Brock Rumlow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
infligere) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
spaces_between2018-03-16 09:45 pm
infligere) wrote in spaces_between2018-03-16 09:45 pm
Down the rabbit hole
Who: Steve Rogers & Brock Rumlow
When: Between The Avengers & Captain America: The Winter Soldier events.
What: Soulbonds make no distinctions; they simply are and the people thrown together have to learn to deal.
Warnings: Self-harm, language, Rumlow being Rumlow, Steve's 40s potty mouth.
[There existed this select group of every population that were continued to be special, to be considered more sensitive than the rest. They were the soul bounded, and they were two halves to a whole person, where the best results and the best endeavors were accomplished together. Babies born with names imprinted on their skins that faded in childhood and returned on the onset of sexual maturity. God's blessing, it was called. Children with names created excitement in families; they were said to be the ones to go on to do the greatest feats of mankind.
Rumlow had been born with a name, single child in a family that expected big blood line branches on the tree. His mother managed him and no more, and he had not been an easy baby to raise. Colic, sickness and a perchance to cry the nights away made him rather unpopular with his father. Still, he was special despite the name having faded away for the time being. He was raised told he would be special, that he would do great things, and that he needed to apply himself.
He was put on a registry will all the other 'special ones'. Some would never pair off, childhood mortality and all that. Some names might never appear again due to this fact and those children would go on being as mundane as everyone else.
At twelve, the special name appeared on the swell of his hip: S. Rogers. A common name, likely without even a scant drop of Italian heritage. The registry would pair him off, even tried a few times but no avail because those S. Rogers weren't his match. So it went until seventeen when living at home was no longer an option in the conditions of expectations. He was a smart kid, but the public school system was boring, and he lost interest. The registry was worthless anyway. His match was probably dead somewhere.
Childhood hope for that special friend, the one meant for him faded with each disappointment. So the streets were safer even when he landed himself in trouble after trouble. The only thing he seemed good at was skipping arrest and stealing. He was caught and that's when his parole officer took a shine to him, and he learned about HYDRA. He was courted to that side, to understand that a soulbond would never make him special; it was a pain, but he had the skills to overcome.
So he did.
Years of service paid off. He was special in HYDRA, rising in the ranks, taking a razor blade to scrape off the tattooed name any time it decided to appear. In his twenties, it was stubborn, but the scar tissue built and made the tattoo struggle to come through. No one came to claim him anyway, so he scraped it off time and time again. Soul bonds were for other people, those who thought they needed that crutch just to carry on.
He never admitted how empty it all felt, like he was missing a key part of himself. The only time there was relief was when he spent those quiet moments applying the blade to his skin scraping that tattoo of a name off of his body. He was closest to whomever his soul bond was then; any other time, he was just... cold. Dead inside, he assumed, since literal cold was impossible in his mind.
The years went on, and he was so high in HYDRA he knew things. He was a man even Pierce could rely on. He had duped the best of them, knew how to be the best at his job, be cool, calm, collected and yet still funny that no one knew the difference. He spied better than most because he was personable, brought coffee to the underdogs, recruited new members where he could. He made other people feel special, mostly because he knew it was short lived anyway.
However, the new big man was coming to town. Captain America. Fury had been hard on them about welcoming the guy, the living legend out of the ice. Pierce had ordered him to get close and keep tabs on the Captain, to assess how much of a threat the man was going to be to their plans. So, that was the plan.
Today was all about introductions: the STRIKE teams would assemble, pay tribute and get their first look at the new commanding officer that shuffled them all down the power line. The meeting was in thirty minutes, and he always arrived early, made his rounds to speak with people, pretend like office gossip mattered to him and then went to the change rooms. It wasn't his lucky day when he was changing for a quick morning shower to find his tattoo like a black disgusting beacon on his hip.
No one would be in; the teams weren't be deployed.
Rumlow grabbed one of the razors he kept in his locker and forced his pants down off one hip so he could work. Paper towel was better than nothing, but the sharp pain of scraping the tattoo off was, by now, so second nature, his brain wasn't even interested in making the connection between the S. Rogers on his hip and the new one he was about to meet. He was numb to that bullshit by now, and the pain made him feel alive, connected, no longer cold. So he scraped it, wiping at the blood as it flowed and simply continued on.
So why was a strange pressure building behind his eyes and squeezed his chest? He fought his way through mentally and continued on his business. No one had to know the worthless secret. He was who he was because of his own personal strength. He was going to do great things, already had. No soul bond necessary.
Except when it was.]
When: Between The Avengers & Captain America: The Winter Soldier events.
What: Soulbonds make no distinctions; they simply are and the people thrown together have to learn to deal.
Warnings: Self-harm, language, Rumlow being Rumlow, Steve's 40s potty mouth.
[There existed this select group of every population that were continued to be special, to be considered more sensitive than the rest. They were the soul bounded, and they were two halves to a whole person, where the best results and the best endeavors were accomplished together. Babies born with names imprinted on their skins that faded in childhood and returned on the onset of sexual maturity. God's blessing, it was called. Children with names created excitement in families; they were said to be the ones to go on to do the greatest feats of mankind.
Rumlow had been born with a name, single child in a family that expected big blood line branches on the tree. His mother managed him and no more, and he had not been an easy baby to raise. Colic, sickness and a perchance to cry the nights away made him rather unpopular with his father. Still, he was special despite the name having faded away for the time being. He was raised told he would be special, that he would do great things, and that he needed to apply himself.
He was put on a registry will all the other 'special ones'. Some would never pair off, childhood mortality and all that. Some names might never appear again due to this fact and those children would go on being as mundane as everyone else.
At twelve, the special name appeared on the swell of his hip: S. Rogers. A common name, likely without even a scant drop of Italian heritage. The registry would pair him off, even tried a few times but no avail because those S. Rogers weren't his match. So it went until seventeen when living at home was no longer an option in the conditions of expectations. He was a smart kid, but the public school system was boring, and he lost interest. The registry was worthless anyway. His match was probably dead somewhere.
Childhood hope for that special friend, the one meant for him faded with each disappointment. So the streets were safer even when he landed himself in trouble after trouble. The only thing he seemed good at was skipping arrest and stealing. He was caught and that's when his parole officer took a shine to him, and he learned about HYDRA. He was courted to that side, to understand that a soulbond would never make him special; it was a pain, but he had the skills to overcome.
So he did.
Years of service paid off. He was special in HYDRA, rising in the ranks, taking a razor blade to scrape off the tattooed name any time it decided to appear. In his twenties, it was stubborn, but the scar tissue built and made the tattoo struggle to come through. No one came to claim him anyway, so he scraped it off time and time again. Soul bonds were for other people, those who thought they needed that crutch just to carry on.
He never admitted how empty it all felt, like he was missing a key part of himself. The only time there was relief was when he spent those quiet moments applying the blade to his skin scraping that tattoo of a name off of his body. He was closest to whomever his soul bond was then; any other time, he was just... cold. Dead inside, he assumed, since literal cold was impossible in his mind.
The years went on, and he was so high in HYDRA he knew things. He was a man even Pierce could rely on. He had duped the best of them, knew how to be the best at his job, be cool, calm, collected and yet still funny that no one knew the difference. He spied better than most because he was personable, brought coffee to the underdogs, recruited new members where he could. He made other people feel special, mostly because he knew it was short lived anyway.
However, the new big man was coming to town. Captain America. Fury had been hard on them about welcoming the guy, the living legend out of the ice. Pierce had ordered him to get close and keep tabs on the Captain, to assess how much of a threat the man was going to be to their plans. So, that was the plan.
Today was all about introductions: the STRIKE teams would assemble, pay tribute and get their first look at the new commanding officer that shuffled them all down the power line. The meeting was in thirty minutes, and he always arrived early, made his rounds to speak with people, pretend like office gossip mattered to him and then went to the change rooms. It wasn't his lucky day when he was changing for a quick morning shower to find his tattoo like a black disgusting beacon on his hip.
No one would be in; the teams weren't be deployed.
Rumlow grabbed one of the razors he kept in his locker and forced his pants down off one hip so he could work. Paper towel was better than nothing, but the sharp pain of scraping the tattoo off was, by now, so second nature, his brain wasn't even interested in making the connection between the S. Rogers on his hip and the new one he was about to meet. He was numb to that bullshit by now, and the pain made him feel alive, connected, no longer cold. So he scraped it, wiping at the blood as it flowed and simply continued on.
So why was a strange pressure building behind his eyes and squeezed his chest? He fought his way through mentally and continued on his business. No one had to know the worthless secret. He was who he was because of his own personal strength. He was going to do great things, already had. No soul bond necessary.
Except when it was.]
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This new world is different. There's a lot to adapt to, a lot to learn. He does it because he has no other real choice. He's still a soldier, he's still Captain America, and Fury is adamant that he do his duty. Work for SHIELD. Work for Fury. He could do some good with the powers he'd been given. What else would he spend his time doing anyway?
Seventy-something years have passed and with it goes the hope that he would have ever met the 'B Rumlow' delicately inked in his skin. So much time had come and gone; whoever they were, they had likely passed away. If not during the war, then certainly after it. Hell, if Steve hadn't been under ice for all these years and if he hadn't died during the tail-end of the War, he'd be pressing into his nineties now.
So he's here now, decked out in a costume that looks a hell of a lot like his old one, cowl included. The familiar star-spangled vibranium shield is strapped to his back. It's the only thing that feels familiar in an alien world.
Fury had given him a chance to meet the new teams he'd be working with, familiarize himself with the people, get the scope on his upcoming duties. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled meeting and Captain America enters the room to give himself a little bit of preparation time. Maybe he should've grabbed a coffee. Maybe he'd really rather not even be here.
He doesn't expect to feel the suddenness of a sharp sting pressing into his arm from beneath his Cap-suit, like someone's taken a knife to the skin but they've got no idea what they're doing, and he has to work hard to ignore the pain of it.
Jesus Christ. It can't be the long-forgotten tattoo, can it?
It's about ten minutes until go-time. He can last that long. ]
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