spaces_between | Whoa, big guy. (For assembles)

Whoa, big guy. (For assembles)

Who: Steve Rogers & Brock Rumlow
When: Pre-TWS
What: Because some sleeping dogs just need to be called 'big guy' with a wink and lewd suggestion. It may as well be Rumlow to do so.
Warnings: Rumlow being Rumlow. Shameless flirting. Maybe dirty sweaty man sex.

Rumlow was still flicking slugs off of his armour when they disembarked from the quinjet. If he ever had to go back to Loreta, Columbia, he was sleeping in the trees with the damn jaguars rather than in the tent with the slugs. Damn things made a mess of everything.

Of course, the next mess was juggling twenty-four guys in a confined locker room who all were intent on getting out of their disgusting body armour and uniforms and leaving after a quick shower. He was one of the last ones in the cramped quarters, but really, compared to the quinjet they just disembarked from, it was pretty much home sweet home. At least there was less chance of getting slugs up the trousers or leeches in ones boots. Actually... as he looked around, there was plenty of opportunity for both. Home sweet home, indeed.

He pushed members of STRIKE Echo out of his way, but he simply wiggled passed members of his own team. People were making their way to the showers, which thankfully left him room to get to his locker. Captains were on the far end, including Rogers apparently, and he had a clean line of sight as he jostled his way to his locker to start stripping off his gear. Of course, he had to go passed Captain Rogers, which was always a goddamn treat. Only man who looked that good in underwear.

"Out of the way, Jenkins," he ordered, elbowing the lesser from loitering too close to Rogers. Kid just wanted a picture every single time. "Showers because you stink," he added, sending the youngest member of his team off but without a playful shove from the other guy. Just as planned.

He stepped backwards and bumped into Steve, his right hand going backwards as if to catch himself but really, it was so he could set it right on Rogers' right ass cheek. Damn fine. He pushed off as if correcting his balance and pretended to glare at Jenkins who was now hurrying off, leaving this area relatively alone.

"Sorry about that," he said, though he didn't mean it one bit. "Nice ass, big guy," he said with a wink as he reached out to open his locker and started to shrug out of his gear.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Anyone who took a few seconds to think about it could probably guess at who Steve's favorite baseball team was. Granted, that was a sore spot these days considering that the Dodgers had moved to the west coast, and Steve still hadn't completely decided whether he wanted to remain loyal to them or throw his support in with the Mets. It felt like it would be a betrayal, but then again, the Dodgers had betrayed all of Brooklyn by moving to Los Angeles.

Maybe it would be safer to watch a game that involved teams he didn't care about.

Not that Rumlow was giving him much of a choice either way. He even threatened to show up at Steve's apartment, and while he might just be blowing hot air, there was also a chance that he actually knew where Steve lived. They did work for a spy organization, after all, and as much as Steve worked to keep his personal life separate from his professional one, he was sure that his address was listed somewhere in his file. (Or Natasha could have told Rumlow, though Steve doubted she would do that.)

"All right, all right, twist my arm, why don't you," Steve gave in with a sigh as he reached out and turned off the water, relatively certain that Rumlow had finished up too. "I'll come to your place, but I'm gonna need the address." It was possible that he would end up seriously regretting this, but maybe if he told Natasha that he'd gone over to Rumlow's she might get off his back about the dating thing.

Not that this was a date. It was a baseball game enjoyed between colleagues. Or at least, that was how Steve interpreted it. Still, he was making the effort to be social and that had to count for something.

The only problem with Rogers' place was he had to watch his P's and Q's while there, since he knew that there were bugs there. No one let a National Treasure live alone without taking precautions, and they were an agency of spies too. National Security was their motto, and Rogers was definitely someone that all of SHIELD wanted to keep track of and protect and utilize when it was best to do so. He was in that line like everyone else, but his reasons for doing so were a little more on the selfish side.

"Come on, big guy, does it look like I have the strength to twist your arm?" He'd personally prefer to see how a sledgehammer did against them, but that would be for another time. Maybe some rope to start, just to watch Rogers squirm a bit, pretending not to be as strong as they knew the guy to be. "Sure, let me get a felt pen and I'll write it on your hand," he said with a smirk.

He rubbed his hands through his hair to mess it up but also to spike it as he walked away from the shower, reaching out to swat at Rogers' ass again and without apology either. "I hope you know how to disguise yourself. I think my elder neighbour is a huge Cap fanboy."

Rumlow had such a dry kind of delivery that sometimes it was difficult to tell when he was being serious and when he was just kidding around, which was one of the reasons that Steve had never been big on the idea of spending time with him in a social environment. Maybe he just needed to let loose a little, though. Steve could joke around with the best of them, but it didn't always feel right to do it in a professional setting like this.

Which didn't stop Rumlow from smacking him on the rear again, and this time it definitely wasn't an accident. That sent an entirely different message, and Steve had to reevaluate if he'd just unwittingly agreed to go on a date with a subordinate. It was something he'd have to feel out once it was actually happening, but he reminded himself that he could always put his foot down and end it if it went too far.

Given that they were in a semi-public setting, he needed to do that right now. "Don't overstep your bounds too much there, Agent," Steve said over his shoulder as he went searching for a towel. He realized that the ass-slapping was some kind of weird male bonding ritual, but it could easily turn into something else. "But yeah, I can disguise myself. It'll be fine." A baseball cap and a lowered head usually got the job done.

Rumlow never understood the idea that team members couldn't have a little fun on the side, even if it was just to blow off some steam. He, of course, didn't suffer from those kinds of emotional attachments often and never strong enough that he couldn't cut it off immediately if it suited him to do so. He served a cause, not a person. However, he was human like the rest of them, and even he had social and physical needs that he wasn't shy about exploring when the want arose.

He grabbed a towel and began to dry himself off efficiently. He glanced at Steve and gave his Captain a salute that might have been serious or it might not have been. "Aye aye Captain," he said, definitely not serious. It wasn't like Rogers knew his nickname that he was aware of, so there was no need to worry about pirate jokes often.

He shrugged and wrapped his towel around his waist. "When you come, don't forget an over-night bag," he said casually. "You never know when duty will call." Or cum stains would be on someone's pants. It was always good to have a spare pair.

If Steve had been a different kind of person, he might have taken Rumlow's lazy confirmation as something like insubordination and gotten him into a serious amount of trouble. Maybe it was because during the war he'd worked with the Commandos, who he'd often joked around with much in this way, but Steve didn't take too much offense at it. So long as Rumlow followed his orders to the letter when they were on an actual mission, it was fine.

Besides, almost everyone else had exited the shower area by now, so Steve didn't have to worry about the rest of the team trying to follow in Rumlow's footsteps.

Steve also got dried off and wrapped his towel around himself, and he was making his way back to his locker to get changed when Rumlow mentioned that he should bring an overnight bag. The reasoning behind it was sound enough -- they could get called in at any minute, it made sense to have his stealth suit on hand. But Steve got the feeling that Rumlow had another idea in mind, and if Steve was reading this right, then this intentions were becoming less and less pure.

Men had definitely given Steve the once-over before, but he'd never been flirted with this overtly. He huffed out a laugh and raised an eyebrow. "I'm not staying the night."

On missions, Rumlow was the complete package of professionalism. He didn't so much as toe the line unless it was to save one of his men or to complete the mission objective when someone else failed in their duties. He was tough but fair with his men, and he could take a dressing down as well as he could take a dressing up. He admitted to enjoying working with Rogers who was all smooth orders, impossible odds, and the kind of man who brought out the best in the team be never shying away from the dirty work and following the rules just like them. Despite the chain of command, they were in some ways on equal footing with Rogers.

It would make it far more enjoyable that way when they finally made the patriotic bastard choke on a grenade. Woo-whee.

Their lockers were close enough that they could easily maintain the conversation, and now they were basically alone. It was against SHIELD and government protocol to be allowed to have listening and viewing devices in the change areas as it was a breach of privacy. That didn't mean he was going to step over that line in the sand too far, even as a joke. Besides, having an overnight bag was just plain logical; who knew with a secret cult society was going to be revealed to exist and Rogers would go off a nut about it?

"No? Come on, I happen to know my couch is very comfortable. You can ask Rollins if you don't believe me," he said but took no offense to Steve refusing to stay. It didn't take the whole night for a blow-job. At least... he hoped it wouldn't take all night or he'd be tired in the morning.

Given that they were off the clock from here on out, Steve didn't need to change back into his uniform. He had a spare change of clothing in his locker at all times, so he pulled on a shirt, a pair of jeans over his boxers, and then a loose jacket. It felt good to be clean and in some freshly laundered clothing, after a week in the muddy jungle.

He dragged his towel through his hair one last time and then set it aside, huffing out a laugh when Rumlow mentioned Rollins. The two of them worked well together and they were usually joking whenever they could get away with it. Steve wasn't surprised to hear that they'd spent some time together outside of the job.

"I'm not arguing that," he said with a roll of his shoulders as he reached back into his locker for a notebook and a pen. He opened it up to a blank page, although the rest of it was full of mission notes (and sometimes a few doodles here or there in the margins). "I just like to sleep in my own bed."

He handed both the pen and notebook over, and then nodded down to the page. "Go ahead and write your address there." This whole thing still felt downright weird to him, but Steve pushed past that. The least he could do was try out some basic social interaction with a coworker (a teammate) -- if he didn't end up liking it, then at least he could say he knew for sure.

Rumlow wasn't about to go climbing back into his uniform either, though the black cargo pants, black t-shirt and his jacket didn't appear much different. There were no logos though, since he wasn't a brand name kind of guy and even those items of his which happened to have them were removed. He refused to be a walking advertisement.

"I'm surprised a soldier with your history sleeps in a bed honestly," he said as he examined himself in the small mirror in his locker. He quickly rubbed his hair with the towel then styled it with a bit of gel. "Half the time, I hit the floor and sleep there, but there's always something to be said about the stamina of you old timers. You guys seem to bounce back from everything."

Except maybe that whole 'sorry we turned your best bud into the most successful assassin of all time' thing. Pierce wasn't ready to use that punch line yet. He hoped Rogers didn't kick it before that came to light, if it did at all.

He took the pen and notebook, scribbling down his address quickly and without hesitation. He even was kind enough to write down the buzzer number to his apartment, so Rogers wouldn't have to look for his name on the board. He was a nice guy after all, helpful to boot. "You got any preference for drinks? Or... do you eat shitty snacks, or are you all healthy and all that?"

If Steve were to be honest, he didn't always sleep that well in his bed, but if he explained that, then he had to get into the reasons behind it. Rumlow would probably understand, he was also a soldier, but Steve didn't have the words for it. He didn't know how to explain that sometimes the mattress was just too soft, the sheets too clean, and he ended up parked up on the living room floor in front of the television instead.

Apparently his trust only went so far, because all he did was smile and shrug. "It's a talent of mine," he said, but the joke wasn't delivered with as much ease as usual. He'd gotten good at withholding the parts of himself that didn't fit in with everyone's ideal of who Steve Rogers was, but it did get tiring.

He took the notebook back from Rumlow and tossed it into his backpack, which he then pulled out of his locker and slung over his shoulder. Steve was a little surprised that Rumlow was that concerned with his eating preferences. Then again, he did what he could to not make his voracious appetite quite so obvious to his teammates. The Avengers teased him enough about it already, he didn't need to add the STRIKE team to that too.

"I'm not picky," he said. "I'll eat whatever you have on hand." And clean out Rumlow's entire fridge, if he wasn't careful. Steve made a mental note to eat a large meal before he headed over, to prevent that from happening.

He closed his locker and then leaned his side against it, turning toward Rumlow to look him over. "So, what time?"

"You are a man of many talents," he agreed, flicking his eyes over as if knowing more of them than he let on. He had read the file, seen the videos of the war, knew the sacrifice that Rogers had made with the Valkyrie and everything in between. This wasn't a man to underestimate on anything.

"I know we aren't close and all, but if you ever need to talk or shoot the shit about nothing, feel free. Sometimes it helps," he remarked with a soldierly look. He understood keeping stuff close to the chest, probably better than most actually. He also knew that Steve was guarded sometimes, but the shadows in the man's eyes were hard to miss if one bothered to look.

He grabbed his pack out of his locker and shut the door, not bothering with a lock. No one stole from fellow spies or at least did and got away with it long. "I'll stock up on my personal favourites," he mused as he rubbed fingers along his chin in thought before shrugging. "Game starts at seven, so I guess as long as you're there before that time?"

It's the offer to talk that throws Steve off-balance for a moment, though he hides it well. Soldiers and spies aren't usually the talking types, that's just a general rule that he learned a long time ago. Then again, it's not like they need to talk about anything too personal. Granted, one thing usually needs to another, and Steve likes to think that he's got enough of an outlet with Natasha. Although it never really feels balanced between them, as Natasha often plays it closer to the chest that Steve does, as much as she puts on the front of being open.

That may be something they share in common.

Steve doesn't have to immediately reply to the offer, at least, since Rumlow keeps talking, looping back around to the logistics of their plans. Before seven, that's easy enough. "Sure. Is there anywhere to park my bike around there?" At least it's easier to find a place to park a motorcycle compared to a car, but Steve's protective enough of his bike that he wants to be sure that there's a safe spot to leave it.

If not, he could take public transit, but that's always something of a mixed bag.

He didn't expect Steve to take him up on his offer, but it was there all the same. He really could care less if he was confided in, though it would be a feather in his cap all the same if it happened. It was still no skin off his nose if it didn't, and he was confident enough to keep things professional between them at work regardless of what happened anywhere else. Professionalism and the ability to fake was something he had in spades.

"Yeah, there's underground parking, so just set yourself up in one of the visitor spots," he said airily. He shrugged his pack onto one shoulder and ran his fingers through his hair again, one of the few things he was narcissistic about really. "See you around seven, Cap," he said with a wave of his hand and began to head towards the door of the locker room.

Steve could have walked out with Rumlow, but the guy took off quick enough that it would probably be awkward if he tried to jog over and catch up with him. Not that he really had much more to do in the locker room, but he lingered for another minute or two and then headed down to the Triskelion's garage so that he could drive home.

First things first was a nap, since it'd been well over twenty-four hours since he'd last slept. Steve got about two hours in before he woke up and cooked himself a healthy portion of pasta, which he wolfed down as he looked up the directions to Rumlow's apartment. It wasn't too far, and Steve didn't have any trouble getting there. He found the visitor exit into the parking garage and then took the elevator up to the floor Rumlow had scribbled down.

As Steve approached the door, he felt oddly nervous. Should he have brought something with him? That would have been the polite thing, but he hadn't even thought about it. He did have his overnight bag over his shoulder, though, packed with his uniform and some other emergency supplies.

One, two, three more seconds to steel himself, and then he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

Rumlow left and hit the store on the way home, aware that he would basically be feeding an army regardless of any meal that Rogers might have packed away. He had seen the guy eat before, had even made friendly bets on the size of a meal the man could pack away - he lost of course - but he knew the actual numbers of calories required. A little midnight snooping at Rogers' medical records would do that, though he had almost been caught on that excursion.

He went home and made up both healthy and extremely unhealthy snacks up before he hit the couch for a nap of his own. He was woken by Rollins, who he told to get bent somewhere unpleasant before casually informing the man he was having a special guest over. Rollins cursed, clearly having lost some bet or another relating to who managed to convince Rogers to do something.

He put the television on just before seven, set out the snacks, which included a single plate of veggies and some chip dip that had too much cream cheese to be healthy. His place was always spotless to begin with, so he just changed into something comfortable and casual when the door sounded and he padded barefoot to answer.

"Right on time, Rogers," he said and opened the door to all the big blond inside. "Shoes off at the door, but otherwise, the rules are simple. Enjoy yourself. Bathroom is down the hall on the right and the light is just on the inside. Kitchen is there, beer is cooling... unless you're the kind of guy who likes it room temperature?" In which case, just plain get out of his place.

The first thing that Steve notices about Rumlow's apartment is how clean it is. It satisfies a part of him that has always enjoyed keeping things neat and tidy, something that existed even before the military drilled those habits in. Most soldiers know enough to at least keep their professional space in order, but that doesn't always extend to their personal life. Steve's relieved to see that it does with Rumlow. It's not like it would have been a dealbreaker, exactly, but it would have made him less likely to make any return trips.

Right on time is more or less the norm for Steve. He doesn't like to be late, even for something as casual as this. He smiles in greeting, nods, and then kicks off his shoes, arranging them near the door before he turns his attention to the rest of the apartment.

At the mention of room temperature beer, Steve laughs and shakes his head. "That's usually all we could hope to get during the war, but I can't say I miss that," he explains. Cold beer sounds great. Even if Steve isn't able to get drunk off of any alcohol, he still appreciates drinking as a social activity, and he won't turn down the offer.

Then there's all the food. Steve moves toward the coffee table in front of the television where it's all set out. As someone who has to eat four times as much as anyone else, even the drive over here was enough to work up his appetite. He doesn't go for it immediately, though, taking a seat instead. "Thanks for having me over," he says. "How long have you been staying here, anyway?" Since they're hanging out off the clock, maybe it's about time that Steve learns a little more about who Rumlow is as a person.

Ah, he'd already earned a laugh out of the big guy? The evening was going better than expected given the previous little 'reprimand' in the shower for coping a feel. He was amused that they were back to the war already, but he admitted curiosity as well. Books and films hardly could instill the full impact of those times, and there was some closely guarded joy in him in digging for little gems from Rogers for those times before he had even been a twinkle in his father's eye.

"I doubt you even got that on the battle lines," he remarked as he padded into the kitchen to pull open the fridge to pick through his rather old assortment of beers. He wasn't a big drinker, mostly because he wasn't home much, but he liked the stuff that had been in production longer than he had been alive. "You like lager or ale? I've got both, since I didn't know what tickled your fancy."

He leaned more into the fridge to peer inside, making a bit of noise moving stuff around just because he could. He could hear Rogers in the next room, but the game wasn't on so there was no rush to hop into the seat himself. "This place? Huh, must have had it going on six years now? The view sucks, but it's as close to home as I care to get."

It's not that Rumlow's daring move back in the shower room has been forgotten, but Steve still doesn't know what to make of it. It may have been nothing more than a friendly gesture, because for some reason that's how some men show platonic affection for each other, and Steve doesn't want to jump to any conclusions. It's a lot easier to just set it to the back of his mind for now.

"Not on the front, no, but sometimes we had leave in one of the liberated cities, so then we'd get alcohol," Steve explains. Depending on where they were, they had been pretty well-received, especially when word got around that Captain America was with their garrison. Then they got all the beer they could ask for, even if it wasn't usually chilled. "Anyway, a lager sounds good, thanks."

Steve can hear Rumlow rooting around in the fridge but he doesn't think too much of it. He lasts maybe a few more seconds before he reaches out to have some of that chip and dip. Even then, he remembers his manners, making sure that he's done chewing before he responds to Rumlow again. "Home, huh? And where's that, originally?" Steve's sure he must have read that detail in Rumlow's file when they STRIKE team had first been assigned to him, but he would rather hear it directly from the man himself.

Ah yes, the liberated cities and all, huh? He knew that Rogers fought with the various companies in all sorts of places. That had been recorded rather well, given the fame of the man, and it was a shame that those days were over. Now it was just small teams using and abusing international borders and dropping in men to clean up a mess. "Right, lager," he said and grabbed one of his favourites.

He shut the fridge door with a soft sound and padded to the living room, holding out the sealed and chilled bottle to Steve. "I've got more where that came from, so enjoy," he said before he came around to seat himself on Steve's right hand side.

At the question of his origin, he smirked and cracked the cap off of his own lager. "Queens, Brooklyn-boy," he announced with pride. "Why the sudden interest, huh Cap? We aren't going to have to start a rivalry, are we?"

Steve grabbed for the beer when it was handed over. The bottle might have a cap that actually needed an opener to get off, but Steve still managed to twist it off with his hand. Sometimes the super-strength really did come in handy. Beating up bad guys, saving himself a trip to the kitchen to grab a bottle-opener -- he could hardly complain.

When Rumlow took a seat, Steve shifted over just slightly to make sure he had enough space, then had a swig of the beer. He grabbed for another chip, which he drenched in cream cheese before shoving in his mouth in one bite. Even then, he wasn't messy in the way he ate, managing to not get any crumbs on the floor or food particles on his face.

So Rumlow was from Queens, huh? Steve raised both eyebrows and then shrugged when a rivalry was brought up. "Is there really even a contest here? I mean, come on. When someone thinks of New York, they don't think of Queens." Steve smirked, the lightness in his tone signaling that he didn't really intend on getting into a fist fight over something like this. In all seriousness, he had never spent enough time in Queens, not in 1941 or 2014. He still had to put more time into relearning his own city, but the relocation to DC had made that tough.

He twisted the cap off of his own bottle expertly, setting the cap on the side of the table to be cleaned up later. He grabbed the remote from the table and set it on the arm of the couch as the pre-show came on for the game. It was commentary not worth listening much to, since the team was going to play however they were going to play and a pair of soft men couldn't dictate the game.

He reached out and grabbed a chip of his own, only taking a small amount of the dip. That stuff would give him a heart attack if he ate too much of it, and unlike his companion, his metabolism was definitely slowing down.

"Ohh, you are such a little bitch talking smack like that," he said with a scowl on his face, though he took no offense. There were parts of Queens where people wanted to live and raise a family and be successful. And then there were the parts of Queens like where he had grown up that he wouldn't recommend to anyone. "But I getcha. I wouldn't live there anymore. You gone back to explore Brooklyn much?"

Steve didn't have much interest in the pre-show either. It was different when there was commentary over the game. He found something like that a lot more soothing, somehow, maybe because it could still take him to a different time and place if he closed his eyes. But all of this speculation and discussion of different player stats was more likely to make his eyes glaze over.

When Rumlow decided to call him a "little bitch," Steve pulled a face. It had less to do with Rumlow overstepping his rank (that didn't matter much when they were off the clock) and a lot more with the choice of insult. Steve didn't like the idea of using bitch as a pejorative, as if being a woman was a bad thing. He considered saying something, but then Rumlow asked a question and he reluctantly decided to let it go. For now.

"I've tried to, yeah. I mean, I lived there for a while, back when I first woke up." So he'd gotten the chance to relearn at least parts of his neighborhood, to see just how much everything had changed, and to find the few pockets that had remained more or less the same. Then the Battle of New York had come along, and while Steve had been there for a few months to help with rebuilding efforts, he'd been transferred to the Triskelion not too soon after that.

"I'd go visit, if I had the time. It's not like it's that far." It was as close to home as Steve could ever get these days, and there was a wistful hint in his voice as he talked about it.

He noted the face that he was given, waiting for the barbed self-righteous bullshit to start to spew from Rogers' mouth. He was almost disappointed when it didn't happen, since he had had his argument long set up before this moment. He respected a man who knew when and where to pick battles, and yes he respected Rogers considerably.

That wouldn't stop him from eventually having his final say in their relationship. He just knew when and where to pick his battles.

"Yeah, I heard about that... of course, then the Chitauri showed up and reduced much of New York to rubble," he said and then took a swig of beer. "You didn't stay too long after that. I bet Fury had been working on you the entire time to come on with SHIELD where you could continue to do work for the benefit of all." And Steve just didn't know which all that would be. It was laudable.

"You do realize that SHIELD give you three weeks paid vacation, right?" He didn't use his unless he absolutely had to. "What do you do anyway? Like, I hear you're good with a pencil and such, but surely our Captain has plenty of interests."

"It's not like he had to try that hard," Steve said in regards to Fury, shaking his head as he reached forward for yet another chip. He was barely thinking about it, which was the dangerous part. If he wasn't careful, he'd end up going through the entire bowl that Rumlow had set out. But it was true, what Steve said. The future had been pretty daunting at first, and working with SHIELD was the one familiar thing, a piece of structure in his life that he had desperately needed.

Rumlow had a pretty good profile on him now, which wasn't difficult since there were countless biographies that had been published in the time when Steve had been thought dead. Just about anyone could read all about him, and that alone was pretty frustrating sometimes. Compared to that, this was nice, because it meant that Rumlow could get to know him for who he really was, rather than who he'd read about. It was just hard sometimes, to open up enough to let that happen.

Steve was going to ask Rumlow for his story, but he managed to beat him to it. The mention of vacation caused him to shrug his shoulders as he turned his gaze back to the TV. "Well, even if I have the time to take, that doesn't mean I actually have the time to take. If that makes sense." It did to him.

He did have interests, though. Hobbies. "I still sketch sometimes, yeah. I also spend a lot of time with my bike." Riding it around, tuning it up, he always wanted it to be in perfect condition. "And I'm still catching up on all of the history and pop culture, so I try to work that in too. How about you?"

This all felt so normal, it almost looped all the way back around into abnormal.

No, he had heard from Pierce that it hadn't been difficult, and the old man had been as pleased as punch to have a partial thumb on Rogers, even if it was from the shadows. That had been when he had been personally handed the mission to keep an eye on Rogers, and he was doing what he could to live up to that expectation and learn what he could about the guy. Books hardly captured the real thing, but there were interesting tidbits all the same in those pages.

Rumlow sat forward to grab a chip himself, saucing it up with dip and chewing on it as he sat back and got himself comfortable on the couch again. He took a swig of beer and sighed as if this was one of the greatest things in the world. "Nope, makes no sense whatsoever, Rogers. You might have to explain that one in more detail for me," he drawled. "You're Captain Rogers, and you get three weeks holiday same as everyone else."

Maybe it was supposed to be strange that someone who was so famous participated in activities that allowed the man to be completely alone for. Then again, was there really anything else? "You and your bike, huh? I guess hanging around the Triskelion gives you all that you need for human companionship," he said before pausing to ponder his own hobbies. He finally shrugged and grinned ruefully. "I train a lot, read the paper... do some stained glass work."

Honestly, Steve could probably get more than three weeks if he really wanted it. SHIELD wasn't going to fire him just because he took more than the allotted vacation time, and he knew that. Not that he ever planned to abuse his rank and his fame to get what he wanted. Granted, he didn't think he really wanted a vacation to begin with. He wouldn't know what to do with himself. Working with SHIELD kept him busy, and being busy meant there wasn't usually a spare moment to think.

"There's always something going on here. Some emergency, some mission to pick up, some training course to help out with," he explained, his eyes set on the TV rather than anywhere near Rumlow's face. "Even if I technically get those three weeks, it's not like I ever have the chance to get away from the job." A lot of that was self-imposed, he knew, but maybe he liked it that way.

That dig about social interaction caused Steve to sigh and roll his eyes. "You sound as bad as Natasha," he grumbled as he leaned forward for a carrot and drenched it in ranch. Which more or less ruined the health factor, but Steve wasn't too worried about that right now. All the running he did usually made up for the food he ate. "Stained glass, though, really? Or are you just pulling my leg?" It didn't at all fit Steve's image of Rumlow and what kind of person he was off the clock, but that was the whole point of this, wasn't it? To learn something new, to be surprised by how little he actually knew about his coworkers.

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