Chapter Text
The last thing Brock Rumlow remembered was the sound of the helicarrier crashing through the building at his back, the sight of that bitchass Wilson throwing himself out the window, and the feel of the floor suddenly going out from under his feet. He had tried to scramble, to grab onto something for purchase as he fell, but there was nothing. Something had bashed against his head, hard, and then there was darkness.
The next time he opened his eyes it was because white hot blinding pain covering the left half of his head and the entirety of his body cut into his unconsciousness. He was moving, unbidden, being dragged roughly by his still-intact tactical harness over rubble. There was dust everywhere; the sound of screams muffled by incredible ringing in his right ear and complete dull silence in his left. Before he lost consciousness again the only thing he registered was that the fist holding the harness by his bloodied shoulder was silver. The asset? He tried to look up, but the movement was too much, pain cut across his vision and he passed out.
When he came to, the only indication that time had passed was that it was light. Every cell in his body seemed to be in pain. He couldn’t open his left eye, and even his right hurt from the light. The dim light in the room was filtered through newspapers taped over windows, and all he could make out was that he was shirtless, on a couch, with an alarmingly makeshift looking IV stuck into his arm.
Everything ached, and he looked like he was covered in blood and blisters.
He managed to raise his head, but the movement sent dizziness swirling through him and he closed his eyes, resting his head back down. As best he could tell he was on a couch, and he hadn’t recognised the room at all.
If Rumlow had had the muscle control to manage it, he would have startled when a hand shifted behind his head and raised it a little, before a cup was pressed gently to his mouth. In spite of everything, he realised he was incredibly fucking thirsty and so let his lips part, trying to raise his chin to sip at the water. Even that small movement shot pain right through his face, but the water itself was cold and was a small glimpse of a bearable sensation through all the agony. He ended up drinking the whole glass, groaning as his head was laid down again, and trying once more to open his eyes. At least the right one.
Kneeling beside him with an annoyingly blank expression on his face was the goddamn asset.
Rumlow closed his eyes again. It hurt to speak, his voice croaky from - well, pain, disuse, inhalation of smoke and concrete dust, take your pick. “The fuck are you doing here?”
There was no answer, of course there wasn’t. The asset was perfectly capable of understanding anything that was said to him - in more or less any language, apparently, though Rumlow was fairly sure he spoke predominantly Russian in the field just to be a dick - and responding. Some of the other guys thought he was completely brain dead. Rumlow wasn’t that stupid. He had seen the asset speak of his own volition enough times to conclude that he stayed mostly silent just purely to annoy the shit out of everyone around him.
After a moment, hearing the asset move around the room, he opened one eye again to try and watch what he was doing. Generally, he trusted the asset - as far as you could trust a brainwashed assassin that Rumlow had once seen walk through a room and kill eleven people in about twenty seconds. (It had been one of the more annoying missions with the asset: Sitwell had given them bad intel as to which entrance to use, there had been witnesses where there wasn’t meant to be anyone, and the asset had left them behind a lot of unexpected bodies to deal with. It was actually one of the reasons why Rumlow was very certain the asset was far more aware than anyone thought: he had very clearly pretended to not understand the instruction to help them with disposing of the corpses, and instead had sat in the sun cleaning his knives while Rumlow, Rollins and Reynolds had spent five hours in ninety degree heat digging shallow graves.) But trusting the asset didn’t mean he didn’t also suspect that there was every chance he could suddenly decide to smother him while he lay there vulnerable.
The asset came over with a syringe and if he’d had the strength, Rumlow would have either told him to fuck off or kicked him away. As it was, he didn’t even have the strength to lift his middle finger, and the asset was ignoring him anyway, injecting something into his arm. The pain relief was almost immediate, and not for the first time, Rumlow wondered what the fuck was going on. It was morphine. Had the asset raided a fucking hospital?
“Where are we?” he tried, voice a minute amount stronger, smoother.
Again, the asset ignored him, getting up and going over to look through a tiny crack between newspapers on one of the windows. Still through just his right eye, Rumlow tried to make sense of what the asset was wearing: not his usual tactical gear, but jeans and a dark jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. It was the most bizarre sight he thought he’d ever seen: the asset in actual people clothes. He decided sarcasm was the best use of his small amounts of energy. “What I always liked the most about you was that you’re a great fuckin’ conversationist.”
The asset was either deliberately ignoring him or too messed up to currently understand him, not that the distinction really made a difference. Rumlow was a little ashamed to really admit how long it took him to think of the obvious next question, but in his defence, he had just had an entire fucking building dropped on top of his face. “Soldat. Mission report.”
He could see, through his half closed right eye, the asset shoot him a look that looked alarmingly mutinous, but he did move closer - Rumlow was glad for it, because he felt like he was hearing underwater - and kneel next to him. “Project Insight failed. Captain Rogers got away. Secretary Pierce is dead. Agents Rollins and Reynolds are missing.”
“Captain Rogers got-“ Rumlow closed his eyes. It was easier that way. “Wasn’t that your one fucking job in this whole thing?”
The asset’s voice was surprisingly tight, tense when he replied. “The helicarrier we were on was destroyed. Captain Rogers escaped.”
He supposed he couldn’t exactly blame the asset for the helicarriers; from what he could tell, Black Widow was the one who had infiltrated the office. The whole plan had fallen the fuck apart. Most of that had been down to the good Captain, in Rumlow’s opinion, as he had turned out to be annoyingly difficult to kill. Rumlow and his team had failed; their trap at the base had failed; the asset himself had failed, apparently twice. He couldn’t remember the asset failing before. Then again, he couldn’t remember the asset ever having a memory meltdown like the one he’d had after the fight with Rogers before. Out loud, in his hollow croak, that all translated as, “So you fucked up again.”
There was no reply from the asset, and when Rumlow opened his eye, he was staring blankly off into the distance, lost in his own head. This happened, sometimes: the asset’s brains were generally scrambled enough that he could get caught in a loop and just go dead behind the eyes. It was best to ignore him until he came out of it. Rumlow let his eyes shut again, wondering why he was having no real discernible reaction to the news that Pierce was dead. He didn’t particularly like the guy, but there was no denying that he’d been good for Rumlow’s career. He’d seen the potential in him, recruited him into HYDRA, promoted him to field commander of the STRIKE team, given him control of the asset on a dozen or so occasions. There was something about him that Rumlow had never trusted, but he’d always figured that was just sensible self-preservation. Generally speaking, when you were working for an international terrorist group infiltrating a major government agency, Rumlow figured it was best to keep your circle of trust to one person - including yourself.
He wondered if he and the asset were all that was left of the whole organisation, and couldn’t help a bitter laugh escaping from him. He could barely move, could hardly hear or see, and the asset seemed to be about one still firing neuron away from melting down completely. Hail HYDRA, everybody. Taken down by one overly sanctimonious soldier dressed in an American flag.
Against his better judgment, Rumlow lifted one arm to bring it into his field of vision, and immediately wished he hadn’t as nausea slammed into his gut. His arm was barely recognisable; flesh charred and blistered. No wonder he’d been in so much pain before the asset had pumped him full of whatever that was. He let his arm fall back down again, closing his eyes. He guessed his future as a swimsuit model was out of the question.
“We need to clean you off then dress the wounds,” the asset said, sounding for all the money in the world like a normal human being. Rumlow guessed that was the drugs fucking with his mind. “There’s a bath.”
“You gonna tell me where the fuck you’ve taken me?”
“An apartment.”
Current reliance on the asset aside, Rumlow suddenly wished he had a gun so he could shoot the thing just for being annoying. “I know it’s a fucking apartment, dipshit. Where, geographically.”
“DC.”
Great. What a genius he was stuck here with. He opened his eye again. “You didn’t think to get us further away?”
“You would have died,” the asset retorted. Rumlow supposed that was a good counter-argument. “And I know when I’m being followed.” On balance, Rumlow decided he preferred the mute version of the asset. He didn’t doubt that he was right, however, that he would know if someone was following them. And he guessed, too, that if HYDRA really had fallen, if Pierce was gone, there was every chance that nobody was looking for them. The asset didn’t technically exist, and Rumlow doubted anyone expected him to have made it out of the building alive. He really couldn’t imagine Rollins and Reynolds clinging tearfully to each other and deciding to hunt him and the asset to the ends of the earth. (It was a terrible thought. He was pretty sure the addition of those two morons was about the only thing that would have made the current situation even worse.)
Cleaning the wounds. Right. With great effort and pain that cut through his morphine induced haze, Rumlow swung his legs to the side and set his feet on the floor. He was still wearing his pants and boots, though the asset had removed the rest of his clothing at some point. Kneeling in front of him, the asset gently untied his laces with his right hand, loosening them up until he could slide Rumlow’s boots and socks off. His feet looked oddly normal, unburnt, curiously pale compared to the rest of his body.
Without saying anything, the asset took out the IV and shifted to put his metal arm under Rumlow’s shoulders. He automatically hissed at the pain, but the truth was that the cool metal actually felt good against his blistered skin. He didn’t contribute much as the asset got him to his feet, though he was able to mostly bear his own weight as they walked through to the bathroom. His head was starting to spin by the time they got there and he leaned against the sink as the asset ran cool water into the bath.
In the light of the bathroom, even with only one eye open he could see that the asset didn’t look particularly great. He had a few cuts on his face that didn’t seem to have healed, and he looked dirty, his hair thick and greasy, his stubble a few days thick. It had always been the duty of some poor low level schmuck to keep the asset shaved and his hair clean. Rumlow hoped the asset had some knowledge of how to do it for himself, because he didn’t like the idea of playing hairdresser for him. “You look like shit,” he offered, as the asset just stood there staring at the running water. “When did you last sleep?”
“When I was last in cryo,” he replied.
Jesus, that was weeks ago. He knew that the Soldier didn’t technically need sleep; generally, on a mission, they left him to guard them all night, every night. But he remembered on one particularly long mission in the Middle East Pierce had told him that it was best to let the asset rest every few days or his reaction times would start to deteriorate. There was no point in getting into it now. He’d order him to sleep later, when he was feeling alert enough to keep guard for them both.
The asset came over to him and reached for the waistband of his pants. Rumlow’s instant reaction was to pull back - as if it was the fucking time for that - but he quickly realised that was just an automatic response, and the more logical conclusion was that the asset was trying to help him out of his pants so he could get in the bath. “I can undress myself, kid,” he spat at him, irrationally annoyed at the assistance. The asset gave him a glare, and Rumlow looked down, noticing, for the first time, exactly how bad his hands looked. Seeing them - the peeling skin, the missing flesh - made a sudden jolt of pain cut through his brain, as if he hadn’t realised how much they hurt, and now that he did there was no amount of morphine that could help. He swallowed, hard. That hurt, too.
The problem wasn’t just the pain, either: his belt actually looked melted, fused to his pants. He sighed, and looked at the asset. He was thankful that it didn’t seem to need any more explanation - the asset just resumed what he had been intending on doing all along, reached for his belt and broke it apart between his hands. Rumlow cringed at the sudden movement, not that that seemed to make any difference. The asset was rough as he pulled Rumlow’s pants down. He was irrationally reminded of a mission the two of them had been on in Europe about ten years ago, when he’d tried to teach the asset how to properly torture someone and the asset had unhelpfully killed the man in about five seconds flat. Hydra hadn’t designed him for any kind of finesse, that was for sure.
Looking down was another mistake; the protection his boots had apparently offered his feet hadn’t extended to the rest of his legs, which were covered in the same charred black-and-red flesh as the rest of his body, singed and unrecognisable as skin. He was, suffice to say, unimpressed to see that his dick had received this same treatment. With great effort - god, it hurt to raise his legs - he stepped out of the clothes gathered at his ankles and let the asset lead him over to the bath. More pain as he lifted his feet one by one to get in the bath. If he’d had the energy he would have punched the asset square in the nose for the way he was gently holding him and trying to help. There was something patronising about the thing. It occurred to Rumlow that after literal decades of being mistreated and abused by HYDRA, the asset was probably loving seeing him in pain. The thought annoyed the hell out of him. He’d always treated the asset just fine compared to the others; there was no need to be so smug about his agony.
As he settled in the bath, he was glad for the morphine dulling the pain, though there was still a hell of a sting as the cool water washed over the charred skin. “This is a terrible fucking idea,” he told the asset, opening his right eye enough to see the instant discolouration of the water, and - fantastic - pieces of his skin sloughing off. “Who taught you how to do this?”
“I’ve had burns before. I know what to do.”
“You’re a fucking cyborg that heals itself, what makes you think you would do the same thing for me?” The water really was turning an alarming colour, and if he only had a limited amount of skin left he didn’t exactly want to lose it sitting in a bath with the asset looking at him with big sympathetic cow eyes.
There was a stubborn look on the asset’s face that he’d seen there before. It started to happen when he’d been too long without a memory reset. It was usually a precursor to some of his more annoying behaviours, like suddenly pretending he didn’t speak English, or stopping in the middle of a mission to rescue a fucking cat - that had happened once in Prague, when Rumlow had been extremely tempted to shoot him in the temple and pin the thing on Reynolds. This time, all it apparently signalled was the way the asset grabbed a washcloth and dragged it far too roughly over his leg. “My body used to be human, it works the same way.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly reassuring. He eyed the asset, who didn’t seem to realise what he’d just said. One thing the asset was always incapable of - for good reason - was critical thought regarding his own origin. If asked, he usually reported that he had been born in Siberia, to HYDRA, created in a lab. It wasn’t something Rumlow had ever given particular thought to - or at least, he hadn’t until a few days ago when he’d seen the asset apparently on the verge of tears as he reported that he knew Cap. Figuring out what the fuck that meant had been a long way from the top of his mind since then.
“You have to get the concrete dust off the burns,” the asset said, and Rumlow would have given him a sharp look if he’d been able. He didn’t exactly feel like having a goddamn bubble bath right now, and every swipe over his blistered skin the asset did with the washcloth just made him want to punch the thing in the mouth more and more. He was about as delicate as a fucking sledgehammer.
When he squeezed water from the cloth on the top of Rumlow’s head, he was ready to conclude that this was all deliberate, and settled a glare on him as much as he could with mostly-cold water dripping down his face. “The fuck are you doing?”
“Giving you a bath,” the asset responded in the annoyingly literal way he had of talking, answering questions like he was giving a mission report. It had occurred to Rumlow in his moments of being more suspicious of the asset that it could have been that he was simply doing the bare minimum to comply without actually being of any help at all.
When his skin healed, he was going to make the asset lie in the middle of the street so he could run over his head with a tank. “I’m aware you’re giving me a bath, you idiot, I’m asking why the fuck you’re squeezing water on the top of my head.”
There was an odd look in the asset’s eyes, then, as he continued methodically squeezing water on the top of Rumlow’s head. “In Siberia they used to give me a bath, wash my hair. I liked it. But your head looks too burned to touch.”
He didn’t even know where to start. The fact that the asset was clearly remembering something that should have gone with the memory wipes, the fact he was expressing an opinion on something that had nothing to do with a mission, the weird fucking rituals the Soviets had for their weapon, or the fact he was trying to treat Rumlow like he was his own fucking asset: it all added up to being a colossal pain in his ass. He closed his eye. “Fuck off and stop doing that. Get me out of this thing.”
“You’re not-“
“You questioning me, kid? I said get me out of here.” It was something Rumlow had learned years ago with the asset: when he started to malfunction or talk back, a firmer hand was the only option. A scowl briefly crossed the asset’s face, but decades of design had gone into his responses to anyone from HYDRA, and right now, Rumlow still apparently fit that description. He reached into the disgusting, bloodied water and slipped his arms under Rumlow’s armpits and knees, lifting him goddamn bride style as if he weighed nothing.
It was unnerving, being held in the asset’s arms, and Rumlow felt a stab of rage at the futility of his current situation. He was completely at the mercy of an unstable piece of HYDRA equipment. He fixed him with what he hoped was a glare.
There was something uncomfortable about being this close to the asset, particularly given that he was naked and slightly more vulnerable than usual. “Put me down,” he ordered, finally, managing to inject a sense of his usual authority into his voice. The asset was like a feral dog, at times: you had to show it you were a firm master, or you’d get bitten. If he barked too much, give him a kick.
When the asset set him on his feet he swayed, head clouded. It felt like the morphine was already beginning to wear off. He hoped the asset really had raided a hospital after all. He was dizzy, and would have fallen if it weren’t for a metal hand suddenly steadying his arm. “I’m not a goddamn cripple,” he complained, trying to shake his hand off. His brain didn’t quite relay the message to his arm and it came out as more of a feeble twitch. “Go get me more drugs.” The asset just stared at him and he glared back. “Now, Soldier.”
Once again, there was a look on the asset’s face like he wanted to argue, and with his one good eye Rumlow held a steady glare on him. Eventually, the asset muttered something in Russian - not one of the phrases Rumlow had learned for commanding him in the field, and not one of the phrases he’d learned just for fun either, so he had to conclude it was a particularly creative insult - but turned to walk back into the main room.
Rumlow was glad for the moment alone, and, pain throbbing its way into his brain with every step, he limped over to set his hands on the sink. The few steps had been enough to drain him of his energy and he just steadied himself, hearing the asset move around in the other room. ‘Move around’ was an understatement, as he sounded like he was crashing his way through the room like a tantrum throwing toddler. The fabled Winter Soldier, most feared assassin in all the world, having a fit over being told to go get some morphine.
After a moment, Rumlow looked up at the grimy mirror above the sink. His reflection was distorted and with great difficulty, he took the hand towel and slowly wiped it down the surface.
There was no change, and with a panic gradually rising in his gut he leaned forward to try again.
No change.
It was just his reflection, and for one moment, he just stared. He looked like a goddamn Halloween costume; he looked like a poor attempt at a monster from a silent movie. Half his face was practically melted; his eye milky and empty, his ear completely disfigured.
He had just enough strength to bring the towel up again to try and wipe desperately at his reflection one more time, willing it to be an illusion, before the horror of his reality came crashing up against the morphine’s rapid retreat from his system. His good eye rolled back in his head, and he fell unceremoniously to the ground as he passed out.