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Rumlow doesn’t have time for this bullshit.
It’s the Fourth of July. If he had his way, Rumlow would be sitting in his apartment with a beer and some of those discounted holiday-themed sugar cookies that stores always have out this time of year watching Happy Gilmore and steadfastly ignoring the sounds of fireworks and celebration coming from outside. Instead, he’s hanging little red, white, and blue streamers in the doorways all around the base because Pierce turns into everyone’s creepy party-crazed aunt around the holidays and they’ll be eating a potluck lunch in the meeting room at noon.
“It’s the red one next, not blue,” Rollins is saying. Rumlow hits his head on the doorframe, almost falling off of the stepladder.
“Motherfucker,” he hisses.
Rollins doesn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes sparkle in mirth. Rumlow glares and curses at him.
“This is such bullshit,” Rumlow grouses. “Pierce does realize that all of his plans kind of revolve around overthrowing the U.S. government, right? Why the fuck are we celebrating?”
Rollins shrugs. “Maybe he’s feeling extra patriotic since they found Captain America.”
Rumlow shakes his head. “He gets off on torturing us, I bet.”
“Torturing you, ” Rollins corrects. “Say what you will about Sitwell, but he makes a mean potato salad.”
“I hope you get food poisoning.”
“Fuck you.”
Rumlow grabs a nail, and starts to hammer the decoration into place above the door frame.
“It could always be worse,” Rollins says, handing him another nail. “Pierce could always make you dress up as Uncle Sam and light off all the fireworks.”
“I’d die first,” Rumlow says, lining up the nail. He grabs the hammer. “Seriously. If I have to deal with fireworks on top of this stupid fucking potluck, I am going to-“
“Reporting for orders, Commander.”
Rumlow strikes his thumb with the hammer.
“Ahh!” he yells, jumping off of the ladder and clutching his abused hand to his chest. It fucking hurts. He glares at Rollins. “What is the Soldier doing out?”
“Reporting for orders, apparently,” Rollins says. “You didn’t send him back to cryo?”
He didn’t, Rumlow realizes. He’d been so caught up in his unconventional holiday tasks that he’d forgotten.
Rollins must see it on his face. He gives a low whistle, grin tugging at his lips. What an asshole. “You’re in trouble,” he sing-songs under his breath.
“Shut up,” Rumlow growls.
Down the hallway, as if summoned by his chagrin, multiple sets of footsteps approach, clicking cheerfully on the tile floor. Rumlow curses, looking around. He has to act fast.
“Not a word,” he warns Rollins. His eyes settle on a door. “Soldier. With me.”
The Soldier wordlessly follows him as he grabs the stepladder and hurries into the small supply closet. Once the Soldier is inside, he closes the door and gestures for the Soldier to crouch with him, safely hidden away just in time. The footsteps come closer, and closer again. They stop outside the door.
“Agent Rollins,” Pierce greets. His voice is somewhat muffled outside the closet door, but his words are still comprehensible. Rumlow leans forward to listen, careful to avoid knocking over the broom leaning on the wall beside him. He can feel the Soldier’s breath in soft puffs on the back of his neck.
“Sir,” Rollins says neutrally. “Happy Fourth of July.”
“Hmm,” Pierce says. “Have you seen Commander Rumlow?”
Rumlow’s blood runs cold.
“No, sir,” Rollins says.
“If you see him, let him know that I want the Soldier kept out of cryo for the holiday celebration.” Pierce can practically hear the twinkle in his eye. “Every single one of our operatives should have a chance to appreciate the red, white, and blue, no?”
“Of course, sir,” Rollins says.
“Very well.”
The footsteps start again. When they are no longer audible, Rollins raps his fist on the door and Rumlow emerges, the Soldier on his heels.
Rollins seems amused. “You got lucky,” he says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Rumlow growls, brushing the dust and cobwebs off of his clothes. “Laugh it up.”
He turns to the Soldier, who is similarly dirty. He’s somehow managed to get cobwebs in his hair. Rumlow brushes them away and makes him presentable, and the three of them walk towards the conference room.
“Excited for the Fourth, Soldier?” Rollins asks.
Rollins rolls his eyes. The question is meaningless; the Soldier isn’t capable of comprehending or appreciating holidays or the things that come with them.
“Apple cake,” the Soldier murmurs solemnly, staring as they pass a cardboard cutout of Captain America. “He likes apple cake.”
Rumlow sighs. This happens sometimes; the Soldier’s brain is so fried he randomly says the most absurd things. He shoves him a little to get him to move faster.
“I’m sure he does,” Rollins says easily, placatingly. “You know what else is great?”
The Soldier gives him his full attention, entranced.
“Potato salad,” Rollins says reverently.
The Soldier nods seriously, absorbing the information.
“Whatever,” Rumlow grumbles. He’s partial to the jello salad that the blond girl from accounting always makes, himself. If they have some of that here, this holiday might just be bearable.
They walk under the red, white, and blue streamers into the conference room, ready to eat good food and ignore the festivities.