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Who: Brock Rumlow & Sam Wilson
When: A few months post-TWS
What: Rumlow's out of the hospital without supervision, and he decides to pay someone very special a visit to take on his threat.
Warnings: Violence, dubcon sex... more to no doubt be added later.
Rumlow chewed on the toothpick at the side of his mouth, sighting down his sniper rifle at the quaint little house in that quaint quiet middle class suburb. He was using the house next to Wilson's, aware that the owners were on holiday after he had seen them packing and yapping far too loudly about how long they would be gone for. People still had no survival sense whatsoever, but it saved him having to slit their throats in the middle of the night and bury their corpses in the backyard.
As it was, he was using the fall of their giant weeping willow to his advantage for cover to perform surveillance on Wilson's home, aware the guy had to come back more often than Rogers. He counted on the fact that Wilson had personal attachments more than Rogers to draw the man back to Washington between various missions sniffing after the cold trails left by the Soldier. Those two were pathetic in the attempts, but it had allowed him opportunity to end up where he was.
Of course, maybe his recent escape from the hospital had drawn them back? He supposed that it hadn't been subtle killing his nurse and painting the HYDRA symbol on the wall with her blood and mockingly left her corpse laid out on his old bed. It had still been fun after months of boredom, pain and continual glares as if he were some animal for his part in Project Insight. People just failed to understand the beauty of that kind of freedom, but his loyalty to HYDRA remained and he didn't want anyone to forget it.
He'd used his underground contacts to get a few things that he needed to make his life bearable, which included clothing that wasn't too rough on his overly sensitive skin. Burns were a bitch, but he didn't mind the scarring much. People tended to avoid him because of it, when he bothered to appear at all, sometimes just enough to let old SHIELD facial recognition programs catch him. Laying a false trail on his activities while he spent most of his time laying in wait for far, far more important matters.
Like the fact that Wilson was home. His index finger stroked the trigger, aware he could put the man away with a single glorious shot. It was almost tempting, but he wanted this to be far more personal for them, seeing as Wilson was the reason that he had failed to put a bullet in Hill's pretty forehead and stop the Insight protocol. It wasn't a delay that he had appreciated until he had lay roughing shit out of his lungs.
Easing down from his perch on the house, he abandoned his rifle there on the roof where he would retrieve it later. Instead, he slipped over the fence, his black army fatigues whispering against his legs and the faint jingle of metal-on-metal in his pocket. He crept forward under the cover of darkness and slipped up to the backdoor, trying it first before he enjoyed himself picking the lock. Ah, old skills never failed to come in handy, especially when it came on the heels of revenge. He had come prepared for that, and it would be a painful but enjoyable lesson.
He eased the door open and slipped inside from the deck, locking the door so that there was no easy escape for the time being. His ratty sneakers had just enough sole to pad his feet but allow him to still feel the surface he walked across as he moved in search of his quarry, sliding the combat knife from the sheathe on his belt. He wanted things real close and real personal.
When: A few months post-TWS
What: Rumlow's out of the hospital without supervision, and he decides to pay someone very special a visit to take on his threat.
Warnings: Violence, dubcon sex... more to no doubt be added later.
Rumlow chewed on the toothpick at the side of his mouth, sighting down his sniper rifle at the quaint little house in that quaint quiet middle class suburb. He was using the house next to Wilson's, aware that the owners were on holiday after he had seen them packing and yapping far too loudly about how long they would be gone for. People still had no survival sense whatsoever, but it saved him having to slit their throats in the middle of the night and bury their corpses in the backyard.
As it was, he was using the fall of their giant weeping willow to his advantage for cover to perform surveillance on Wilson's home, aware the guy had to come back more often than Rogers. He counted on the fact that Wilson had personal attachments more than Rogers to draw the man back to Washington between various missions sniffing after the cold trails left by the Soldier. Those two were pathetic in the attempts, but it had allowed him opportunity to end up where he was.
Of course, maybe his recent escape from the hospital had drawn them back? He supposed that it hadn't been subtle killing his nurse and painting the HYDRA symbol on the wall with her blood and mockingly left her corpse laid out on his old bed. It had still been fun after months of boredom, pain and continual glares as if he were some animal for his part in Project Insight. People just failed to understand the beauty of that kind of freedom, but his loyalty to HYDRA remained and he didn't want anyone to forget it.
He'd used his underground contacts to get a few things that he needed to make his life bearable, which included clothing that wasn't too rough on his overly sensitive skin. Burns were a bitch, but he didn't mind the scarring much. People tended to avoid him because of it, when he bothered to appear at all, sometimes just enough to let old SHIELD facial recognition programs catch him. Laying a false trail on his activities while he spent most of his time laying in wait for far, far more important matters.
Like the fact that Wilson was home. His index finger stroked the trigger, aware he could put the man away with a single glorious shot. It was almost tempting, but he wanted this to be far more personal for them, seeing as Wilson was the reason that he had failed to put a bullet in Hill's pretty forehead and stop the Insight protocol. It wasn't a delay that he had appreciated until he had lay roughing shit out of his lungs.
Easing down from his perch on the house, he abandoned his rifle there on the roof where he would retrieve it later. Instead, he slipped over the fence, his black army fatigues whispering against his legs and the faint jingle of metal-on-metal in his pocket. He crept forward under the cover of darkness and slipped up to the backdoor, trying it first before he enjoyed himself picking the lock. Ah, old skills never failed to come in handy, especially when it came on the heels of revenge. He had come prepared for that, and it would be a painful but enjoyable lesson.
He eased the door open and slipped inside from the deck, locking the door so that there was no easy escape for the time being. His ratty sneakers had just enough sole to pad his feet but allow him to still feel the surface he walked across as he moved in search of his quarry, sliding the combat knife from the sheathe on his belt. He wanted things real close and real personal.
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But they were hitting nothing aside from rooting out some HYDRA splinters, the writhing heads of one fucking nasty beast and Steve's shoulders were getting to the point Sam wagered at least four massage-therapists could blow their arms out on. The Winter Solider went to ground and went to smoke - right back to being a ghost that would have been a believable story if he wasn't missing his car and been thrown off one of the helicarriers they were still dredging bits of out of the Chesapeake Bay. Sam laid out the harsh reality to Steve once they hit the Virginia border, saying what he's kept in for damn near months now: Bucky might not want to be found.
Or maybe he did.
Blood symbols left behind with dead, dead nurses and missing operatives sure did send up five dozen red flags and a few flares for measure. In this case though, he hoped not. He hoped whatever sick-ass programming they'd shoved into Barnes' head hadn't taken hold again. Steve left, slipping out of Sam's new car and into Natasha's to go pursue whatever was going down. Sam would have gone if Steve had not put his foot down about that and he still would have gone if it wasn't Natasha at his back.
So back to his house it was. Glad to see it, a pretty piece of property in a good neighborhood that said, I'm pretty well-adjusted, he hoped. He checked his messages on his landline, saw the number and then rolled out instead to go pick up some dinner. By the time he returned twilight was hanging thick over the nation's capital and her suburbs and the smell of curry from the slowly spinning take-out containers was damn near torture. Sam set it all down on the table, fishing his phone out of his pocket and shoving it on the low dark-stained coffee table next to the remote. Plastic rustles as he set out his spread, half-feeling like he forgot something but no- just not feeding a supersoldier along with himself. The restaurant place (one he frequented, or at least did enough before he set out with Steve) had forgone plastic utensils or maybe he told them to skip them, underestimating his own laziness.
With a groan, Sam hauled himself up, flicking over to the TV which he'd turned on with a resolve to change the channel when he got back. He was halfway around the table and his living room when he stopped short, a crawling prickle working up his forearms. Pausing but cooling light on his feet he sighed. Most likely? He was just too wound up after the last run, doubly antsy due to whatever was going down without him around. "Christ, Wilson don't start this up again..."
He shifted back without turning around a few steps, then turned to loop back upstairs for his gear. If he threw it downstairs by the couch he'd be ready if a call came. If not, then he'd have one duffle-y and ammo-loaded security blanket.
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Still, the sound of gear hitting the floor was one that he chose to investigate as he approached the door that led to the living room and the noise of the television. He slipped around the door from the kitchen at the noise from upstairs, and he purposefully cut the lights in the living room, so that long shadows were cast from the light from the television as he began his own quiet ascent up the stairs, pistol in hand as he strained to follow the motions of a man moving along the house.
He reached the top landing and stood there, waiting in silence but obvious. He tilted his head to listen, and he suddenly wondered if he had brought enough rope. It'd been quite a while since he'd assaulted someone in their home; damn, he should have brought two rolls of duct tape. That's what being in a hospital did to him, making him lose his touch.
Oh well, practice made perfect, and he needed to stretch his muscles anyway. He waited, pistol ready to move to start the session of threatening.
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"Bar-"
No.
Not Barnes.
Sam tensed all over but didn't move, knowing good and well the sight trained on him had damn good aim. Besides, the distance between them was near point-blank. The shadowed build was all wrong; there was no glint of metal or even hint around the fingers to belay a metal arm. Even the shit light from everything downstairs being killed and his bedroom lamp switched off before he left it he could pick out the uneven shiny web of scars.
"The hell you doing in my house?"
Damned if he never thought he'd see that mug again. What was it about these white guys and not staying dead?
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"Breaking and entering, obviously," he rumbled with great confidence, stepping forward into the dim light of the hallway and out from the shadow. "It's been a long time, but I decided I needed a vacation from the threats while laying in bed. I figure I could return the favour to someone else... and here you are."
He flicked the pistol towards the stairs leading to the lower level. "Go, nice and slow now. You're going to sit on the couch for me."
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"Lucky me," he echoed without sparing on the sarcasm. Lucky, lucky him. Sam took a good look, brows knitting as Rumlow stepped closer. For a guy who had obvious burn scars that looked like the sort most people should have died from he was doing pretty well, though he had to wonder how the hell he survived. The helicarrier crashing through should have been it and he remembered Rumlow's strangled shout a few seconds before he jumped out the window himself.
Moving slow Sam slung the duffle over his chest, settling the weight of it in front of him. He wasn't armed but there was stuff in the bag- the easiest of which was one of Natasha's little knives she let him keep which was in the front pocket that was half-zipped. His hand settled over it like he was steadying the weight already and he eased forward towards the stairs. "And what? We're gonna have a chat with more of that HYDRA crap you were spewing before? Let a guy have dinner in peace, man."
He talked for the distraction as he went to the stairs, taking them with agonizing slowness and leaving his back to the other man with only his head turned to look back. Hopefully enough to cover him unzipping the pocket.
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He was burnt, not blind. He had lived under HYDRA for too long not to have been attacked in almost any and all situations possible. He might have been a bit out of shape and out of practice, but he was still ruthless. He also didn't particularly want to kill Wilson at this point in time when the guy was far more useful alive and kicking. Entertaining too.
"You don't seem to appreciate my philosophy, so I'll save the lecture. You're a lost cause since Cap got to you first," he remarked as Sam began down the stairs. "And you can take your hands away from your bag. You pull even a hint of lint from it, and we're going to paint the walls with your brain matter. Now that would be a damn shame..."
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They hit the bottom floor and Sam trundled obedient but glowering to the couch, not sitting down just then. His jaw worked back and forth while he stared at Rumlow. He wouldn't go on and feed information, tell him that those hints were exactly what Steve and Natasha were out chasing- but he also wouldn't be too shocked if that was worked out.
The guy was an asshole but no, he wasn't blind nor was he dumb.
"Not going to lie, a lot of people have had a lot of time to make their move but you're the first. Feels personal. Or I’m just climbing the ranks."
But even as he stood there and glowered, refusing to sit though he remembered damn well that Rumlow told him to, the smell of his abandoned dinner hit his nose and his stomach growled.
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He followed Sam down the stairs at the same pace as the other man set, and he set himself in perfect position to keep an eye on Wilson and the rest of the room near the stairs. It was a good defensible position if he needed to get higher ground fast.
"I can't imagine why it would feel personal," he murmured softly. "You only had a hand in stopping the greatest revolution in history. If it weren't for you, I suspect I could have gotten a bullet in Hill's miserable know-it-all skull and pushed Insight."
And let's not forget that part of a building had landed on him. That definitely wasn't personal at all.
"Eat. You might need the energy later."
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"Yeah, bet you've had a lot of time to think about all that." So no wonder he turned up after months and months of being able to do nothing but ruminate, add on top Rumlow's obvious perchance for monologue and he seemed the type that wouldn't let a thing like that drop. Maybe somewhere a sympathetic part of Sam couldn't blame him but all ninety-nine point nine percent that he was in touched with didn't have the concern to spare.
He looked back at Rumlow at the command to eat, eyeing him on the edge of the steps like Sam still posed a considerable threat. That heartened him a little, not that the fact he'd been open and easy to sneak up on didn't continue to sting.
Later for what? he wanted to ask.
No matter what his stomach was saying, he wasn't feeling all that hungry anymore. "You ever try eating with a gun trained on your head or is that some weird HYDRA hazing ritual?" Sam didn't go for setting the bag down because he didn't want to test just yet and get his head blown off for just trying to be more comfortable while being held hostage.
He also didn't want to let it go, but that was another matter. There was enough to decently arm a man and blow up a medium-size building carefully packed and already too many guns filling up his evening unwantedly
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Slowly, he eased forward, his gun still posed but his finger no longer caressing the trigger but resting on the guard around it. He stopped by the couch and then eased himself down onto it, and it wasn't so bad for comfort level. He could relax and still be alert to do what he needed to do.
"Yeah, I have actually... it's called eating at the hospital with armed police waiting for you to attack them with your plastic fork," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Sit and I'll consider putting the gun down," he remarked coldly.
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“I'm going to put the bag down and that's it. Don't shoot me for it.” Which was about as close to agreement as they were going to get. Sam raised his brows but then slowly went about unslinging the duffel from around his torso and moving to settle himself down on his couch as well. He place the bag between his feet, sighing out as he stared at the take-out containers still giving off warmth and radiating all his former hopes of a decent meal. He wanted to be hungry but just that something about the current company. Sam went for his water first, unscrewing the bottle.
“People with a much shorter skill-set than yours have gone off with nothing more than sporks, so I'm not surprised.” He still wouldn't have been surprised if it had been some crazy hazing either.
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"Yeah, and they didn't get very far with those either," he said thoughtfully. "I seem to have done a bit better for myself."
He rested his left arm against the arm of the couch and looked around the room. "Nice place, by the way. Does it have a basement?"
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Like they were just two old buddies catching up – or at least there was an illusion with the way Rumlow slung himself back and made himself comfortable, casting around like he hadn't invited himself in. Worse than an intrusive stray.
“You didn't give yourself a grand tour on your way in?” He could glare forever or he could try and get something down since it had been a good part of the day since he ate and god only knew what he'd need the energy for. Sam left off with the glaring in favor for digging into his take out containers, the rich smell of them only intensifying as he opened one with a puff of pent-up steam.
He had a basement, unfinished as it was. There was a garage too. "And I know it's nice. I'd like to keep it that way too." Don't you dare put your feet on his furniture, Brock.
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He smelled the food, and he admitted it smelled good and tempting. To be fair, living on hospital food made anything tempting at this point, but he wasn't yet in the mood to poach for food. He instead glanced at the bag on the floor now that Wilson's hands were occupied.
"I know a good recipe for getting blood stains out of carpet," he remarked as he pushed himself forward to make a grab at Wilson's equipment bag.
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Couldn't tell.
"I'm sure that's right up there in your guys' handbook," he shot back, body angled to block Rumlow's line and the plate finally dropping. A butter knife was going to do shit but that's about all he had for the moment.
"This isn't for you. Sorry, Christmas' is a few months out, man." And there's a lot of doubt Rumlow would be on the good list.
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"You make it sound like I get anything for Christmas," he replied sardonically. He didn't; there was no one to get a gift for outside of the yearly staff Christmas party. He spent Christmas on mission if he could.
He still jerked on the strap, raising his eyebrows at the distinct sound of something breaking inside. It sounded like glass, so probably some cologne? "What do you have in there, hmm? Something real interesting if it's breaking."
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Sam's curled irritation and wariness snapped over to honest surprise at the sound of glass cracking. Shit. Shit. How could he have forgotten about those and what sort of shitty glass was HYDRA using for their test vials if they broke that easily?
"No, shit- seriously stop-" Sam stood up, shoving Rumlow back but even as the bag lifted he could see the damp spot on his carpet (god help him he better get whatever that is out) and there was a sudden strange sweet scent hitting his nose. Like honeysuckles but strong.
"Damn it." And this was exactly why you should never hold enemy unmentionables because your loosely designated tech support was caught up with something else. "Have you smelled this before?"
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But they had been raiding HYDRA facilities. No, no it was damn perfume or something!
"Is that perfume," he snapped, looking at the bag with suspicion. If it wasn't and it happened to be HYDRA goods, he had a few ideas what that smell could be based on a few reports he had read before the Triskelion had hit rock bottom. "Tell me you don't have HYDRA merchandise in that bag."
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He just hopped he wasn't going to end up put down because of it all.
"Not what I asked you, man."
Sam glanced at the bag one more time before deciding everything in it wasn't worth saving if it meant greater exposure. He dragged in one more shallow bit of air and snagged the bag, hauling it out from the middle of his damn living room and down the hall towards the bathroom, throwing it in there and slamming the door shut.
"Duct tape, kitchen. Third drawer door down by the door."
He could already feel...something. Warmer.
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"Shit, you have HYDRA merchandise in there," he said, hauling himself off of the couch and stepping around it. "That stuff wasn't light green liquid, was it?" Please be blue, please be blue. Blue was tolerable, green was going to be a mess to deal with. It was hot under his collar suddenly, and he bit off a curse.
He abandoned the need to just shoot Wilson and went off to get duct tape, grabbing the roll in the allotted spot and returning. "This is fucking ridiculous. Lock your doors and windows right now if you want this contained."
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He looked back up from staring at the door when Rumlow came back from the kitchen, grabbing the tape and spooling out a generous measure for the bottom gap. As far as he was concerned this was one-hundred and one percent Rumlow's fault. It never would have happened if he hadn't created a situation for them.
"Green," he bit out once the tape had been placed and pressed down. He hauled himself back up to his feet from the crouch. "It was green. The hell does that mean?"
The tape was slammed into Rumlow's chest and Sam hitched for a moment with his eyes widening and narrowing at the contact even if it was just touching the man's shirt before he was pushing off to check all the windows and snag his phone. Even as he moved away though he could still feel the sensation like lingering sparks on his fingertips, like an itch that spread up his arm.
"I am not turning into the Hulk."
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Fuck, of course it was green. Of course. Just great. There went the rest of his week, and he hoped the whatever small mercy existed that no one was going to come looking for Wilson and find them fucking like crazy. He'd hide under the bed like some dirty secret if he had to.
"It means we're in trouble," he said with a curl of his lip as he hissed with the sudden hit to his chest because that shouldn't feel that good. It did. He muttered to himself as he marched off to set the locks on the doors and moved whatever heavy objects he could in front of them to prevent an easy escape in case they got a little too excited and wanted other people to join the party.
"No, you will not thankfully. However, you are about to get more horny than you have ever been in your life," he said maliciously. "And you're going to screw anything with a hole, maybe even the wall." He shoved the couch towards the wall along with the coffee table, hoping to prevent too much from getting broken. God, his pants were feeling tight already.
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Fuck. This.
"You're telling me out of all the damn things they could be working up HYDRA sat around and made some sort of sex...drug?" Sam dragged his eyes away and went to the table where his phone still laid, snatching it up and pressing in the passcode so he could at least text Steve. Though it was hard to do with just one hand - the other one drifting down to palm and knead at his dick for some sort of relief. Just that bit of harsh friction had him smothering a hard groan into his shoulder, gripping himself tightly and jerking again with the sentence he was typing out left half done.
Trouble. Yeah. Felt like it.
"How long does it last?" His voice dragged rough as he looked over again, not quite letting go of himself until he forced it -- finding compromise with at least undoing the button to his pants, unzipping a little -- and started to type again.
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"Do I look like I work in the science department? No," he replied through gritted teeth as he maneuvered the couch where he wanted it and dropped it, rubbing his hand over his brow and making the mistake of looking over at Wilson. "There was a America chemical made by Howard Stark in the mid-40s that caused people to go berserk and tear each other apart. They've been tinkering with that formula for years to see what they could..." he trailed off as his mouth felt suddenly dry with Wilson palming himself and no act had ever looked so damn arousing in all of his life. "Jesus Christ, stop that!"
His brain was thoroughly derailed from the topic of conversation as he rubbed his now sweaty palms down his thighs and tried to remember what the hell they had been talking about. He really just wanted out of his clothing. Why had he worn so many belts and buckles anyway? "How long does what last?"