[For airfoil]

[infligere]

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.

Comments

[airfoil]

After the first two straight months on the road their tactics switched up. They went out and they came back. Out and back. Every new lead they dug up or Natasha forked over was a thread that Steve didn't exactly pull on but tug and Sam was there for as much as he could, suiting up next to him.

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.