spaces_between | It's all the Past. (Closed to captain

It's all the Past. (Closed to captain_asthmatic)

Who: Steve Rogers & Brock Rumlow
When: Summer of 1941
What: Rumlow is sent to the past in order to alter the future for an assured victory for HYDRA in the Second World War.
Warnings: Rumlow being Rumlow. Violence. World domination

HYDRA was finally strong enough to have partial access to the Tesseract and the power that it held. Most of SHIELD science was trying to use the cube in a different way, as a power source but also as a gateway to another world. That was what it was for, but HYDRA had other plans for the Tesseract. The failure of the war was considered pivotal enough where some believed that if the past was altered then the miserable future that they currently lived in would have never come to pass. It would be a better world under the Red Skull.

He was just a boy when they started to study the ability to use the Tesseract as a gateway to span between time and space. He hadn't even decided what he wanted to be when he had grown up save that he would be a drunk and he would be a better man than those who were weak enough to die in the ditch. New York was a tough place to live where he did, but he survived and he go tough despite being in trouble with the law.

He was recruited in juvenile detention, and his life changed. His life became something worth living, so he served and went where he was told, learned the skills that they told him to. He survived, and he learned that just like the miserable kids on the streets, he could lead if he said the right word. It didn't matter to him about race, gender or social class. If one could get the job done and do it well, he would respect them. If not, they were no better then dirt under his boots. He drove men to better though because he wasn't dying because they were weak.

When he was twenty-four, he was taken off of his final tour and sent to New Jersey. He and twenty other men were put into Project Rewind and they were drilled hard and fast into the early forties such as culture, class, history, fashion, currency and even linguistics patterns. The Tesseract was going to sent one lucky man back to alter history to assure HYDRA of a win it was owed. He studied hard, but he wasn't top on the list to get chosen for trial; he was somewhere in the middle.

The first six men never came back. Rumors began to circulate that the project was never going to work. He ignored them and kept fit and loyal. He had to know what to do if it was him that made the transition. He knew the people he was supposed to talk to, the hands he was to shake, the men who would get him in and let him follow the final order to the best of his ability. The next three men never came back either.

Brock volunteered as the tenth. He was given his orders: find Steve Rogers, get close and deliver the super soldier to the Red Skull. Do that and victory was assured.

He was dressed in clothing appropriate to the time era he was supposed to be going to save that he snuck his favourite knife into his boot. He was given some currency with the appropriate dates and told to stand in a particularly spot. He was staring right at the Tesseract, and it seemed far more beautiful than the potential of a horrible death. He noted the spot where he was standing smelled like burnt flesh. It made his toes curl in his boots, but he set himself.

Brock Rumlow was born in 1971. When he opened his eyes after the blue flash of light and the frigid cold of energy that felt like it was burning his flesh right off of his bones, he was standing in the streets of New Jersey in 1941. He was twenty five, and he hadn't even been born yet. He was here to change the future, a future that no longer existed for him because he was here. This was his present. This was his future.

Slowly, he tottered off on shaky legs to get in touch with the right people. He enlisted at the right time, at the right station with the right doctor and he was chosen for Project Rebirth. He was shipped to Camp Lehigh to form a unit of special forces for the United States military under the SSR. The first day was debriefings, a set of their itinerary, books, the start of the rigors of usual boot camp. It wasn't even as physical as his boot camp had been.

It wasn't hard to spot Steve Rogers, and he admitted to not finding the kid anything to look at, but this was going to be a legend. This was going to be Captain America, and he knew what that small frail body was going to turn into and what that stubborn man was going to do for America. Rogers was the joke of the group on a lesser level than Agent Carter. Everyone expected Rogers to drop out or die. No one even really talked to the guy for the first day, not even in the mess hall.

Rumlow sized the guy up all day, waiting and looking for opportunity to approach. Their assigned barracks were pretty much like ancient cabins, the bunks were alright, but the living quarters the usual crammed pieces of crap. He took the bunk on top of Steve's when it was apparent no one else would; he knew guys were punished for not pulling their weight. He swaggered over and stood in front of the scrawny man with his pack on his shoulder and his uniform jacket hanging open.

"Do you mind if I take the top bed?" Everyone stopped to look, but he paid them no mind. Instead, he reached out with his right hand. "Brock Rumlow, pleased to make your acquaintance." Ugh, he was going to barf on his shoes with all this niceness.

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Steve was sitting on the bunk he'd chosen, methodically unpacking his few belongings. He had noticed the other man, as he'd noticed everyone else. Hodges had been the bully, but none of the others seemed like people he really wanted to associate with.

He couldn't wait to get through bootcamp and get overseas. He missed Bucky like there was a hole in his heart that was leaking blood. But it didn't matter if all of these people didn't believe he could make it. He would do it anyway, because it was his last shot.

He looked up with a bit of resignation when he saw the other man swagger up to him, half-expecting some sort of insult and for the punches to start. His eyes widened a little in surprise at the question and introduction, and he crooked a smile, getting to his feet and offering his hand. "Steve Rogers. And sure, be my guest."

This was going to be a walk in the park for him, since he was never going to be picked for Project Rebirth. His entire purpose here was to get close to this man, to find out what made Rogers' tick and set himself up to be one that would drive forward with the man when the big change came about. He had too little time to do that, but he was going to do it because it was required of him.

He gave Steve's hand a firm shake, not holding back because the guy was little. He gave the guy a man's handshake, one to show that he didn't think much of the other men who looked down on Steve. "Thanks," he said and tossed his meager pack up to the bunk and athletically hauled himself up to sit on the edge, his legs dangling down. "So you're it, huh? We're a formality and you're the real deal picked by Erskine himself."

Everyone had gone to their own unpacking, but he was watching Steve like the guy was the most interesting thing in the room. "Where are you from?"

Steve's brows furrowed a bit. He knew Erskine had brought him in, but he really didn't think the others were a formality. "I think the Colonel would disagree with that 'real deal' thing, but I hope I'll be chosen - just like you and all the other guys here," he said.

Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all. Maybe he could make a friend here. He smiled shyly at Brock and then bent to finish packing. "I'm from Brooklyn. You?"

Brock shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "That's where you've got me wrong," he said, the corner of his lips rising with a smirk. "I don't need to be better than I already am; I'm comfortable in my own skin as it is. I was chosen to be here, but it doesn't bother me one way or another who gets choice." He let his eyes crawl over Steve before flicking to study Hodge, who he knew he was going to get personal with. Men like that listened to fists.

"Ah, Brooklyn boy," he said and relaxed more. "I'm from New York, the lower East Side," he replied. It was a rough part of town even in this stage of the game. "We're practically neighbours." If by neighbours, he meant he'd probably have knifed Steve when he was a feral little thing.

Steve was trying to ignore the looks Hodge was giving him. The bigger man was feeling humiliated after Agent Carter had put him down earlier that day, and he was definitely determined to beat Steve out for the position.

"Well, what do you want, then?" he asked, stacking up the last of his books and then looking up at Brock again.

He smiled faintly. "Yeah, practically neighbours. When I was smaller, I couldn't go near that area without getting a knife shoved in my face."

His own eyes flicked up to take another measure of Hodge who was continually looking their way. He had a feeling that all of this male shoulder bumping was going to get personal, but that was fine. He was very good at personal.

"I want to make a difference," he said simply, his smile this time very charming as he leaned back on his hands. "That's all I need."

He chuckled and winked at Steve. "Hopefully it was never me flashing knives, but I think I'd remember a face like yours. It's a rough place, but it's home." And he hated it to the very pit of his being. It was a cesspool of inbred drunks, drug-dealers and violence.

Steve beamed at the response. It was just the sort of thing he liked to hear, after all. "Well, I'm sure you will."

And he laughed. "Yeah, I think I'd remember you if you beat me up sometime. I'm glad you didn't." His blue eyes were still dancing. "I hope we can be friends, instead."

"Time will tell," he said, cheeky because no one but him knew what that meant. He was here on business, not for pleasure. And when he killed Nazis, it was for a greater good. When he killed HYDRA agents, it was because the better future hadn't yet arrived but they would understand. Loyalty ran deep.

"You get beat up a lot?" He drew his legs up and crossed them. "I don't have many friends, so I think that'd be agreeable. We're in this boot camp together after all. I've got your back, Rogers."

Steve nodded. He'd never had many friends, really just Bucky, but Bucky was deployed and he didn't know when or if he'd be seeing him again. For a moment, he worried he'd come on too strong, even though the other man seemed so friendly, but then Brock agreed and he smiled. "Well, I've got yours, too, Rumlow."

There wasn't much time before lights out, so he climbed into bed, stretching out and looking up at the underside of Rumlow's bunk. "I did get beat up a lot," he admitted softly. "Bucky said - my best friend, his name's Bucky Barnes, and he's with the 107th - he always said I didn't know when to stay down. I guess that's how I ended up here, too."

Oh that was nice sentiment, but Rogers was currently too much of a reed to be much use in a fight. Brock grew up rough and he could protect himself better than most. The kids here hadn't even seen combat yet. "That's a nice thought, kid," he said, only because Steve was physically smaller and technically younger.

He lay back and pushed his pack off to the side before he rolled onto his side and peered over the side of the bed to where Steve was laying. "Maybe more people should just stop being jerks and not have to punch you," he said with a smirk. "But that's what here is about. It's learning to defend yourself and others."

Steve chuckled ruefully. He could tell that Brock didnt' really understand - of course, he also could hardly blame him for not expecting Steve to be of much use. No one did.

"Actually...mostly I was the one who started the fights," he admitted. "I don't like bullies."

He just had to chuckle because it was kind of funny to see this weedy thing picking fights. However, he knew history, and he knew that Steve stood up for beliefs. He could respect that; he liked a man who had that kind of strength of character.

"Well, I think you might be in the wrong place," he said with a grin. "This room has a few in it, and I think Hodge has your number. Where'd you learn to fight?"

"I never learned to fight," Steve said. The lights went down, and everything was pitch black. He was exhausted from the day, but interested in this conversation, so he kept his eyes open. "I just... kept standing up again."

"Seriously?" That was pretty stupid in his opinion, but it seemed that Steve was going to make it through. He went quiet when lights when out before he said before laying back, "I'll teach you how to throw a good punch. And a kick for that matter."

He lay back as the room went quiet, and he knew from his own boot camp that talking was now prohibited. They were to sleep and the morning would come fast. He was fine with that; he had everything that he wanted right now and was in perfect position to accomplish so much.

He slept and certainly wasn't surprised when the call for rising and getting dressed happened. He was in his uniform first, it in perfect condition, his bed made appropriately with all the corners tucked in tight and his stuff put away. Inspection happened first, and it was always a bear the first time. It took forever as men were berated and talked down.

Steve knew it was stupid, but he hadn't really had a choice. He'd had no one to teach him really, and he couldn't just ignore bullies. Bucky had also learned by scrapping, he'd just been better at it - bigger and faster. But there had been no technique to it.

The first morning came, and though Rumlow was perfectly tucked and ready, Steve had missed a corner of his bunk and was ordered to redo it ten times, perfectly, before he'd be allowed to go for breakfast. But he wasn't the only one. Once he'd finally passed inspection, he waited until they were allowed to jog to mess, and fell in with Rumlow.

He was about to ask him a question, when Hodges went by, jostling him and throwing him into the other man.

He made certain he wasn't perfect for inspection, but he chose what he missed rather than just plain missing it. He had to redo the collar of his uniform at the back and his hair was a bone of contention given that it was long up top and short at the sides. It wasn't really a style of this age, but he hadn't wanted to change it. Hair was one thing he was arrogant about.

He jogged easily at the back of the line, turning his head when Steve came to him. Perfect! His eyes flicked to Hodge, but he simply grabbed Steve and righted the kid and glared at the man Steve had fallen into. "Keep on stepping or we'll be late for meals. I ain't missing it on day two."

He didn't ask Steve if the guy was alright; it hadn't been that bad and it seemed degrading by his measure to do so. He just kept jogging and he took his share of the rations and found an end of a table to sit at, aware he would be joined by a certain someone.

Steve was glad Rumlow didn't make a fuss or ask him if he was okay. This sort of thing was to be expected, and Steve was determined to endure it without complaint. If he couldn't make it through this on his own, he didn't deserve whatever Erskine had planned.

He did make a beeline for Brock, though, when he had his tray. "You did great this morning," he complimented him. "I didn't know sheets could be so neat without an iron."

Well, the food hadn't changed much from one military operation to another. It actually might be more real in this day and age, but he didn't really mind. He knew that food rations could be taken from punishment, and he also knew that they could be ordered up and out before meal time was over.

He smiled brightly at the compliment. "Ah well, it's all about the corners. You keep them tight and folded and everything else falls into play. Mum taught me young as punishment for sneaking out," he said with a grin. That was an outright lie; his mother barely got out of bed in the last few years of her life. "I'm too used to dressing like a street rat, so I never get my collars right."

Steve didn't turn his nose up at the food, but ate doggedly, knowing his body needed the fuel that this was what he had to fuel it with.

"The corners, huh? I'll remember that." He smiled brightly at Rumlow and then applied himself to his meal. He felt lucky to have found himself someone he could relate to, who didn't look down on him.

The day of training was just as horrific as the day before, but Steve pushed himself to keep up with determination, even when the other recruits made it harder. And the day after that, and the day after that. Only Rumlow seemed to be a bright spot in his days, though they didn't talk that much. Steve was so exhausted, he practically fell asleep in his dinner some nights.

Then one night, rough hands grabbed Steve, and put a hand over his mouth as they pulled him out of his bunk.

Brock ate at the same pace as Steve, and their conversation was quiet compared to some of the usual rowdy hollers from the other men in the mess hall. Day two of training saw him casually stopping a bit of sabotage on Steve but not all of it; a man had to prove he could take it in his mind. He also turned down the invitation to join in with the other men, citing that he was the leader of the cool group already.

Training was a bear, but it was easier than he remembered. He had to limit himself to their level so as not to excel and give himself away. He also kept up what friendly ties with Steve that he could, though the poor guy was at a physical disadvantage at all times. He never asked if Steve was alright save to just pick the guy up, hand over his helmet and continue on.

Brock woke to the sound of bodies moving, and his hand was immediately pulling his favourite knife from under his pillow. He breathed evenly and listening, trying to pinpoint the sound. It was movement close to him but not coming up to his bunk. That meant that someone had finally taken it upon themselves to haze Rogers. He heaved himself up out of bed, leaving his weapons behind - he could thrash them all anyway - and went in silent search of the area.

Steve was aware that Rumlow seemed to be having an easier time of things, but then, everyone was. He was in too much discomfort to really notice, even if it had been obvious. Rumlow settled firmly into the upper middle of the pack to the evaluators - a good soldier, even great, but not what Erskine was looking for.

Steve struggled against the hands on him, but had no chance against their strength. They pulled him to a shadowed area behind the barracks. " What are you even dying here, huh? You don't belong here, weakling!"

And then the punches and kicks started.

Men were unimaginative. Rumlow skulked silently through the barracks and slipped outside because there was no sounds even as he passed the bathroom. They had to have taken it outside. Most men wouldn't bother to salvage a weak link from torment; it was the way of the military. The strong served and the weak stayed home, but this wasn't about that. His mission was to get close to Steve Rogers.

He slipped outside, easing around the building until he could hear the sounds of flesh impacting flesh. He took a moment to relish simple brutality, and then he stepped around and grabbed the first man, Hodge he thought, and drove a swift punch into the man's left kidney.

"Stop it, you jerks," he hissed into the night. "You're out passed curfew." He seized another man by the throat and batted aside the attempt at a punch, and then he head butted the third. It wasn't hard to chase them off after that and then he was left alone with Steve. Finally, he held out a hand. "You alright, kid? I liked your duck and cover technique."

Steve had thought for a moment that Bucky had somehow magically shown up, like the whole army thing had been a lie and he'd really still been following Steve around at a distance this whole time.

He ignored the hand this time and dragged himself to his feet, wheezing and swaying. "I had... had them on the ropes." He tried to take a step, but staggered and nearly fell. That had been the worst beating he'd taken in a while, and his body was already over taxed.

He dropped his hand when it wasn't required, and he even admitted to being impressed at Steve's stubborn resilience to get up. So, this was Captain America? The man who wouldn't stay down in a fight; he could see why the war had gone the way that it did now that he had met the legend and moreover, seen this.

"Yeah, of course you did," he said and slung an arm around Steve's waist only to support the other man in walking but letting Steve do it himself. "Let's get you cleaned up in the officer's bathroom, okay?"

He led Steve away from the barracks to the officer's quarters where they technically weren't supposed to go. He didn't care though because it would be quiet, cleaner and less likely to have them stumbled upon. It was open - who locked shit in this day and age? - and he helped Steve inside before flicking on the lights. He whistled in appreciation on the mess in front of him. "Huh, you weren't kidding when you said you got up from any fight you're in."

"Are we allowed to do that?" Steve hissed, but he didn't resist as Rumlow led him off. He didn't want to go into the barracks bathroom just yet, either.

At Rumlow's comment, he looked rueful and glanced down at himself. He didn't raspy know where to start and was shy about stripping off his clothes with all the bruises that had to be blooming. "Thanks for the help, Brock," he said uncomfortably. "I'm glad I have one friend here, at least."

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