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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.]
no subject
[ Steve's voice is mild, and his eyes briefly flick from Rumlow to the razor left at his side, something that seems a little too severe for 'pubes shaving' or any kind of shaving. To each their own, of course, and hardly anything to bring up in an already awkward situation. ]
Steve Rogers. [ He says, introducing himself. ] I'd shake your hand, but - [ Dignity. Towels. Half-naked shower antics. You know. Take your pick.
He shrugs, and then juts his chin lightly towards Rumlow's arm. ]
You should probably get something for that cut.
no subject
Rumlow had blushed in grade school when humiliated by another student. His natural complexion didn't allow for much blushing, and yet, as his gaze slid over the Captain with a perplexed kind of interest, he felt his cheeks heat. It was surreal, and he cleared his throat a moment later, bustling about staunching the blood. He wiped it away and then froze.
The name S. Rogers persisted through the scar tissue as if physically telling him off.]
Yeah, I get that, Cap. [He hastily buttoned his fatigues and washed his hands of any remnant, then splashed water on his face to cool off. It wasn't to be. Never could be. Never would be.
Still, he outstretched a hand casual-like.] I'm Brock Rumlow, commander of STRIKE Alpha. Don't worry about me; I take care of myself and my own. A pleasure to meet you... what do you like to be called?
no subject
[ Brock Rumlow.
Brock.
Rumlow.
B Rumlow
No. No, it couldn't be.
For a noticeable second, Steve likely looks visibly shaken by the thoughts roiling in his mind, years of wondering and hoping and then giving up warring against each other as the consideration of the name and the feeling that comes with it hits him in the gut.
No, never mind. ]
- uh. Steve. Just call me Steve. [ He leans in far enough to take the other man's hand, fully intending a brief shake - but like some cliched moment in a movie, the contact of skin against skin has his breath catching.
He clears his throat and lets go. ] Cap's fine too, when I'm actually in uniform.
no subject
How would that be possible? Rogers had been in the ice for the last seventy years! The guy was barely alive and so deep into the ice that it would be impossible for them to make any connection... except hadn't there been a big documentary on how because the ice continually shifted there that Rogers would have risen and fallen with the ice drifts? Had he been born on one of the rises and it all fallen into place?
They were fucked. Royally. No, nevermind, this wasn't to be. They could avoid each other, except when they couldn't... direct contact would start it, wouldn't it?
He looked at his hand, dumbly nodding his head at the name clarification. He licked his lips and watched Steve carefully.]
Steve, huh? [God, that name rolled off of his lips so easily, like silk.] Seems like we'll be working together now that you're about to become my CO. [He smiled and meant to ask how that was going to work but instead blurted:] ...you got a name. [Written on you.]