulk’s floor. Where he can come and ‘mellow out’. Or get Hulk-smashed to death.

Fuck it.

As soon as the doors open on seventy-one, Rumlow gets blasted in the face with the feeling of calm. There’s zen nature sounds playing in surround sound, and the windows are all showing him a peaceful desert sunset. The houseplants are nice, too. He takes a deep breath. Lavender incense, and something else, too. That weird faint burning from before. And chocolate? Earthy chocolate? The whole thing is so weird and hippie that it helps shake off the fucking panic attack he almost just had in the elevator. 

“Brock, hey!” Banner ducks his head out of the kitchen. He’s wearing novelty oven mitts shaped like gators. “Come on through here. I’ve just made another batch of brownies.”

Ah. So that’s the smell.

“There should be a few chocolate chips left, too,” Banner continues. Rumlow follows him through the kitchen and into a room that’s basically made of bean bag furniture and shag rugs. Pepper is sitting cross-legged on one of them, hugging a bowl of violently green gummy bears. Thor’s draped over a couch-sized bean bag chair beside her. She’s crying into the bowl.

“—never been the right time. You know? We’re both so busy… I was actually starting the process to freeze my eggs,” she tells Thor, sniffling, “but I don’t even know if they freeze anymore.”

Thor hums in agreement. He’s got this zen look on his face.

“So by mellow out,” Rumlow looks over his shoulder at Banner, who’s just taken a giant bite of brownie. “You meant, uh… get stoned?”

“I spent a few years traveling the world after the, uh, Hulk happened,” Banner says, setting a plate down on the floor and sitting on a bean bag beside Pepper and Thor. “Looking for ways to manage my anger, stress, all that. I do a lot of meditation, yoga, listen to music. I have a sand garden in the spare room. I bake. But, uh, yeah. I also learned a lot about different psychoactive substances.”

“Right on,” Rumlow says, and reaches for a brownie on the plate. SHIELD’s gone, Hydra’s gone – this is the first time in twenty years no one will ask him for a random drug test this month.

“Whoa,” Banner says, and grabs his arm. Rumlow freezes. “Sorry, just – that one’s for Thor. If you eat that, you’d,” he chuckles a bit, “you’d die.”

Rumlow drops the brownie.

“Here,” Banner pulls out a baggie of obviously homemade chocolate chips. “Start with one,” he says, handing Rumlow three. “And let’s check in in an hour and a half.” He himself takes a little bite of the Thor brownie, and also swallows down a pill Rumlow can’t identify.

Rumlow puts a chocolate chip into his mouth. It tastes kinda funky. “What’s in these?”

“I added some maracuja extract. Tasty, right?”

It is tasty. Rumlow licks the last of it off his teeth and pops another one in his mouth. It’s been a stressful fucking few weeks.

He loses track of time pretty quickly after that. Pepper’s talking a bunch of high nonsense about hot flashes or something, and they’re all kind of shooting the shit – Banner looks somehow stone sober, if kinda sleepy – and Rumlow is, for the first time since he got back from that stupid desert mission, calm.

This is a comfy rug. A very soft rug. If Cap decides to kill him tomorrow, Rumlow’s gonna ask to have it happen on one of these rugs.

So what if they find out he’s Hydra? It’s whatever. He was a good agent. He was a good fucking handler. He tried to be, at least. That’s always gonna count for something. Right? He still counts for something?

Thor is leaning over him, tears streaming down his face. “We all count,” he whispers, and breaks off a little fingernail-sized crumb of brownie to give to Rumlow. It’s transcendent.

Thor’s right. Everyone does count. His Hydra friends. Rollins. They gotta count. He really hopes he’s not dead. Thor’s whole fucking family is dead. That’s harsh.

What would happen if Thor died? Would there just never be thunder again? How would that work? There would still be, like, physics, wouldn’t there? Rumlow looks over at Pepper and gets distracted, because she’s put her hair in this amazing braid. Rumlow tries to follow one of the strands all the way down. He keeps losing his place. It takes a few tries. She’s so blonde. Thor, too.  He doesn’t have a single grey hair, even though he’s like a thousand. Rumlow spends a while trying to spot one. Does Thor even notice the passage of time? Can he just, like, blink, and skip fifty years? A hundred years?

He must have said part of that out loud, because Thor is looking at him. He’s gone kind of cross-eyed. “Your lives are the moments between moments,” he says solemnly.

Pepper nods. “I love that,” she says.

Rumlow asks, “Do you have any poptarts?”

Pepper hands him one. She must have toasted it already when Rumlow wasn’t looking. “I don’t care what anyone says,” she says. “You’re a good guy.”

He and Pepper hug for a while. He’s pretty sure she cries a bit. He does, too. He feels impossibly small. Time just… moves. Around them. They’re just dust swept up in the current and one minute they’re in the prime of life and then they blink and it’s gone. 

Like the Asset. He literally blinks, and it’s fifty years gone. How trippy must that be? He’s thawed out, geared up and shipped out, comes back a few hours or days later to report and get cleaned up and it’s back on ice for half a decade. He’s shipped around the world and wakes up in some bum-fuck temporary base in Kyrgyzstan and it’s 2006 now so somebody’s got to teach him what a cell phone is. And now Cap’s telling him to remember all those pieces and stick them back together into something that looks like a coherent fucking life, when the poor fucker can’t even remember his sisters’ names or recognize his old war buddies, except for a photo of Stark Sr. that’s older than the Asset will ever be.

Which…

Wait.

How come the Asset recognized that photo, anyway? The Asset doesn’t remember a lot of shit, but he doesn’t usually get false positives. Did he… meet Stark? When he was older? That would be a trip. Meeting the same person like… when they’re young. And old. Stark’s dad was really old. Old enough to know Zola. That guy was around like… forever ago. So long ago there’s black and white photos of him in Hydra bases. And Stark Jr. said his dad and Zola had been close. Family friends. Worked together, even. Maybe… that’s how the Asset knew him?

The Asset recognized Howard Stark. Stark and Zola worked together. Zola was Hydra.

Maybe Howard Stark was… Rumlow’s looking over the edge into a black hole and there’s an epiphany down there. He’s almost got it. He’s…

So warm. Pepper’s giving him such a nice, warm hug.

“Oh shoot,” she mutters, and slaps his back a bit, which is fine. He’s done a good fucking job. He deserves a pat on the back. He smells smoke. And honestly, the chocolates are nice, but he could go for a joint.

Oh, shit! Hydra! Howard Stark was probably Hydra!

“Are you okay?” Pepper asks him.

He’s fine! It’s all gonna be fine. If Howard Stark was Hydra, then Tony probably won’t even mind that Rumlow’s Hydra, too. Everyone’s gonna–

That’s it!

That’s the fucking epiphany. 

“I”m fantastic.” Rumlow starts laughing and can’t stop even when his lungs hurt and his eyes tear up. Howard Stark was Hydra, elbows deep in the Asset’s arm if he was anything like his son. Rumlow just has to prove it to Tony and he’s golden. 

He’s not gonna die!

There’s so much time left—

“Brock?” Someone’s gently shaking his shoulder. It’s the single worst thing Rumlow’s ever felt in his life. He pries open his eyes and the world looks miserable. His tongue feels like fur. Everything’s shit. Why is everything shit again?

He looks up and sees it’s the Asset leaning over him. Oh God. What time is it? What’s the Asset doing here? Everything sucks so much Rumlow kinda wants to cry. Also, he might vomit.

“Crashing kinda hard, huh?” Banner says. Rumlow looks over, and he’s sitting there cross-legged on a fucking sofa with a fucking mug of tea. “I got some tea for you that’ll help with that.”

“Are there drugs in it?” Rumlow asks, and his voice sounds like he’s screamed himself hoarse.

“Yep,” Banner hands him a cup without elaborating. Rumlow chugs the whole thing. His leg is so itchy, and the cast keeps touching his skin.

“You alright, pal?” the Asset asks him.

“We’re not pals,” Rumlow croaks out. He actually is starting to feel a little bit better. Banner’s really good at drugs.

The Asset snorts. “Sure.” He reaches down to help Rumlow to his feet, and hands him his robo-crutches.

“How the fuck did you get on this floor?” Rumlow asks.

“Oh, I gave him access,” Banner says. “I figured he could use a quiet space, for calming down, you know? Which, by the way. If you want to sleep some more, I have a guest room–”

More? Rumlow blinks. “How long was I out for?”

Banner shrugs. “I don’t keep clocks here. Running late is a big anxiety trigger for me.”

Shit. It was, what, forty-something hours left when he came down here?

“How much time–” Rumlow asks the ceiling, but has a coughing fit into his elbow before he can finish the sentence. Did he smoke something last night? He must have. There’s little holes like cigarette burns all down the back of his shirt.

Jarvis says: “Time to completion: 25 hours.”

Fuck! Shit!

…

FUCK!

Why did he fucking waste a whole day getting high? He let fucking Barton and his dumbfuck black site videos under his skin and Banner’s stupid zesty LSD or whatever brownies…He’s got twenty-five hours left to live. But, hold on, he had a good idea last night, didn’t he? What the fuck was it?

“Current probability of Agent Rumlow’s involvement with—”

“I don’t wanna know!” Rumlow snaps. “Don’t tell me, I don’t wanna know.”

“Of course.” Can robots sound snide? 

Rumlow feels like ass. He feels like he might pass out, kinda. His stomach grumbles. The Asset hears it, and so does Banner, who doesn’t even have super-hearing. Probably.

“I’d offer you something to eat,” he says, “but we finished everything last night, and anything I have left is—”

“Laced?”

“Heh. Yeah.”

Fuck. Okay. Quick trip down for food – Rumlow resolutely doesn’t think ‘last meal’ – and then he seriously needs to try something else. He’s pretty sure that he’d had a really good idea last night. What the fuck was it? Something about… photos… and time…?

Ugh. This is so fucking frustrating. It’s like the memories are right there on the tip of his brain… there’s something he should know, but he can’t quite reach it, and it’s right fucking there. This is unbearable.

He looks over at the Asset, who gives him a look like been there, buddy. Rumlow does not need that from the fucking Asset right now. 

The Asset… it was something about the—

Oh! Right! Stark. Howard Stark was Hydra! And that’s probably what Cap was hiding from Tony! Okay, yes. He’s gotta fucking get on that. He needs… a phone, or a computer or something. It won’t look great if he uses one of the monitored ones, but maybe it’s not that bad if he’s just reading the data dump. Everyone in this tower’s probably been looking through the data dump.

“I’m gonna go back down for food,” Rumlow announces. He looks to the Asset, and is about to order him to come with when he says, “I’ll come too.”

Rumlow blinks. “Okay,” he says, a little uneasy. “Great.”

They stop by Rumlow’s floor so he can put on a non-holey shirt – the Asset waits in the elevator because he isn’t allowed on Rumlow’s floor. Rumlow takes a piss – MULTIPLE URINARY TOXINS DETECTED – and then goes back in the elevator and punches the button down to the common area.

Rumlow waits a beat.

“Hey,” he says. The Asset’s immediately laser-focused on him.  “Yesterday, Steve showed you that photo of Howard Stark. You recognized him?”

“I think so,” the Asset says. “It’s not a real clear memory.”

“Okay, well, what did you remember when you looked at that photo?”

The Asset thinks about it. “A nice car. And – a woman? The clearest thing I remember is an order that made no damn sense.”

“Made no sense how?”

“It was… I can’t remember the handler’s name, but it was… something real vague.” He says something in Russian then, and Rumlow’s gotta be mistranslating here, because…

“‘Sanction and extract’?” Rumlow repeats, in English.

The Asset snaps his fingers. “That’s the one.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Right?” the Asset agrees. 

“Extract who? Sanction what?”

“Beats me.”

“This was a hit?”

The Asset shrugs. “Maybe? The details are fuzzy. It was a shit order, that’s all I can tell you. I remember being confused as all hell. A lot of clarification questions.” He shrugs. “But that’s it. And I think… I think I remember being confused a lot with that handler.”

The Asset's confused a lot in general. That is more or less the reason for having a handler to start with. So his lead is 'a shitty handler'. That's a list long enough to fill a couple cemeteries.

Okay. Worth a shot seeing if the Asset could give him anything useful, but he should have known not to expect much when asking the Asset about stuff he does or doesn’t remember. 

Focus on what he does know. There’s some connection between Howard Stark and Hydra – possibly one Cap is keeping secret from Tony, which is pretty uncool – and Rumlow’s got nothing to lose by exploring it. In fact, it’s literally the only thing he’s got left to try. Either he finds proof Stark was Hydra and maybe gets some amount of Tony’s protection, or at least he can cause some infighting among the Avengers. Which will at least buy him time. And it’s not like it’s hard to get Cap and Stark at each other’s throats.

Now he just needs a fucking laptop.

The elevator dings on the common area floor. Rumlow makes a beeline for the kitchen because he has got to get something to eat. His hands are literally shaking from low blood sugar, and he feels like he’s gonna pass out. It takes him a full minute to realize he’s not the only one in there.

“—decided, Sam,” Cap’s telling Wilson. “It’s the only thing I can do to make this right.”

“What about Hydra?” Wilson deadpans.

“It’ll just be until Bucky’s better. I’ll stay here with him, until—”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Cap,” Stark starts, and Rumlow doesn’t actually need to listen to what Stark says to know that Cap is definitely going to take it the wrong way, and it probably isn’t the right thing to say to him in the first place. He’s staying out of it. There’s a box of Papa John’s that’s more than half full. Rumlow tips the slices onto a plate and sticks it in the microwave.

“Okay, okay!” Wilson’s physically put himself in between Cap and Stark now, and finally managed to shout louder than the two of them. “I think what Tony is trying to say…”

Rumlow doesn’t have permissions for the goddamn microwave. He pokes around it for a couple seconds until he accepts defeat.

When he looks over again, Cap and Stark are hugging. Jesus. Cold pizza’s fine, he’s getting out of here. He drops the slices back in the box and takes the whole thing under his arm as he crutch-walks out of the kitchen.

Okay. Sit down, shove some food down his throat so he’s not dead on his feet, and then he’s gonna figure this shit out. Here we go.

Back in the common area, the Asset’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a laptop balanced on his knees. Well shit. Rumlow walks up behind him and glances at the screen. The Asset’s got four YouTube videos playing at the same time – two are news broadcasts from the Balkan wars, one is the moon landing, and one’s a cat video. 

“Want to watch?” the Asset asks him. He even slides over to make some room for Rumlow on the couch. Rumlow sits down. The Asset maximizes the moon landing video. It totally checks out this is the kind of stuff in the past hundred years that the Asset would care about the most.

“No one ever told me people went on the moon,” he says. “I don’t think.” Fuck, is that true? That’s the kind of information that would have kept him happy for like six hours of downtime. More, if they’d sprung for a little to-scale model rocket or some shit. He would have spent forever taking that thing apart and putting it back together.

“Yeah,” Rumlow says through a mouthful of pizza. He’s scarfing it down as fast as he can. “Pretty wild. I watched it on TV when I was four.”

“Pretty wild,” the Asset echoes. The video ends on a still of the American flag. The Asset hits replay.

“You should check out the ISS… International Space Station,” Rumlow suggests, mouth full. “Or the Mars rovers.”

The Asset perks up and hen-pecks into the search bar. They watch a few videos of Spirit going in circles, which gets a “Holy smokes!” out of the Asset.

See, this, this is basically what healthy normal – between missions – looks for the Asset on a really good day. Rumlow’s spent a lot of pretty pleasant stakeouts basically exactly like this. He’s honestly relieved that the whole clusterfuck with Romanoff hasn’t done the Asset any lasting damage, not to mention all of Cap’s everything. He watches the Asset enjoying the rovers for a couple more minutes as he finishes off the last slice of pizza.

“Okay,” Rumlow says, because he’s fed, he has blood sugar again, and the clock is fucking ticking. “How did you get a computer?”

“Oh, this is Steve’s,” the Asset tells him. “He said I could use it until he gets me one for myself.”

Rumlow blinks. “That’s Steve’s personal computer?”

“Yep.”

Is this… is this good luck? 

“Is it restricted at all?” Rumlow thinks to ask. “Or monitored?”

“Nope.”

“Not even by Jarvis?”

“No, none of Steve or his team’s personal devices are.”

Fucking unreal. Rumlow’s about to say, “Give it to me,” when the Asset beats him to it.

“Want to use it?” he offers.

This is the second time today he’s done that kind of thing. Rumlow really wants to take it, but…

“Why are you asking?” he asks. The Asset shrugs.

“Do you want it or not?” 

Rumlow doesn’t like this weird new attitude of the Asset’s at all. He looks meaningfully up at the ceiling, where Big Brother is definitely watching Rumlow’s every move. And probably the Asset’s. Rumlow wants to signal something to him, STRIKE code for ‘we’re being watched so I can’t speak freely’ but A) the Asset didn’t always remember that in the field – a couple dozen thousand volts of electricity every few days will do that – and B) Rumlow’s not actually sure he wants the Asset to remember that they were ever in the field together, because then he might go running to Cap. ‘As long as you didn’t have anything do with what they did to Bucky’ is still fresh in his memory.

“I probably shouldn’t, until the investigation’s finished and all that. Don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea… you know?” The Asset’s not fucking picking up on context clues. He just shrugs and goes to play the video again. “Wouldn’t want anyone to see anything that might attract attention.”

The Asset pauses the video.

“Understood.” Rumlow can see him thinking for a moment. Then the Asset stretches, closes the laptop and pulls a messenger bag out from under the couch cushions. He makes a show of putting the laptop inside.

Goddammit. Why did Rumlow even fucking try? He buries his face in his hands in exasperation.

When he looks up again, the Asset’s standing, messenger bag over his shoulder. He’s staring at Rumlow with a weirdly hard-to-read expression.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Just lookin’,” the Asset says. His eyes dart over to the kitchen where Cap and Stark have, shocker, started dicking each other around again. After a beat, he adds, “Steve didn’t specify that I could let you use the laptop.” He pauses, and looks meaningfully at the pizza box, which is now closed. Rumlow hadn’t even noticed him close it. “But he didn’t specify I couldn’t.” 

It takes Rumlow a second to catch up. 

Carefully, he picks up the pizza box. It’s way heavier than it should be. You know what. Rumlow doesn’t know what is up with the Asset, but he doesn’t exactly have time to kill by finding out. Looking a gift horse in the mouth and all that shit.

“I’m gonna go finish eating this. In my room,” he adds, like the whole thing was his idea. The Asset nods.

“Understood,” he says lightly.

Once he’s back on his floor, Rumlow goes into the bathroom, sits on the toilet seat, and lo and behold, now he’s got a laptop. He considers trying to contact Rollins or someone. But that’ll take too long, and it’s still a bit too much of a risk, even if the laptop isn’t monitored. He boots up the data dump instead. Jeez, he hopes the Chair didn’t mess up Romanoff’s coding skills. This user interface is still amazing.

Rumlow tries searching ‘Stark, Howard’, ‘Stark’, ‘Howard’, and ‘Maria’ but no dice. The search function is great for digitized stuff, but more than half of the files are just scans of notebook pages crammed with shitty Cyrillic handwriting. He tries looking for the words, ‘sanction and extract’ but he can’t find anything, and also there’s years of files in there. 

Like, too many years for Rumlow to just sift through everything manually. It’s gonna take him fucking forever. He tries for a few hours, and nothing. He goes to the years Zola probably worked at SHIELD and finds a bunch of co-authored SHIELD documents with Zola and Stark, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Also, he can’t fucking understand the more technical stuff, so he can’t even use context to figure out if the inventions are for SHIELD or Hydra. Or just for shits and giggles. 

Ugh. He’s not getting anywhere. There’s probably less than twenty hours left.

Maybe it’s worth giving the Asset another shot. Bank on a Hail Mary memory migraine or something. Rumlow puts the laptop on the floor and hauls his ass out of the bathroom. He goes to open the door to his room and head downstairs to–

The door doesn’t open. A second later, the handle retracts.

Just then, Jarvis asks him, “Do you still prefer not to know the current probability of your involvement with Hydra?”

Rumlow feels his stomach drop into his fucking feet. He closes his eyes for a long time. Fuck it.

“Fine,” he says. “Go. Is it a hundred—”

“100%,” Jarvis says crisply.

“So that’s it, huh? It’s over?”

Jarvis doesn’t answer him.

Okay. God. What are his options? He could go back to the data dump, keep digging. He might still be able to find something. He could fake an emergency? Get the Avengers up here, and try something that way. 

Think. There’s gotta be something. This can’t be the end.

Can it?

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. And then another one. And then one fucking more.

“I can’t open it!” Rumlow finally snaps. “You know I can’t open it! Just come in!”

The door opens, and suddenly Cap’s filling the doorway, shield strapped to his arm. Rumlow goes cold.

“I trusted you,” says Captain America.

Rumlow opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

He’s pretty sure there was a scene like this in the Howlies! cartoon from when he was a kid. How did he grow up to be Baroness Evillika?

Did she live past season 3? Oh God. Rumlow can’t remember.

Shit.

He has to say something.

He has to.

He can’t just stand here not saying anything.

That’s what he’s doing, though.

Rumlow gulps.

Cap flares his nostrils like a bull about to charge. “Why didn’t you just admit it yesterday?” he demands, and Rumlow can hear the leather squealing on the shield’s grip from how hard Cap is squeezing it. “I asked you, man to man.”

Rumlow doesn’t feel like a man right now. Not at all. Maybe a medium-sized mouse.

“Well?!” Cap demands, and takes a step forward. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Don’t kill me,” Rumlow blurts.  “Please,” he adds, because if there was ever a time to fucking beg, it’s now. He would honest-to-God fall to his knees, except he can’t bend his right leg, so he just kinda half-crouches on his left leg and sways there awkwardly for a minute. “Please,” he finally repeats.  

Cap takes in his pathetic little display, and puts his shield down.

“I’m not gonna kill you,” he says, like it’s obvious, even though he brought the fucking shield with him. “I don’t just execute unarmed, wounded men in their bedrooms.”

Rumlow’s pretty off-balance now, though, from the whole trying-to-fall-to-his-knees thing, so Cap grabs him by his shirt collar and hefts him back up to standing. He keeps his hands there, very close to Rumlow’s throat. His face is inches from Rumlow’s. 

“I just wanna know why,” he growls.

“Why – why what?”

“Why Hydra?” Cap shouts in his face. Rumlow manages to keep up eye contact. His pulse is beating against Cap’s knuckles.

Rumlow used to have a good answer. Or at least a ready answer. Now, though… 

“I used to know why,” Rumlow says – honestly, for once. “But it’s – it’s been a while since I’ve been sure.”

Cap lets go of him like he’s been burned. “Why’d you stay, then? Twenty years.”

Rumlow doesn’t know how to answer that. 

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

Cap looks even more disgusted with him than before. If he asks about the Asset, and why Rumlow… fuck it, he’s got an answer for that one, if nothing else. It was his fucking job. He was responsible for the Asset and he took damn good care of him. He’s not gonna be ashamed of that. He squares his shoulders.

But Cap doesn’t ask.

After another beat, Rumlow shoots his shot. “If you let me walk out of here,” he says, “I will. I’ll leave. I’m done with Hydra.” It feels fucking good to say it out loud. Freeing.

“Rumlow,” Cap sounds exasperated. “That’s not gonna happen.”

Rumlow swallows. “So what now?”

“You know what now,” Cap snaps. “You’re Hydra. I’m Captain America.” He sounds tired. “Now I turn you in.”

Rumlow realizes he wasn't panicking before. This, this is panic. “So they can take me to one of those black sites?”

“So you can face justice,” Cap says. “Whatever that means, anymore.” He rubs his eyes. “It’s not ideal,” he admits. “But I can’t fix everything – even the Avengers can’t fix everything overnight. Frankly, I’ve been fighting this war for seventy years now. And I lost. I lost Bucky, I lost against Hydra, and I gotta make it right. There’s a whole lotta things higher up on my list than checking up on what happens to every POW we take from the other side.”

“They’re probably just gonna kill me there,” Rumlow says desperately. All the fucking clips from Camp Phoenix are playing behind his eyes.  “What’s the point if you turn me in just so some schmuck can peel my fingernails off before he blows my brains out? Or – what if they just keep me alive, for however long, in a dark hole somewhere?”

“That might not happen,” Cap says.

“And if it does?” Rumlow insists. 

“Then it does,” Cap says. “You’re not my top priority.”

“Fuck," Rumlow starts, and he can hear how fucking terrified he sounds. "Then why not just kill me now?”

“Do you want me to?” Cap asks, and Rumlow pauses. “You did beg me not to, just a minute ago,” Cap points out. 

Rumlow feels like he might throw up.

“Know what I think?” Cap says, and he barely sounds angry anymore. Just sad, and disappointed. “I think you wanna live, no matter what. You know why?”

There’s only the sound of Rumlow’s shaky breathing. In the corner of the room, the ceiling lights glint off the shield, red, white, and blue.

“Because,” Cap says, “if there’s one thing I remember about Hydra, it’s that when they want to die, they die.”

Cap doesn’t have anything left to say to him after that. Rumlow sits there a long time after he leaves. The door doesn’t make a single sound as it locks. The handle never reappears.

It takes a while for Rumlow to stop shaking and then a while longer for his brain to come back online.

He’s still alive.

The only conclusion Rumlow can draw, aside from how incredibly, totally fucked he is, is they haven’t found any of the handler stuff yet. Cap came in here and just scared the shit out of Rumlow, instead of feeding him his own asshole, and that only makes any sense at all if he still doesn’t know.

“Jarvis,” he asks. “Is the investigation still going, or—”

“Why, yes,” Jarvis says. “18 hours remaining.”

Well. He’ll know soon enough. 

Cap was right, though. About everything, but specifically about this: Rumlow wants to live. He’ll take a black site with a chance of escape over a shield through his throat any day. Maybe it’s not a great quality right now. But it’s what Rumlow’s got.

Though if they’re still combing through his shit for another eighteen hours, the shield through his throat’s looking more likely than not.

Wow. He’s gonna die. And for once, there’s nothing he can do about it.

He goes and cries in Stark’s fancy rainforest shower. After he’s done, he stays in there for a while, cause the water pressure is like something for an elephant, and it feels really nice on his back. He turns it up to scalding, and just stands there and breathes. He sings a little, just cause he feels like it. He stops when he realizes it’s the theme to the Howlies! cartoon.

If only he had found something in those stupid files.

He towels off, lays down naked on the giant bath mat, then hits replay on the Mars rover video.

This fucking sucks. He was a good agent, a great commander. A fantastic handler. He’s never been anything but excellent at his job, and that’s exactly what’s gonna get him killed. Whatever the Avengers found that confirmed him as Hydra is probably some shit he got a commendation for from Pierce. And a raise. 

He should've run while he still could have. He stayed way too long trying to take back the Asset, and now look what it fucking got him. The Asset would be insanely useful to have on the run, no doubt about that, though he should have cut his losses once Cap came into the picture and sobbed all over Bucky fucking Barnes. But Rumlow’s always been too fucking sentimental about his gear. He can rationalize all he wants, but there’s no way he could have left in the first place, once he saw what state the Asset was in. And how much worse Cap was making it. Rumlow didn't spend twenty years taking care of him just to watch him fall apart along with everything else.

Soon the Avengers are probably gonna find Asset Management, Third Edition, with his name all over it, and it’s gonna fuck him over so bad. Which is double annoying, cause it’s such a good manual. The original version was written in the 40s and 50s, and Volume II was just the English translation. It’s a brilliant manual – the doctor who wrote it obviously knew what she was doing. But she wrote the thing 70 fucking years ago, and she was a civilian. Rumlow modernized it, added a bunch of information about how to deal with stuff that had been invented in the last 70 years, and also wrote a whole bunch of field-specific sections. The third edition is comprehensive. It’s saved so many temp handlers’ asses when they needed to deal with the Asset while Rumlow was too busy. And now it’s gonna get him killed.

Karpov had warned him this would happen. Maybe. It was kinda hard to tell – that guy couldn't say anything in normal, clear words – English or Russian. Rumlow’d heard him talking to colleagues, subordinates, superiors, even the Asset, and none of them had ever known what the fuck he was talking about. He would say vague shit like ‘Discrepancies need to be reconciled’ and ‘We must expedite events’ without ever clarifying what he was talking about. Even when he'd handed over the keys to the cryo tank, he couldn't just say "be good but not so good someone starts to think you're a threat." No, it had been some mumbo jumbo about "a consistent attitude of moderation" and "attracting a sanctionable degree of—

Sanction and extract.

Suddenly Rumlow's sitting bolt upright. Because, yeah, "sanction and extract" sounds exactly like the kind of nonsense order Karpov would have come up with. That helps narrow down the unsearchable Cyrillic scans, by a lot.

He refreshes the search on the data dump to filter reports by date range, from the years of Karpov's tenure as handler. There’s still hundreds of documents, but only eighteen are scans, the rest are actually digitized. Someone's intern was having a slow summer. Rumlow starts skimming. Only six of the reports have an American location.

It still takes Rumlow a couple hours or so to get through it all. But there’s… something missing. Karpov’s Asset reports are numbered, and there’s a gap between д36 and д38. Rumlow scours the digitized files, the scans, and can’t find it. Unless something’s mislabeled, this file’s been deleted. 

Well. If Cap was trying to hide something from Stark, he probably wouldn’t have left it on the data dump and then asked him to use his creepy robot to look through it. 

Rumlow closes out of the browser and looks at the documents folder. This is Cap’s personal, unmonitored computer. And this is Cap. Righteous and heroic Captain America, who sounded really fucking conflicted about keeping this secret. Way more conflicted than he’d been about letting Rumlow possibly get tortured to death in some country without a name. What are the odds he saved a copy, to pull out at the right time or whatever?  

Rumlow sorts the documents by date modified and starts clicking. It doesn’t take him long at all to find the file. And it is something.

Boy howdy, it’s really something. He only needs to scroll down to the post-“car crash” photos of Howard and Maria Stark to know he’s struck gold. Suddenly, that phone call with Director Carter gets put into context.

This is gonna break Stark’s fucking nuclear-bomb-heart.

Not cool, Cap. This is even better than Rumlow had thought.

Okay, so Howard Stark wasn’t Hydra – probably, jury’s still kinda out, in Rumlow’s opinion, because what the fuck was he doing with that shit in his trunk – but Cap’s been keeping a way bigger secret than Rumlow had expected. A way bigger secret than America’s shining beacon of morality should be able to swing from one of his Avenger buddies.

Rumlow takes a deep breath.

Okay. He has something to try. That feels way better than sitting around waiting for death. This could work. Get Cap and Stark pissed at each other, shift some loyalties, make some uncertainty. Hopefully get some other Avengers involved in the drama. Then… go from there. Rumlow knows how much it can fuck up a team if there’s personal issues. It’s something, at least. Maybe something that’ll work!

Stark's personal email and phone number aren’t public anywhere, but Cap is still logged into his gmail, so Rumlow finds it from there. Cap’s email inbox, from a quick skim, is mostly bank shit, emails from SHIELD, messages from his accountant – some guy named Barry Klein whose subject lines get progressively more frantic sounding – and a bunch of ‘PLEASE DON’T SUE US’ from companies who now realize Captain America isn’t public domain anymore. Also, he’s in some weird argument with the Smithsonian Museum.

Okay. The message to Stark. Rumlow’s not gonna send it from Cap’s account – he logs into his own email, then writes “Found this on Steve’s computer. I thought you might want to know.” into the body. Rumlow attaches the December 16th, 1991 report and puts "YOUR PARENTS’ DEATHS" as the subject line. That might get like ten percent of Stark's attention. He hits send.

Now for the other ninety percent.

"Hey, Jarvis!" 

"Yes?" Jesus, robots shouldn't be able to sound hostile.

"You should tell Stark to check his inbox. I sent him something he's gonna want to see."

Less than a second later, Rumlow's WiFi shuts off. 

"Place the laptop in the slot in the door and take five steps back," Jarvis orders. "Captain Rogers is on his way to collect it." A slot appears in the door.

"Ready to comply," Rumlow mutters. He does it, puts on one of the hoodie/sweats combinations, and sits on the bed.

Cap doesn't say anything to him this time. Whatever. It's gonna take more than that to put a damper on Rumlow’s new glimmer of hope. As Cap aggressively pointed out earlier, there's a world of difference between certain death tomorrow and maybe death this week, and Rumlow's milking it for all the morale boost he can get.

Because he's fucking done something. Done the best he can do.

He’s exhausted. He drops onto the bed and just barely climbs under the covers. If he does die tomorrow, he’s gonna at least get a good night’s sleep.

Rumlow’s not hopeful, exactly. He's realistic. Cap and Stark aren't gonna go to war over this. Best case, they have a stupid team meeting, pass the talking stick and Rumlow's bought himself a day. Maybe two or three, if more Avengers get involved. At the very least, it might take them a little longer to find all the handler stuff. At the very very least, maybe it’ll buy him some points with Stark.

He shuts his eyes. He's done something. He's got that, if nothing else. He didn't just lie down and die.

Chapter Text

Something crashes through Rumlow’s ceiling.

He jerks awake and nearly falls out of the fucking bed when he tries to duck for cover and forgets he’s down two limbs. Instinctively, he goes for his gun, but he doesn’t have a gun in his stupid trackpants and hoodie. So he just kinda presses himself up against the headboard instead, adrenaline spiking in a fucking millisecond.

There’s a giant hole in his ceiling. Underneath it, the floor is cracked from the impact and the thing that shot into Rumlow’s room unfolds itself into Cap. He’s in his pyjamas, shield strapped to his arm. He stands up, spits blood on the floor, and wipes his mouth. 

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you!” He shouts up into the hole. “I knew this was how you’d react!”

A blue beam of light shoots through the hole – Cap blocks it with the shield and it bounces off and goes back up. There’s a pained grunt from the ceiling.

Stark hovers into view. He’s wearing half of his Iron Man suit – boots and gloves and the helmet thing and chest plate, but his from stomach down he’s unprotected.

“Oh, please!” he says. “You just wanted to freeload off me for your— where the hell did he go?”

“Don’t you touch him!” Cap shouts.

A second later the Asset also falls through the ceiling-hole and into Cap, knocking them both to the floor. Cap scrambles to bring the shield up over both of them as Stark flies down. 

“Non-hostile, my ass,” the Asset mutters, getting to his feet. There’s a hole burned into the middle of his shirt. The edges are still smoking but the skin’s already pink and healing. Stark didn’t… did he? “Steve, you gotta rethink—”

“Don’t kill Tony,” Cap grunts, also getting back up.

“Oh, what, Cap?” Stark calls. “You don’t want him to have the full set?”

“It wasn’t his fault!” Cap shouts.

The visor on Stark’s helmet thing flips up. Rumlow can’t tell if he’s about to cry or scream. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

There’s an explosion then, and this time Rumlow does roll off the side of the bed. His painkillers fall off the bedside table and scatter on the floor, and he picks up a few and eats them. He’s got a feeling he’ll need them.

Jesus Christ. What happened? Where’s the fucking talking stick?

Rumlow’s plan may have worked a little too well.

Stark is in the room now, hovering in the air. Rumlow can see the blue energy beam forming in his palm. Cap shoves the Asset behind him. 

“Steve,” Stark says. Rumlow hears the beam crackle. “Move.”

Cap just raises his shield.

Stark says, “He killed my mom.”

“I can’t let you hurt him.”

“Fine,” Stark says mildly. A panel flies open under Cap’s feet and two robot arms reach up to grab him. The hands seal into cuffs around his ankles and then Cap’s being yanked down. A second later, he’s gone. “Then I’ll make it fast.” 

There’s a loud whine of energy, and then Stark shoots a beam straight at the Asset’s head. Rumlow doesn’t even have time to hold his breath – the Asset brings up his arm, tilts it so that the beam bounces off and reflects down. It goes through the floor, then there’s a ping underneath – the shield, Rumlow realizes – and the beam comes up through the floor under Stark, hitting him in one of his hover-boots. He grunts in pain, spirals out of the air, unbalanced, and the Asset leaps onto him.

Stark’s got a fancy suit, but he’s also a middle-aged alcoholic with reflexes to match. The Asset’s grabbed his right arm before Stark can aim the beam at his head again.

At his head! Jesus, he’s trying to fucking kill him. Rumlow hadn’t expected Stark to get pissed off at the Asset for the stuff with his parents. What the fuck is that? That’s like getting rear-ended and holding a grudge against the car that crashed into you.

The Iron Man glove comes off and hits the ground beside Rumlow. A weapon! Score. The wrist is dented from the Asset’s grip, but he still manages to shove his right hand into it, splint and everything.

Up above, Stark and the Asset are spiraling around, held up by Stark’s other boot and glove. Stark’s got his visor back down. The Asset’s nose is bleeding, and it’s crooked and swelling. He’s got Stark by the elbow and the knee from behind, basically flying him. He’s going for the other glove.

“Tony, be reasonable!” Cap calls, then somehow parkours up through the hole back into Rumlow’s room. 

“What’s the reasonable move here, Cap?” Stark shouts. He lands a jet-propulsed metal boot kick at the Asset’s groin, which, ouch. The Asset doubles over, losing his grip on Stark’s arm. Stark flings a left hook with his glove that clips the Asset’s jaw and almost drops him, but the Asset’s still holding onto Stark’s knee. 

“What would you do,” Stark pants, “if you had a chance to get at the guy who killed your parents?”

The Asset pulls, and swings, and throws Stark into the wall as he jumps off him. There’s a puff of plaster dust.

“My parents died of TB and mustard gas,” Cap says.

Stark peels himself out of the wall. He scoffs. “You just always have to be better than everyone.”

Rumlow’s eyeing the hole in the floor, wondering how bad jumping down fifteen feet would be on a broken leg, when there’s another crash. Stark’s flung himself at the Asset like a bazooka and rammed them both through the wall. By the faint crashing sounds every couple of seconds, they’re going through more than one wall. Cap sprints off after them.

Well, as far as Rumlow’s concerned, that’s a whole lot of suddenly opened doors.

He crawls to where his crutches are lying on the other side of the bed, and they sit up to slide under his arms. Fucking creepy but whatever. Rumlow starts hobbling to the hole in the wall. 

Okay. Plan A through Z, get out of the tower. He can figure out everything else once he’s outside.  

The rest of Rumlow’s floor is a disaster zone. There’s giant craters everywhere and the sprinkler system’s gone off. He nearly slips in a puddle as he inches to the mess of wire and rebar at the edge of the hole. Looks like the damage goes down at least four stories.

How long were these idiots fighting for before Rumlow woke up? Also, how come Rumlow didn’t hear anything? Stark’s floors must be soundproofed to all hell.

He nudges a chunk of loose floor forward and it clatters down. Even if he had both legs working, that would be a rough fucking jump.

“Would you like to acti-vate all-terrain assis-tive mode?” asks… actually, that wasn’t from the ceiling. What the hell?

“What the hell?”

“Agent Rum-low,” A voice - two voices, there’s two of them - say from under his armpits. The one on the left is a little higher pitched. “There ap-pears to be difficult terrain. Would you like to activ-ate all-terrain assis-tive mode?”

Amazing. His crutches talk. And they have modes?

“Yes,” Rumlow says, and hears a little whirring sound. A second later he’s rising, first a few inches and then a full foot off the ground. A little platform slides out of the left crutch for his good leg to stand on. He looks down, and there’s two little joystick looking things near his hands. Fuckin’ A.

It takes Rumlow a couple minutes to figure it out, but then he’s cruising down through the wreckage. Floor ninety-three, ninety-two… With a few detours looking for new floor-holes, he makes it down to eighty-nine before-

“—he’s my friend,” Cap’s saying passionately. Rumlow stops, and hovers in place, looking for another exit that doesn’t take him through the middle of that.

He can hear the hurt in Stark’s voice. “So was I.”

There’s a pause. Rumlow can see Cap’s back and Stark’s blue glow in what used to be this floor’s kitchen.

“Oh, come on, Tony,” Cap says.

“What?”

“You don’t even like me!”

“So?” Stark’s boot floats into view. “I don’t like lots of my friends! That’s not the point!”

“Jesus, we barely know each other. We’re co-workers!”

“Friendly co-workers! We had shawarma together! We fight all the time because we respect each other so much."

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Cap says, exasperated.

“I considered us friends!”

“Mhm,” Cap says. “When’s my birthday?”

Stark pauses. “The… fourth of July?”

Cap throws the shield at his head. Ooookay.  Eighty-eight, eighty-seven—

He gets down to eighty-five and stops because Jeeeeeesus. This must have been Cap and the Asset’s floor, because it looks like a fucking bomb went off. The beds in both rooms look slept in, but there’s also couch cushions on the floor next to one of them, and a blanket and a couple of pillows. One of the pillows is just a pile of char and ash.

Suddenly the elevator door dings.

“Hey Steve,” Wilson starts. “Sorry to wake you, but I—” he stops and takes in the chaos. It takes him a full beat to even notice Rumlow. “What did you do?” he asks immediately.

“I sent an email,” Rumlow says. Wilson just ignores that.

“Where’s Steve and Bucky?”

“They’re—”

The shield falls through one of the holes in the ceiling and embeds itself in the floor. Wilson looks down at it, speechless, then back up at Rumlow. “The f—”

A second later, the Asset jumps down and lands in a crouch. The tile cracks under him. 

“Bucky, what the hell’s going on?” Wilson’s sounding kinda shrill.

The Asset yanks the shield out and stands. “Tony Stark’s trying to kill me. Steve says,” he huffs, “to stick to non-lethal damage. I’ve got a lot of clarification questions, but there ain’t really any time.”

He grunts with effort and throws the shield back up. There’s a few seconds, then Rumlow can hear more energy beam noises, and more shings.

Wilson still looks confused. “Why is Tony Stark trying to kill you?”

The Asset opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, a black metallic robot claw, like in one of those machines where you try and win a stuffed pig for your date, reaches down and picks him up by the hair. It retracts to somewhere and the Asset shoots back up through the ceiling and out of sight. 

Wilson’s staring.

By the time he blinks, Rumlow’s halfway across the room.

“Hey!” Rumlow jams the crutch joy-stick forward. “Rumlow!”

Turns out all-terrain mode doesn’t go that fast. Wilson jogs up behind him and overtakes him. “Hey. Nah. You’re gonna come with me.”

Rumlow tries to shoot the gauntlet thing he scored off Iron Man, but it must be more damaged than he thought – the thing glows, sputters, then he feels the palm of his hand get zapped. 

“Ow, fuck,” Rumlow says, throwing it to the ground. Wilson looks incredibly unimpressed.

“Let’s go,” he says. “I’m guessing your room has a big hole in it.” Rumlow doesn’t contradict him. “Come on. Deactivate the floaty crutches, man.”

“What if I don’t?” Rumlow asks.

Wilson punches him in the face.

Rumlow flies back a foot before the crutch jets reverse, chokes on nose blood, then croaks out, “Fair enough.” He turns off the floaty crutches.

Wilson drags Rumlow to the elevator, and hits the button for seventy-one. “Why is Tony trying to kill Bucky?”

“He found out he killed his parents,” Rumlow says. Wilson stares at him, like huh? “Tony’s parents,” Rumlow clarifies. “Not—”

“Yeah, no, I got that part.” Wilson pauses. “Okay. And he’s trying to kill Bucky?”

The elevator goes dark. A second later, the generator must kick in – the lights flicker back on. 

“Yeah,” Rumlow’s still wrapping his head around that one. What a dick move. There had been temp handlers who’d acted like that, took shit out on the Asset when they didn’t like the orders their superiors had given, or when he’d had to make a snap judgment on a mission that pissed them off. Shitty handling, if you ask Rumlow. There’s no point punishing the Asset for acting as designed.

Wilson starts nodding. His therapist face comes on. When the elevator stops on Banner’s floor, he almost looks like he’s got a handle on the situation. Which isn’t exactly convenient for Rumlow. 

“Oh, hey Sam, Brock,” Banner’s sitting cross-legged on a little wooden mat in a fluffy white robe, hands palms up on his knees. There’s hippie sculptures and shit everywhere. “You guys want some tea?”

“Hey, Bruce, bit of a crisis,” Wilson says. “Um.” He rethinks that phrasing. “Not a crisis, nothing to stress about. A little situation. Do you have like… a spare Hulk-proof room we can put Rumlow in for a bit?” Wow. Nice, Wilson, talking about him like he’s not even here. 

Banner blinks. “I dunno about spare, but I have one I’m not using right now.”

“Great – and you won’t have to,” Wilson stumbles over himself. “Everything’s fine. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Banner smiles. It looks forced. “I’d like to know what the Avengers are doing, because I’m an Avenger,” he says calmly. “And that’s important to me. When I’m left out of the conversation because people think I’ll hulk out hearing something upsetting, it makes me feel excluded and frustrated.” He pauses. “So, what’s up?”

The ‘I’ statements are really resonating with Wilson, Rumlow can see it. Wilson gives him Rumlow’s abridged version, then the two of them take Rumlow to… wow, it’s just a box. A big, transparent box sitting by itself in a warmly lit room. There’s a giant tic-tac-toe board on the floor of the box. There’s also some poster board, and oversized markers, and what looks like a giant weighted blanket. 

Banner keys in a code to a panel and one of the box’s walls slides open. “In you go,” he says pleasantly. 

“Leave the crutches outside,” Wilson adds. As soon as he says it, the crutches stop walking. Rumlow considers arguing that that’s cruel and unusual punishment, but he also doesn’t really wanna push the Hulk’s buttons. Or Wilson’s, for that matter. He can’t breathe through his nose. He goes to sit on the folded up weighted blanket. It’s weighted for the Hulk, so it’s like sitting on a rock. Behind him, the wall slides shut.

“Okay,” Wilson says. “I’m gonna go get my wings and deal with… Steve and Tony. You got him for a few?”

“Yep,” Banner says. “Good luck.”

Rumlow sits there for a while. He can’t really hear the fighting from here, but every so often he can feel the room shake a bit, and the Hulk Box walls vibrate from the occasional thump. He looks around. Is there any way he can break out of here?

Well, not with Banner right there watching.

Okay. What’s his game plan here? Think, Rumlow, think. He’s doing not bad, he’s already made it down twenty-three floors. Only seventy-one to go and he’s home free. And now Cap, arguably his biggest threat, is distracted. He’s gotta seize this opportunity. 

How is he gonna get out of this box? He’s never been trapped in a fucking super-glass box before. A bamboo box, sure. An actual cage. A coffin, one time. Once, notably, one of those James Bond crotch-laser-table set-ups. Bizarre fucking mission.

But a super-glass box? Not so much. The Asset’s been in a few, though. There’s a handful of bases that use them – like that one outside Appleton. And the one in Vancouver, though that doesn’t even count because that idiot Aziagbe hit the wrong button and the whole thing just opened up.

So.

How does he get Banner to pull an Aziagbe and hit that wall panel again?

“So,” he says, fishing, “whose side are you on?”

“Ha ha,” Banner says. “I’m not getting involved in whatever’s happening. They can work it out themselves.”

Rumlow drums his nails on the glass floor. “Pretty uncool of Stark to—”

“Rumlow,” Banner says sharply. “Listen. You’re not gonna talk me into letting you out of there. I’m not an idiot. I’m not reckless, or impulsive. You’re staying right there until this,” he waves vaguely, “is done with. I’m gonna finish my meditation.”

He’s right. Banner’s not an idiot, not at all. But you know who is an impulsive, super-strong idiot without a ton of higher brain function?

Okay, so Rumlow’s actually gonna do this. 

“Stark’s really trying to kill him, you know?” he starts out. “I didn’t see that coming. Cap just got his best friend back, and now he might lose him. For real, this time.”

Rumlow kinda doubts it, to be honest. He’s pretty sure Cap’s gonna make sure the Asset’s fine. Or else Rumlow’s gonna feel like an asshole.

Banner’s got his eyes shut and is sitting there, face blank and back straight. He doesn’t react.

“From what I saw,” Rumlow continues, “it looks like Stark just flew in and shot the guy point blank in the chest.” Which Rumlow is still processing himself, to be honest. “And sure, I mean, super-soldiers bounce back from anything, right? But you know what shape he was in. You spent all that time patching him up, and Stark just, well,” Rumlow shrugs. Banner doesn’t even bat a fucking eye. “I mean I get you’re not a real doctor, but shouldn’t that kind of stuff matter to you?”

Nothing.

“No offense,” Rumlow adds. Banner actually fucking smiles.

“None taken.” He shifts into a new meditation pose that makes Rumlow’s knees hurt just by looking at it. “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” he hums, like the start of a mantra or some shit. 

“Cap doesn’t deserve that,” Rumlow pushes. “Not after everything. What kind of bastard would just attack like that, y’know?”

Banner hums louder. Rumlow raises his voice.

“He probably found out, got drunk, and decided murder was a good reaction.”

Still not even a flicker of righteous anger. Ugh.

“You should stop bad-mouthing the other Avengers,” Banner says, though. “Tony’s really worked on himself the past few years. He’s got a much better handle on the drinking. Nobody’s perfect, all we can do is try to improve.” There’s a pause. “At least he didn’t join Hydra,” Banner adds.

Ouch.

Okay, this isn’t working. Time to change tack.

“I mean, sure, Cap could have told him, I guess,” Rumlow says. “Instead of you know, actively covering it up and letting him fall into that information ass-backwards.” Banner’s eyebrow twitches, which is the most Rumlow’s gotten out of him so far. Yeah, hadn’t known that little detail, had he. “I’d like to know if the guy I’m giving free room and board killed my parents.”

Banner takes a deep breath. “I’m sure it’s complicated from all sides,” he says, but there was a second of hesitation. “Neither of us know the full story.”

“Yeah, and neither did Stark. Guy’s spent twenty-three years thinking his dad was a drunk driver.” Banner doesn’t respond to that one, either, but he goes even more deliberately still. “I bet that kind of thing gets to you. Maybe even gives you issues with alcohol, y’know.”

It’s hard to tell if this is working. Rumlow waits. He adds, “You can see why Cap kept it secret, sure. If I had a billionaire friend, I’d wanna take advantage of that too. Especially if I had a real friend that needed the resources.”

Just then, a bit of plaster dust falls down onto Banner’s nose.

“Knock it off, Rumlow,” Banner says. He sounds so aggressively calm, but it’s a reaction. Rumlow grits his teeth, and starts up again.

“I thought you guys were supposed to be a team,” he says. “Trust each other, you know? Not lie about this kind of shit." He pauses. Adds, "Tony doesn’t deserve that.”

Silence.

“I bet they’ve lied to you before, huh, Banner?” Rumlow needles. “Tried to make sure you don’t find out about anything too stressful? For your own good. Kind of like what Cap was doing.”

Banner’s eyes flash open, and Rumlow sees a bit of green. He hopes this box really is Hulk-proof. 

“You need to stop talking,” Banner says. Jackpot.

“Cap went so far as to take the file off Romanoff’s data dump,” Rumlow says. “Guess she was involved, too. That’s some covert collaborative work to keep Stark in the dark. I was a double agent for like twenty years. I would know.”

He can definitely see green veins on Banner’s neck now.

"The team ever work together like that to keep shit from you?" he asks. "Cap ever do it?"

“Stop talking,” Banner says again.

“Why?” Rumlow asks. “Should I tiptoe around you like everyone else does?”

Banner leaps at the glass and presses both hands to it. Rumlow jumps back. His eyes are full green, and his face is in a snarl. Fuck, that’s terrifying.

“Shut up,” he raises his voice.

From somewhere in the building, he hears, “—in a goddamn email, Steve! I watched him kill them with his bare hands, of his own free will—”

“He didn't have free will!” Cap shouts back.

“Were you ever gonna tell me?!”

“Shut up!” Banner yells again, and Rumlow can’t tell if it’s aimed at him or at the fight upstairs. There’s a crash, and more plaster dust rains down on Banner's head. One of his glass sand-water sculpture things falls over. 

“Somebody’s got to tell it to you like it is,” Rumlow says, drawing Banner’s attention back to himself. “That noise? That’s your Avengers tearing themselves apart because they can’t stop lying to each other. None of them trust each other. Or trust you enough to tell you what’s really going on.” Banner slams a hand against the glass. Rumlow can see green blooming down the veins of his wrist. “And you’re not exactly proving them wrong, now. Are you?”

Banner tries to do the breathing exercises he was doing before. They’re coming out ragged and wet.

Upstairs, Stark is still screaming at Cap. “Were you?”

“I don’t know!” Cap finally snaps. “Maybe when you were ready to hear it!”

“You don’t get to decide when that is! You don’t get to decide that for me, I’m a grown man!”

“Then act like it!”

There’s an explosion from somewhere upstairs, and a scream, and Rumlow sees the moment Banner’s control slips. It’s just a crack but that’s all it takes, and suddenly he’s twisting, growing, and fully green. Ah. Rumlow sees the point of the purple spandex now. That fluffy white robe is in pieces on the floor, and Rumlow sees a lot more of the Hulk than he’d ever planned to.

“AVENGERS NOT LIE!” the Hulk bellows, and slams a fist the size of Rumlow’s entire torso into the super-glass. The vibrations knock Rumlow onto his ass, but the wall doesn’t break. “Steve lie! Steve betray all Avengers! Steve bad friend, and bad co-worker!” He bangs his fists down on the floor, and deep cracks spider out almost all the way to Rumlow's box.

This is… what Rumlow wanted, he supposes. But he is literally a super-glass wall away from a giant green monster. He scoots back a couple feet, like that’ll do anything. Okay, focus.

“Steve is a bad friend,” he agrees, and the Hulk turns to glare at him. Rumlow maybe pees a little. “How about you push that button on the wall, so—”

“Brock also lie! Steve bad friend but good man. Brock just bad man!”

Um.

“Hey,” Rumlow tries, “come on, big guy—”

The Hulk roars. Rumlow shuts the fuck up.

“HULK SMASH LYING STEVE!” The Hulk jumps, and the floor underneath him caves in from the force of it. For a second, Rumlow feels the box sway in mid-air. Then, suddenly, he’s in freefall, flying up against the glass ceiling with the markers and the weighted blanket. 

He’s not sure how far down he falls before the box crashes softly enough to just dent the floor instead of blasting straight through it. His face smashes against the super-glass as he drops, and he rolls as fast as he possibly can to dodge the rest of the Hulk’s de-stressors raining down around him. And then it’s still, and quiet. Rumlow leans back, panting. He’s still alive. 

He’s still alive.

Then he hears the hiss of gas.

“Heightened aggression detected,” a soothing, lady-robot voice tells him. “Activating protocol: Nap Time.”

Fuck. Is this normal gas or Hulk-grade gas? Because Rumlow’s pretty sure Hulk-grade gas will actually kill him. Fuck.

“I’m not the Hulk!” he screams. “Let me out of here!” Jesus, he can already feel it hitting him. His limbs are getting heavy. It’s getting hard to breathe. And think.

He starts banging on the walls, because what else is he supposed to do. There’s no way out.

“Let me out!” he gasps. “Jarvis! Let me…”

His vision starts tunneling in, then there’s a few loud clangs, and a crack. Suddenly Rumlow falls forward. He’s flat on his face, on the ground, taking in deep gasps of air. The black at the edges of his vision slowly starts to fade.

Something grabs him by the shirt and drags Rumlow out into a living room. He hears a door slam shut and then he’s hoisted onto a couch. Jesus, he might puke. His head’s spinning. Rumlow leans forward and just hangs there for a minute before he feels cold metal under his chin, lifting his head up. 

Thor’s looking down at him, eyes crackling with blue electricity. His hammer’s pressing against Rumlow’s windpipe, just a little. Rumlow gulps.

“Thanks?” he tries. 

“What manner of chaos have you unleashed?”

The hammer sizzles, and Rumlow can smell his Stark-goatee getting singed.

“It’s Cap and Stark!” Rumlow says. “They’re trying to kill each other.”

“You lie,” Thor snarls. Then he thinks about it. “Well, Stark and Rogers… alright, why have they come to blows?”

Rumlow thinks back to some of the venting Thor had done at him when they played foosball. This is an opportunity if he’s ever seen one.

“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you just…” Rumlow looks down pointedly at the hammer. It stops sizzling. Thor even pulls it back a quarter-inch.

“Speak,” Thor orders. “True and plain.”

True and plain, eh? Rumlow clears his throat and racks his brain to remember some of the stuff Thor had told him. 

“Okay, so, imagine,” he starts, “if your friend Heim… Heimdall, was it? Heimdall. Imagine if he didn’t tell you that,” Rumlow can’t believe he’s about to say this shit out loud, “Kurse the dark elf killed your mom and brother. And imagine if he and Kurse—”

The hammer sparks. “If you have a purpose,” Thor warns, “come to it.” 

“Okay! So – Cap did that to Stark.” 

Thor pauses. “Explain.”

“Turns out the Winter Soldier killed Stark’s parents way back, and Cap knew and kept it secret from Tony – that one of his fucking, friends and brother-in-arms, that his own shield-brother–” Rumlow’s not 100% sure he used that right – “murdered Stark’s parents.”

He can see Thor’s expression freeze.

“The Captain would not do such a thing.”

“Oh, but he did, though,” Rumlow says. “And what’s more,” he really hams it up, “Cap let Stark, who was only trying to be a – a good and noble friend, host his own family’s murderer under his roof! The betrayal! What would the Nörns say?”

“Do you mean the Nørns?”

“Yeah. That.”

Thor looks hurt, and conflicted. After a moment, he shakes it off. “I asked you for the truth, but it’s clear I asked too much.”

“Go see for yourself,” Rumlow shoots back. “They’re probably on floor seventy-something by now.”

Now the guy actually seems worried. Rumlow knows he’s won when the hammer pulls all the way back and he can actually breathe. Okay, he’s just got to get his crutches back and look for—

Thor takes Rumlow’s not-broken hand and gently sets his fucking hammer down on it. It’s not exactly heavy but Rumlow can’t even move his fingers under it, not to mention lift the thing. He tries to slide his hand free, but no luck. Thor nods, satisfied, and reaches into one of his interdimensional space pockets.

“You’ve proven too clever for the Avengers’ methods of confining you,” he says, pulling out what looks like a fancy alien watering can. He starts to pour it on Rumlow, chanting something as he does, and it starts freezing as it trickles down his body, until Rumlow’s wrapped from his shoulders to his ankles in a chain of magic, room-temperature ice.

“This was one of Loki’s spells,” Thor says softly. “Doubtless you will find him harder to outwit.” He picks the hammer up and starts spinning it. It blurs, and shoots him up through the ceiling, and the next ceiling, and a couple more ceilings after that. Plaster dust and pieces of ceiling snow down around Rumlow. 

A minute or two later he hears Thor, in a booming voice, go, “How could you?” and Wilson shouting, “Steve, do you understand the concept of de-escalation?” Then there’s a crash of thunder. 

Nice.

Less nice, though? He’s tied up with a magic ice-chain on a couch. And his crutches have fucked off somewhere.

So. Worm-crawling it is. If he gets to the elevator, there’s a chance he still has permissions to get to the common room floor, and then he’s only got thirty-six left. Maybe ice-chains have really good shock absorption and he can just throw himself off the balcony?

Rumlow flings himself off the couch and gets onto his side. He can’t bend his splinted leg, and his legs are magic-ice-chained together, so he can’t really bend the other one, either. 

So. Rolling it is. 

Luckily, Stark’s hallways are wide as fuck, so it doesn’t take Rumlow that long to get to the elevator. He pauses at the doors, catching his breath.

He looks up and, outside, he sees the Asset fall past the window. A second later, he sees Cap fall after him, and then, after a pause, Stark flying down after them both. A moment later, lightning flashes in the sky.

“Jarvis!” he grunts. “Elevator!”

The elevator doors slide open without a word. Rumlow rolls himself the last few feet and props himself up against the wall so he can see the floor buttons. The doors close. None of the buttons light up.

“I’m sorry, Brock Rumlow, Agent of Hydra.” Wow. “I’m afraid your permissions have been revoked.”

The elevator starts speeding down. Rumlow should have probably seen that one coming.

“Where’s this thing taking me?” he says, in a very steady and not at all shrill kind of way. 

“A structurally sound floor with adequate supervision.”

Well, at least he’s heading down. That’s progress. The doors ding open. Barton is waiting for him, arms crossed.

“Hey, asshole,” he says, way too fucking cheerfully, and reaches down to grab Rumlow’s chains. He drags Rumlow to a little kitchen, where Romanoff is sitting at the table, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s the situation?” she asks immediately.

“I am under strict instructions not to activate emergency protocols,” Jarvis says, “as Mister Stark, I quote, ‘knows what he’s doing.’ However, Mister Stark and Captain Rogers are engaged in a… rather destructive argument. Sergeant Barnes, Thor, and Mister Wilson have also become involved.” There’s a pause. “And the Hulk.”

To her credit, Romanoff just nods. Maybe the Chair fried her stress response. Barton groans.

“Thor, and the Hulk? Come on, man. Tony’s gonna get us all killed.”

“Actually, I believe they are on Mister Stark’s side.”

Romanoff and Barton exchange glances. “What about Pepper?” Romanoff asks suddenly. “Where is she?”

“Ms. Potts is in the common area, in Bar 2.” Jarvis pauses. “She is… stable.” 

Why’s everyone talking about Pepper like she’s gonna freak the fuck out? She seemed fine to Rumlow. Anyone dating Stark’s gotta be decently good at dealing with this kind of bullshit.

Romanoff and Barton share another look. 

“Are you sure?” Barton asks her. “You’re still kinda… I mean, you can’t…”

Romanoff’s already standing. “You know read the room is a figure of speech,” she deadpans. “I don’t actually need to be able to read to make sure this doesn’t blow up.” She ducks out of the kitchen into another room.

Ah. That had happened to the Asset once, when some new 19-year old tech fucked up the Chair settings. That mission had not gone well.

Barton hesitates for a moment, then nods. He looks at Rumlow.

“Just so you know,” Barton says, “even though I’m not sure on the details of what went down in that base, or how Nat got hurt, I know you did something.”

Rumlow keeps his mouth shut.

“But I’d rather see you in a black site than get crushed by tower rubble, so. I guess you’re coming with.”

“Clint!” Romanoff snaps, coming back in. She’s wearing a hooded black and red thing with too many sleeves and holding a matching purple one that she throws at Barton. “Put on your Nørn shirt and let’s move.”

Of course she gets the accent right. 

Barton pulls the thing over his head and crouches down to tie Romanoff’s shoes. Yeesh. 

“Jarvis,” he calls up to the ceiling. “Can we get some transport for this bag of squid dicks over here?”

“Certainly. Though there has been significant damage to tower facilities, and we are somewhat limited in our options.”

There’s a whirring, buzzing sound and Rumlow sees a cloud of black metallic something flying towards him. It kind of looks like a bunch of marbles. They shift into the shape of a hook that attaches itself to the chains at his back. 

Rumlow’s hook-carried after Barton and Romanoff like a fucking cow carcass, and the three of them go into the elevator. Romanoff and Barton spend the ride tying off the extra sleeves of their stupid alien shirts – Barton’s using his for extra arrow storage. Which turns out to be a good fucking call because by the time they get down to the common area, the fight’s caught up to them.

Cap and the Asset are standing back to back on the balcony, fighting off Stark and the occasional bolt of lighting from Thor. Half of the TV room is a crater, with the Hulk crouched in the middle of it. He’s swatting at Wilson, who’s flying around his head trying to talk him down.

“Steve made a mistake,” Wilson’s shouting. “We all make mistakes! Like earlier, when you punched that load-bearing wall? That was a mistake. But I forgive you!”

“Steve LIE! Steve not care about his friends!” 

“Come on, man, it’s more complicated than that!”

“Hulk like flying man, but flying man need GET OUT OF HULK’S WAY!”

The Hulk flicks Wilson with two fingers, and it launches him across the room, through the window, and into Thor. They both disappear over the edge of the balcony. 

Barton, Romanoff, and Rumlow’s robot-hook creep along the edge of the room towards the kitchen. It’s a good call, because just then the Asset tackles Stark through the window, into the dining area. Rumlow can feel the glass shards miss him by a fucking hair. Cap vaults in after them, getting his shield in front of the Asset a second before Stark shoots off another energy beam. It glances off and hits the bar, shattering the entire top shelf.

“—everything he’s done?” Stark’s shouting, throwing the dining table at Cap. Cap throws the shield to meet it, and it slices the thing clean in half before it hits. The two halves fall harmlessly at Cap’s sides.

“It wasn’t his fault!” Cap insists.

“What happened to all those speeches about how we always have a choice?”

“Oh, come on, Tony!”

“What, brain damage gives you a free pass? Pretty ableist of you there, Cap.”

“I don’t even know what that means!”

Two robots pop out of the ground to go for Cap’s feet again, but this time he’s ready for them, and flings them both at Stark. 

“It means he still worked for Hydra for seventy years!” Stark says, knocking them out of the air.

“You know who worked for Hydra willingly that you don’t seem to have a problem with? Your goddamn Uncle Arnie!”

Stark makes an indignant noise. “Quit changing the subject!”

“You didn’t ever bother to ask why he was in Argentina after the war?” 

“I was twelve! And what—”

“So you get a ‘free pass’?”

“—you’re telling me you did an in-depth search of Peggy Carter’s SHIELD career after you went into the ice?”

“Don’t you bring Peggy into this!”

Stark activates some magnet or something, and all the knives in the kitchen start launching themselves at the Asset.

They go at it for a while, a lot of knives end up lodged in walls – and one or two in Cap and the Asset each – and then Rumlow sees one of Thor’s lightning bolts hit the Asset, who convulses and drops to the ground.

Rumlow’s heart stops for a second.

“Bucky!” Cap screams.

There’s a moment of total stillness. Then the Asset hops to his feet, shakes himself off, and throws something back at Thor without missing a beat. He looks to Cap and shrugs.

“I’ve had worse.” And they’re back at it.

The noise of the fighting gets eerily quieter as soon as Rumlow, Romanoff, and Barton are in the kitchen. Once they’re through the door to Bar Number 2, Rumlow can barely hear the crashes. The soundproofing in this tower is off the fucking charts.

Pepper’s sitting at the bar, signaling to the robot with the little bowtie. It floats over and pours her another couple more fingers of whiskey from a compartment in its chest. She’s smoking, chain-smoking from the look of it – the ashtray in front of her is piled high. 

“Hey Pepper,” Romanoff says carefully. “Rough night?”

“Oh, you know,” Pepper sighs. “Yeah.” She takes a sip without turning back to look at them. “You heard about the—" she gestures with her hand in the general direction of the balcony.

“Yep,” Barton says.

Pepper swivels around and startles a little to see Rumlow, then just kinda gets over it like he’s not even in her top hundred priorities.

“I told him,” she says, “I told him to at least sleep on it.” Rumlow sees a few more bits of ash fall into the tray. Come to think of it, he can’t actually see a cigarette… “But you know Tony,” she sighs.

“Come down to my floor,” Romanoff offers. Then she starts speaking in Pashto or something. Barton slaps her arm, and she stops. “Let’s ignore this,” she says, switching to English, “and have a girls night. Maybe you can take a nice, relaxing bath—”

“I was,” Pepper says. “Then the pipes burst before the tub could fill more than an inch, so that’s that.”

Yeah, there’s definitely no cigarette. The smoke’s just coming from… her fingers? Rumlow’s obviously missed something big.

“I went up to Bruce’s,” she continues, “but, well. If you haven’t seen it, I don’t recommend going up there. It’s a—”

Just then the wall behind them shatters, spraying everyone with bits of drywall and whatever-the-fuck, and the Hulk flies through it. He lands sprawled on his back. The Asset and Wilson are standing in front of the hole in the living room, both looking dumbfounded at the Asset’s arm.

“Dude,” Wilson gasps.

“I didn’t know it could do that,” the Asset says.

In front of Rumlow, the Hulk groans and pulls himself up. And… Jesus. It looks like there’s smoke coming out of Pepper's nose. Her skin’s starting to look weird, too… shimmery, or something. The air around Rumlow’s getting uncomfortably hot.

The Hulk looks up, growling, then his face freezes when he sees Pepper.

“Hulk sorry,” the Hulk says quickly, and now Rumlow’s starting to get scared.The Hulk picks up a chunk of wall and tries to stack it back into the hole. It doesn’t stay. “Hulk can fix…”

Pepper’s pyjamas are starting to get a weird texture, too, like they’re getting tighter. And less structurally sound.

“Pepper…” Barton says.

“He always does this,” she says, and her pyjamas are definitely starting to melt away. The whiskey in her hand is starting to boil, and evaporate into the air. “And now we’re gonna have to go live somewhere else for a while, and he’s gonna cost himself all his good working relationships… he can’t even see he’s overreacting. You know? And how it looks on me, when he acts like this. ”

Rumlow can’t focus on what she’s saying anymore, because her skin’s glowing orangey-red, and her clothes have all melted away except for this bra and panties set she’s got on underneath, that seem like they’re heat resistant or something. She’s got a great body, except for the fact that it’s fucking glowing. Rumlow really wishes he had one of those alien shirts right about now. Romanoff and Barton pull their hoods up.

“And he’s hurting Bucky,” she continues, “who’s obviously the victim in all this, and the poor guy’s been through enough, but oh no, no, no. Tony always has to—”

“Pepper,” Romanoff says sharply. She puts a sleeve-wrapped hand on her glowy forearm. “You’re about to blow.”

Pepper looks down at herself. Her eyes get teary, which Rumlow can only tell because of the steam that suddenly wafts up from her face.

“Oh, great,” she says, voice breaking. Her skin’s starting to look molten-black now, with cracks of lava-orange, and it actually hurts to be this close to her. Rumlow was sweating before, but now he can feel that steaming up, too.

“Remember puny Banner’s breathing exercises,” the Hulk offers. Pepper sob-laughs and the lava strips on her throat spout flames. 

“You guys should run,” she says. “Sorry.”

“Emergency mode activated,” says Jarvis.

“You’ve come back before,” Romanoff insists calmly. How is she so fucking calm right now? “You can—"

“Go!” Pepper screams, and pushes the three of them back. Rumlow hears his own skin instantly sear where her hand presses against his chest – it's so hot it doesn’t even hurt - and he and his levitating robot hook are thrown back across the room. Romanoff and Barton duck behind the rubble of the wall and pull him with them. There’s another burst of heat, a loud rush of air, and Rumlow sees flames and glass shoot out of the bar like a fucking bomb went off. He presses against the rubble for dear life.

On the plus side, though, it seems like the way to defeat magic ice-chains is science fire, so there’s a crack in one of the links where Pepper shoved him. Carefully, he shimmies a little to try and get the broken link loose. Success! 

He stays in the chains while Romanoff and Barton are still there, though.

They wait till there’s no more explosions or fire shooting out, then peek back into the bar. Slowly, they go inside. Rumlow wriggles himself out of the chains – the moment he does, they melt back into a puddle of water. 

He rolls onto his stomach and starts to army crawl. Fuck his broken arm, fuck his broken leg. They’re still pushing him forward, and everything hurts anyway so the pain barely registers. Emergency mode took its sweet fucking time, but now at least he should be able to get down to whatever floor he wants. He just needs to make it to ground level, and then he’s getting the fuck out of here.

Rumlow makes it across the kitchen, grits his teeth, and pulls himself over the Hulk-hole rubble with his good arm. He has to pause for a second to just breathe. Somewhere above him, the fight’s still going on, though it’s turned just verbal now after Pepper fucking exploded. Rumlow can’t hear actual fighting anymore. They haven’t noticed him crawling past. Banner’s turned back into Banner, and he’s naked and passed out on the floor. Wilson’s done his cool wings-shield thing again, and he unwraps it. He and the Asset are underneath, sweaty but intact. Wilson’s even managed to get his own Nørn-shirt on at some point, over the jetpack. It has wing-sleeves for the wings.

“—even gonna apologize?” Stark’s shouting now.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Cap says sincerely. He’s finally cooling down a little. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“Fine.” Stark waits. “And?”

Cap pauses.

Rumlow looks up, decides they all seem pretty distracted, and starts crawling towards the elevator. It's just a few more yards. Then he's home free. He's fucking getting out of here.

Stark points at the Asset. “What about him? Is he gonna apologize?”

The Asset looks at Cap, awaiting the order.

Romanoff says, “You can’t expect the Soldier—"

“He’s got nothing to apologize for!” Cap explodes.

“Do you even hear this?” Stark asks the room.

“Tony—” Pepper starts.

“‘He’s got nothing to apologize for’,” Stark mimics. “Don’t give me that.”

“I told you to sleep on it!” Pepper shouts, and Stark winces.

“Look,” Wilson says, and honestly? Rumlow kind of admires his therapist balls for getting into the middle of this. “You’ve seen how Bucky is right now, how much help he needs?”

“The condition of his thrall is no reason for the Captain to deceive his shield-brother!”

“Yeah,” Wilson says, “there could have maybe been a better way to handle this, but—"

“Steve handled this as well as he could,” Romanoff cuts in. “I’m sorry, Tony, but anyone could have guessed you’d overreact, and containing the Winter Soldier is a priority.”

“You don’t even remember anything!” Stark snaps at her. “And I’m not overreacting!”

That starts up another chorus of talking over each other.

“Okay, look,” Stark says, then looks aCap right in the eyes. “Steve. Cards on the table. If you had the chance to do it over, you’d lie to me again, wouldn’t you? To get me to help Barnes?” 

Cap lifts his chin. He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Cool,” Stark says. “Then get out of my house.”

Pepper looks pissed. “Tony, don’t—”

“No, Pep, we’re doing this. Get out of my house,” Stark repeats. “And take your Hydra trash with you – both of them. He points over his shoulder at Rumlow without looking, “That one’s trying to crawl to the elevator.”

An arrow suddenly pins the very outside of Rumlow’s leg splint to the floor.

“God fucking dammit!” Rumlow shouts. He was almost there!

“Hang on a sec, Squidward,” Stark calls. “We’re just figuring out custody.”

Cap looks appalled. “You’re not serious,” he says. “He’s Hydra!”

“Yeah, so’s your BFF over there.”

“We can’t just let him go.”

Stark shrugs. “So don’t. But I’m not keeping him. Hydra’s your problem. And I’m not dealing with your problems anymore. Also, as far as I’m concerned, he’s the only one here who told me the truth.” 

Cap turns to glare at Rumlow. Fuck, he’s going to get shield-murdered even without the handler stuff coming out.

“Stop it,” Pepper snaps at Stark. The molten lava look is starting to fade to just a red glow under her skin. “This is embarrassing.”

“I’m being embarrassing? What, you’re on his side?”

“You know what? If you’re going to be a child and put us on sides, then yeah. I’m on Team Cap. Actually, come on, Steve. Let’s go. I’ve got a cottage upstate where we can camp out.”

What the fuck is happening?

“Honey,” Stark pleads.

“Nope.” Pepper doesn’t even look back at him. “Call me when you’re ready to talk through this like an adult.”

Cap hefts Rumlow over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes, and they, the Asset, Pepper, Romanoff, Wilson, and Barton all head toward the elevator. Fuck. All that for nothing. He’s right back where he goddamn started.

“Come now, Stark,” Rumlow can hear Thor saying. “There is no need of this. You were wronged, you defended your honour, and now that all is made right we should drink! Not talk of banishment…”

“Does this look like everything made right to you?”

Thor pauses. “Perhaps another battle to further clear the air?”

The elevator doors open and the seven of them cram inside.

“Hey,” Stark calls before the doors shut. “Leave the shield.”

Cap clenches his jaw.

“That shield doesn’t belong to you,” Stark pushes.” You don’t deserve it.” His voice cracks. “My father made that shield!”

Cap tosses it outside the elevator. It lands with a clang, and the doors slide shut. It’s silent, and tense. Cap and the Asset are more bruise and burn than they are skin, and everyone’s fucking exhausted. Rumlow included.

“Jarvis,” Pepper says, “can you get my helicopter ready? And have a change of clothes in there for all of us, please? It’s about a half-hour trip,” she adds to Cap, who looks relieved.

Romanoff asks, “Is there a cell there that can hold the Soldier?”

Cap squares his shoulders. Rumlow can tell, because he’s on them.

“Natasha,” Cap says. “You’re my friend. But I’m not gonna put Bucky in a cell. Not now. Not ever. I understand if you can’t come with us because of that, and I won’t hold it against you.”

There’s a pause. Romanoff and Barton get off at the next floor. She gives Cap a kiss on the cheek before she goes.

Barton looks back. “I’m gonna stay with Nat,” he says apologetically.

Cap nods. “I understand.”

“Shoot us a text when you land, okay?” Barton says. Cap gives him a tight smile.

“Sure. Thanks.”

The elevator doors slide closed. 

“Pepper,” Cap starts, “do you have a computer I can borrow? And a phone? Mine’s… anyway, I gotta make a couple of calls.” 

Rumlow swallows. “Cap, maybe you don’t have—”

“Nothing’s changed, Rumlow,” Cap cuts him off. 

Yeah. That was what he was afraid of.

Chapter Text

Pepper’s upstate cabin has those old-timey radiators. Cap didn’t have any handcuffs or anything, so he just brought a metal pipe up from Pepper’s basement, weaved it through the radiator bars, and twisted it around a bunch of times with his bare hands. Rumlow’s been tied up like that the past few hours, cycling through the five stages of grief in increasingly creative orders.

He’s not getting out of this one.

Cap’s been on and off the phone basically all day. Seems like whichever agency he’s trying to get a hold of is stretched to capacity. Rumlow can hear him, right now, talking on the phone in the other room. 

“...Yeah, no. Seventy years. Yeah. You’re, uh. You’re welcome – listen, sorry, Special Agent… Agent, but can we get back to the Hydra agent I need you to… thank you. Yeah. Brock Rumlow. R-U-M…”

When they first got here, Cap had tied Rumlow up by his good arm. He’d stayed like that for a big chunk of the day, until Cap must have come to the conclusion that he didn’t particularly feel like hand-feeding Rumlow, or helping him piss. So now the pipe is twisted around Rumlow’s good leg. And there’s a bottle of piss near him on the floor.

Cap must be on hold or something. He hasn’t said anything since he spelled out Pepper’s address, not even any ‘mhm’s or anything. 

Softly, the Asset asks, “When are you gonna hand him over?”

“First thing in the morning,” Cap sighs. “They’re coming here. He said they could – Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Alright. Thank you very much, sir. Okay. Good night.”

There’s a silence.

“How long until you’re healed?” Cap asks. Rumlow can hear the shrug in the Asset’s voice.

“Morning?” he guesses.

“Yeah, me too.” Rumlow hears a mug clatter on the counter and Cap hiss.

“Late morning, pal,” the Asset says. Cap huffs out a laugh. The Asset adds, thoughtful, “I got this feeling like I should be mad at you about something.”

“Get in line,” Cap says dryly. 

“Something about,” the Asset continues, “you sitting here with me across this table, covered in bruises. I feel like I should put a cold towel on your nose. Then yell at you.”

“You used to patch me up,” Cap tells him. “After I’d get in some stupid fight.”

“Yeah?” the Asset absorbs that. “Guess not much has changed, then.”

Cap barks out a laugh. “Yeah, buddy.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Afterwards, we’d pop open the back window and you’d head out onto the fire escape for a smoke. If it was warm enough out, I’d sit there with you.” 

That was in the original Asset Management manual, actually. A smoke as a reward. It had stayed part of SOP all the way up until Insight. Makes Rumlow feel kinda weird knowing this is where it came from. 

There’s the sound of someone pulling open a drawer and digging around. “What are we waiting for, then?” the Asset says. A second later, Rumlow hears their chairs scraping back. Cap leads the way past Rumlow, onto the porch. He’s got a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a BBQ lighter in the other. The screen door clatters shut behind them and pretty soon Rumlow can smell them lighting up.

“I missed this,” the Asset says. He sounds surprised. “I didn’t even know about this and I missed it.”

“Missed you too, Buck,” Cap says back, and tries not to sound as choked up as he does. There’s a pause. Hesitantly, he says, “Do you remember… that that’s your name? I told you it was, but. Not the same thing as remembering.”

The Asset doesn’t say anything for a long time. “I don’t remember it,” he answers finally. Cap looks like he’s about to cry. “But,” the Asset continues, “It’s my name now, isn’t it? Bucky Barnes.” He takes a puff of his cigarette. “That’s what you named me.”

“I shouldn’t get to,” Cap starts. “You should choose that for yourself, when you’re ready. If that’s the name you still want. Or—” he corrects quickly, “not want, sorry, but— you should choose that for yourself.” Look at Cap, scrounging up a C in Handling 101.

The Asset shrugs. “You choose your name, pal?”

Cap goes quiet. Then he snorts out a laugh. “Fair enough, Buck,” he says. “Fair enough.”

It’s gotten dark enough out that Rumlow can only see Cap and the Asset from the glow when one of them takes a drag. They’re in undershirts and bandages, and with how little Rumlow can see, they even look like they’re in fucking black-and-white.

There’s nowhere for Rumlow to go.  There isn’t even a lock for him to pick. He could get out of this if he broke his own ankle, but then that’s two broken legs and twenty miles of woods in every direction. Some escape plan.

He can’t even muster up the energy to freak out. He already freaked out enough over dying the other day, after the investigation finished. He’s just drained. And hurting. Everywhere.

So he just sits there and listens to Cap and the Asset smoking.

It’s really over this time. 

And it’s… not fine, obviously. But it is what it is.

Fuck.

The screen door opens again and the Asset heads inside. He’s grinning, but his face falls a bit when he spots Rumlow. 

Cap’s face falls a lot when he spots Rumlow.

“Tomorrow morning,” he tells him. Rumlow just nods. They’re most of the way past him, about to leave, when he decides, fuck it.

“Any chance I can get a last drink?" It’s not like he’s got anything to lose by asking. He’d like to taste something good before some Camp Phoenix goon tears out his tongue for funsies.

Cap stares at him for a long second.

“I’ll see what we have,” he says, and goes into the kitchen. Rumlow hears cabinets opening. A moment later, Cap’s back with a bottle of Glenlivet single malt, and a coffee mug. Rumlow’s 100% sure Pepper has proper whiskey glasses somewhere in this bajillion-dollar house, but he decides now’s not the time to rib Cap for his Depression-era upbringing. To be fair, it’s not like Rumlow knew what to drink whiskey out of until he was in his thirties.

Cap pours what sounds like a full mug and hands it to Rumlow. “This thing’s older than me,” he says.

“Thanks.” Rumlow takes a long swallow, shutting his eyes. That is the best fucking whiskey he’s ever had in his life. Expensive shit is just better.

Cap watches him sip it. "Good?" He asks.

"Fucking fantastic."

“Wish I could still get drunk,” he muses. 

The Asset’s eyes squeeze closed for a second. He blinks them open, looking surprised. 

“You can,” he tells Cap.

“No, Buck,” Cap says regretfully. “Sorry. We can’t, anymore. Serum burns through it too fast.”

“Well, yeah, faster than we can drink,” now the Asset’s starting to sound excited. Rumlow’s honestly kind of happy for him. That’s an important thing to remember. “You gotta set up an IV.”

Rollins had been the one to find it in the original Soviet notes, actually. They’d gotten stuck for a week longer than planned in a snowstorm, trapped in their boring ass stakeout with nothing to do and sick of playing cards. Rollins had said, “they must have done something for fun in Siberia”, read through the notes, and found this one batshit crazy experiment they’d done on the Asset in fucking 1945 or something, with a goddamn vodka IV. 

They’d found a stash in one of the cabinets and gotten the Asset drunk with the rest of STRIKE. It was pretty fun – he’d mostly just shit-talked Kaminsky, their backup sniper, for sucking. To his face. After that, once in a while, if STRIKE was drinking and the Asset was around, and he’d been well-functioning, Rumlow let Rollins give him a shot of vodka in the crook of his elbow so he could join the fun a little.

Fuck. Rumlow hopes Rollins is still alive. It feels worse than the broken leg and the burn on his chest, not knowing.

“I can show you?” the Asset offers. Cap’s nostrils flare for a sec, like he’s about to demand how the Asset knows he can get drunk via IV, then he kind of loses steam and deflates like it’s not worth it.

“You know what, Buck?” he says. “Sure. Sounds fun. God knows I could use a drink.”

They take the fancy whiskey with them. Rumlow’s still got half a mug left, though, so it isn’t half bad.

Cap and the Asset must go off to one of their rooms, because he doesn’t hear them anymore after they leave. About a half hour later, he hears footsteps upstairs - Wilson’s been in the jacuzzi for a solid four hours trying to “soak off the fact I’ve been somehow kicked out of the Avengers” and now he must finally be going to bed. Rumlow hasn’t heard anything since.

He doesn’t wanna sleep. Feels like a waste.

This is how it fucking ends. He can’t say he can’t believe it, but… wow, does this suck. There’s no one to talk to, to talk his way out of this. Nowhere to go. There’s nothing left to try.

He drinks all the whiskey, and it doesn’t take long for him to start to feel pleasantly woozy. He might be hung over tomorrow, but who cares. Right now, it tastes good. Burns nice. It fucking sucks his life is over, but he’s got no huge regrets, at least. He’s had a great career, until it - literally – went up in flames. Seen a lot of things. No kids, but he never really wanted them. At least Rumlow’s not gonna be one of those pussies going ohh, I should have done this, I should have done that, at the end.

He’s feeling pretty sleepy now. It’s warm, right next to the radiator, and the whiskey’s pulling him down fast. He grabs the pillow Cap left him and shoves it under his head.

He’s asleep for a few minutes – it feels like – when there’s footsteps walking past him. He looks up and sees the Asset, coming back from the kitchen. He’s got a glass of water in one hand. They look at each other for a drawn out moment. 

“Hey,” Rumlow says stupidly.

“Hey yourself,” the Asset says,“Commander Rumlow.”

You know those kids cartoons, where the guy runs off a cliff and doesn’t realize it at first? And just sprints in mid air for a second before he stops, and then he falls?

Yeah.

Yeah, that feels about right.

“So,” Rumlow says. “You finally remember who I am, huh, Soldier?”

The Asset nods. “For a couple days now. I wasn’t 100% sure at first.” 

On the bright side, Rumlow’s not gonna see the inside of Camp Phoenix, because any minute now Cap will vault down the stairs and brain him.

Except… he hasn’t.

“A couple of days?” Rumlow says again. The Asset nods. And Rumlow finally gets it. “You didn’t tell Cap.” 

The Asset winces. He looks uncomfortable. “No,” he echoes slowly. “I didn’t.”

They stare at each other for a minute. The Asset leans down and hands him the glass of water. Rumlow takes it, dumbly, and takes a long gulp. He’s rapidly sobering up.

“Are you gonna?” 

Instead of answering, the Asset crouches down and reaches for the pipe that’s keeping Rumlow tied to the radiator. Rumlow flinches when he touches it. It takes him a second to realize that the Asset is carefully un-twisting the metal. 

Holy shit. 

This is so not what he expected to happen that Rumlow just stares as the bar’s unwound from his leg, blanking out. What the fuck is going on?

“Status report,” he demands.

“Extraction is on its way here,” the Asset says. Rumlow looks up sharply. Did he actually just say that? That wasn’t a fucking hallucination?

“You got in contact with Hydra?” he asks. The Asset nods. “Who?”

“Agent Rollins.”

There had been something squeezing Rumlow’s chest for the last few days, and he hadn’t realized it until just now when it disappeared.

“He’s alive? You actually talked to him?”

The Asset nods again. “When we first got here. He should be outside in a few minutes, if he isn’t already.”

Rumlow can’t believe what he’s hearing. He doesn’t know what to say. They’re actually gonna get the fuck out of here. 

The metal groans as the Asset straightens out the pipe, and Rumlow gets a jolt of anxiety.

“Cap’s gonna hear—” he hisses, and the Asset tsks.

“Stevie’s always been a lightweight,” he says dismissively. “And he hasn’t had a drink in five years. Or seventy. Whichever way you look at it, he’s down for the count.” 

They sit in silence as the Asset works on a particularly tight loop around Rumlow’s ankle. He has to do it piece by piece so it doesn’t constrict and break anything else. It’s a slow process.

“So, Bucky Barnes, huh?” Rumlow asks. The Asset shrugs, uncomfortable.

“Apparently.”

“Who woulda guessed?”

“Not me, that’s for sure,” the Asset says. He looks up and meets Rumlow’s eyes. “Would it have changed anything, Commander?” he asks. “If you knew?”

It’s a fair question. Rumlow thinks about it as the Asset pulls the loop around his ankle straight. Primary handler of American war hero Bucky Barnes. It sounds more like a kid’s game than anything else, like something they’d play out after watching Howlies!. It’s bullshit. Even knowing now who the Asset was made from, it doesn’t make a difference. He wasn’t Bucky Barnes’ handler. It wasn’t Bucky Barnes that Rumlow took into the field, and rewarded and punished when he needed it. It wasn’t Bucky Barnes that Rumlow sent off to maintenance, and put in the Chair, and hung out with during downtime. Rumlow’s never been anything to Bucky Barnes. But he took good fucking care of his Asset. 

“Would’ve explained the weird slang, at least,” is all he says. The Asset chuckles. “Why are you getting me out of here?” Rumlow asks, because he’s gotta ask.

The Asset answers without even hesitating. “I have to protect my handler,” he recites.

“Even from Steve?” 

The corner of the Asset’s mouth twitches. “Guess so.”

“Sounds complicated,” Rumlow says as the Asset helps him to his feet.

“You’re telling me,” the Asset agrees. 

Rumlow tries to step forward, but even leaning on the Asset, he almost falls back down. He really misses those robo-crutches. After an awkward shuffle-hop, the Asset just reaches down and scoops Rumlow into his arms bridal-style for the second time this week. Carefully, he navigates them through the screen door. Rumlow sees a pair of headlights coming up the drive. For a second, he thinks the suits are here early to take him away. But then the car passes under the porch light and he can see Rollins at the wheel, in a neck brace. He’s got a black eye and some nasty gashes on his face that are probably gonna turn into more scars.

Rumlow waves at him like a dumbass. Rollins waves back. He’s missing two fingers.

The Asset starts walking over as the car slows down, and stops, and holy shit Rumlow’s actually, really getting out of here. They’re all getting out of here. 

“I am gonna tell Steve,” the Asset says abruptly, and Rumlow doesn’t understand at first that he’s answering his question from earlier. “I’m gonna tell him everything. I can’t not. But I’m gonna wait twenty-four hours before I do.”

It’s then that Rumlow realizes the Asset isn’t coming with him.

He looks up at him. “You’re staying.”

The Asset sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

There’s a chance Rumlow’s still kind of drunk, because that’s hitting him harder than it should. He’s worked with the Asset over a decade, now. Longer than with any other weapon. He’s always been the number one item in Rumlow’s arsenal. And Rumlow’s been his longest-tenured handler. Except…

“So,” he says. “It’s Steve, huh.”

The Asset meets his eyes. “It’s always been Steve,” he admits.

The Asset pulls open the car door and helps Rumlow into the back. Rollins half-turns around to see him, which is kinda hard with the neck brace, and they clasp arms.

“Hey, man,” Rumlow says. He’s so fucking glad he’s alive. “You look like shit.”

“Same goes for you double,” Rollins rasps. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Rumlow looks back at the Asset. He’s leaning down so he and Rumlow are face to face. 

“Come with me,” he tries. “That’s an order.” The Asset’s already shaking his head.

“I got standing orders,” he says. “I can’t.”

So that’s that, then.

“I get it,” Rumlow tells him. He ignores Rollins’ what-the-hell face in the rearview mirror. “New chain of command, huh?”

The Asset half-smiles. “More like old,” he says. He’s looking at Rumlow exactly the way he used to after they thawed him out, like he’s the only point in the room that’s really there. After a second, he blinks and looks away. “Twenty-four hours,” he reminds him.

“Well?” Rollins presses. “Is it coming with? We gotta go, Rumlow.”

“Hold on a second,” Rumlow hisses. He looks back at the Asset. “I just gotta know,” he says. And hesitates, because… well, shit. Because. “Was I a good handler?”

The Asset’s eyes are shiny with tears. “You were the best handler I ever had.”

He shuts the car door. Rumlow rolls the window down. 

“Wait forty-eight hours before you tell Steve,” he says. “As my final order.” The Asset frowns. “Come on, Soldier,” Rumlow adds. “Best handler you ever had, remember?” And then, more seriously, “You owe me that much.”

He can see the exact second the Asset complies.

“Forty-eight hours,” he agrees. He looks anxiously back at the house. “But it’s time to go now.”

And that… kind of hurts, really. Somehow, it catches Rumlow off guard. He doesn’t want to leave the Asset here. He’s got good reasons. Cap still hasn’t got a clue how to handle him, and it would be useful to keep him around, to watch his and Rollins’ backs on the run. But it just comes back to this: he doesn’t want to leave the Asset behind. He’s been his field handler longer than anyone else kept the job, he's put all that work in, he should get to fucking keep him. After all those years, he’s gotten used to having him on hand. It's been a privilege wielding such a damn fine weapon. Who apparently likes being called Bucky Barnes. But that’s neither here nor there. 

The Asset’s still standing there, looking sadly at Rumlow. Goddammit, when did this happen? When did Rumlow get this attached? It feels like leaving behind an arm.

He reaches through the window, ignores Rollins’ “Brock, let’s fucking go,” and places his hand on the back of the Asset’s neck. The Asset leans into it and sighs a little, the way he always does when he gets a reward. Rumlow holds it there for a few seconds. He scratches just behind his ear.

“You’re a damn fine weapon,” he tells him. “Now that you’re remembering stuff, don’t forget that.”

The Asset swallows. “Understood.”

“Good job, Soldier,” Rumlow says, and takes his hand away.

The Asset looks like he knows he’s done good.

“Get outta here, Commander,” he says back, softly. It’s the kind of thing he would never have said, before.

Rumlow starts to roll the window back up. He looks at the Asset’s face through the glass. Reminds him of the tank. It’s not so different than leaving him behind in cryo for a while, Rumlow tries to tell himself.

“Thanks, Barnes,” Rumlow says. The Asset startles.

Rollins hits the gas.

Just before he disappears into the rearview mirror, Rumlow sees the Asset smile.