Villain!Steve (II)
“Listen, Barnes, I don’t care if he is your friend. Thanks to him, my rotator cuff is bruised and I can’t do anything for the next couple weeks,” Tony said, gesturing aggressively at the arm in a sling, “I was just lucky that the armor held up against the fucking HYDRA-weapon-thing being offloaded by that super-freak.”
James “Bucky” Barnes, still wearing the recently revived Captain America field suit, slammed his hands on the conference room table before snarling, “He’s not a super-freak, or HYDRA, he’s Steve! He’s supposed to be dead!” A crack had formed where an enhanced metal arm had impacted, spidering over the surface. “He’s not HYDRA!”
“Listen, I don’t know if you have some wires crossed from your whole ‘assassin stint’, or it’s something to do with your cryostasis thawing out only half your brain,” Tony ignored the dark look Natasha sent him, “but when someone is shooting at us after we find them in a HYDRA base, they’re HYDRA. Stop trying to defend this guy who almost took out our entire team without trying!” Tony spat, wincing when he tried to shrug. “We’re going to have to take him out next time, or at least arrest him.”
“He’s Captain America!” Bucky yelled over Tony’s last words, tugging at the reinforced red, white, and blue that spanned his chest, “The real Captain American! He’s Steve Rogers! He not some HYDRA lackey, he’s not a killer, he’s just Steve Rogers and he is Captain America!’
“Fine, fine, the random guy who attacked us was Steve Rogers, sure, I’ll believe you with no concrete evidence,” Tony sighed, grimacing at the feeling of grease and gunpowder residue that had somehow entered the Iron Man armor to cling to his neck and face. He glanced at the chairs that should have held his remaining teammates, but Thor and Clint were busy containing Bruce, who still hadn’t changed back after the mission, so Tony was stuck debriefing instead of sulking off into his tower.
“Though the man you discovered did bear a striking resemblance to one Steve Rogers, believed dead, I hate to admit that Stark does have a valid point: There is no way to prove the man is who you believe him to be,” Fury explained at the head of the table, grinding his teeth when Bucky looked as if he were about to argue over his commanding officer, “So until that time, we have to assume that the man who was inside the complex, the lone escapee and survivor, is HYDRA until proven not.”
“He’s not HYDRA, and I’ll prove it,” Bucky said, pushing back from the table to stand and glare at everyone present, “I’m going to find him and bring him back. Steve’ll remember me, he always does, and then you’ll see how wrong you were about him being Captain America..” He swung around and stomped out the room, slamming the door open dramatically with Natasha quietly following two steps behind.
Tony snorted at Bucky’s retreating back, “If he’s HYDRA, I’m sure he’ll be coming after us within a week.”
---
“Ah, American. You’ve finally returned to the downy wings of HYDRA. I thought you were put out of commission. Believed you lost your usefulness, what with being drugged up all the time like an alley whore.” Brock Rumlow leaned back in his chair, eyes slowly crawling up the body of the huge blond standing at military ease in front of him, noting the way the biceps bulged even without being flexed. “Figured you would come back to us like the dog you are. You probably don’t even know what to do with yourself.”
The man in front of him didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink at the harsh language being thrown in his direction. Didn’t even shift his weight when Brock stood and walked closer to stab a pointer finger into a chest you could smash a bottle on. Brock was not used to having no reaction. He was head of HYDRA, picked specifically by the Red Skull to continue his work, people listened to him and cowered.
Except for this stupid relic from a bygone age.
“Well? Say something, American! Tell me how worthless you are,” Brock spat into a lax face, frustrated how the soldier did nothing, “How you failed your mission already! How you couldn’t take down a single Avenger, even though you had the element of surprise and knew the building better than them. Couldn’t even kill Iron Man who, you literally clung to like a woman.”
Rumlow grinned when those blue eyes finally turned towards him, ignoring the primal shiver that went up his spine at the dull, reptilian, gaze less than five inches from his own. “Ah, yes, the great golden Avenger. Simply a man inside a suit of flying armor. You could have pulled him out; shelled him like a lobster. Normal people are nothing to you, I’ve read.
“But, no. Instead you clung to that bucket of bolts like a teenager being fucked for the first time,” Brock hissed into the American’s ear, pausing when he heard a stiff exhale from the other man. “Don’t like that? Being told you were about to get fucked by a man? And not just any man, it’s that shit eating womanizer: Tony. Fucking. Stark.”
Brock relished the spittle that landed on fair skin, “You’re lucky I’m even keeping you awake after how badly you screwed the bitch raw. Who knows? I might grow tired of your failures and plug you back into that drug-cocktail, maybe change the dosage so you stay-”
A startled wet gargle was all Rumlow was able to express before a large hand clamped over his mouth to cut off any additional sounds that might spew forth, uncaring of the pink froth that was dribbling from lax lips. The other hand, buried wrist deep into a chest, searched until it found what it was looking for, reaching under a rib and pushing past a lung to grab onto the rapidly thumping heart. Pulling his hand closer, and the lower half of Rumlow as well, the American stared dispassionately down at the man writhing against his chest
“Director, Director,” Steve said gently, almost kindly, as he shifted, which resulted in a new cascade of blood spurting from the cracked open chest cavity. “I do not think you understand how to give constructive criticism to those under your command. You should mix in the good with the bad, point out what was done incorrectly and then explain how it should have been completed by the operative.
“Let’s use today as an example,” He continued, ignoring the rapidly weakening fists that battered against his hips and side, “You called me into your office to explain, in explicit detail, how I did not complete my mission. You do not realize that I have a mission that is being completed perfectly right now. A very personal mission. You just are not privy to it,” he said, ignoring the hot, cloying, liquid that was coating his legs.
“It is fortunate for you that you are graciously stepping down from your position to allow me to fully utilize our organization’s resources. That you realized that perhaps you were not strong enough in your leadership skills to lead us to our promised victory,” He smiled down at the dulling eyes, giving one last twist of his wrist that pulled out the lower half of the right ventricle. “I’m sure Herr Schmidt would be pleased such a competent person was stepping in.”
The American stepped back, satisfied at the faint whistling sound that followed the removal of his hand, and lazily gazed down at the crumpled body of his once-superior. Brock Rumlow had served his purpose, revealing how HYDRA had fallen from its glory in the past decades and how it now required a firmer hand to guide it to its golden age. A hand that was used to destroying enemies close and not requiring the impersonal use of a gun or clandestine techniques that had a high-probability of failure.
HYDRA was lucky the American had returned to take control.
“Director Romlow has had an unfortunate accident.” The blond said to the uniformed guard stationed outside the door, gesturing to the pulp-like body bleeding out on the thin industrial carpeting behind him when the other man paled at his appearance.
“Prior to his sudden but inevitable demise, he promoted me to his position to further the vision of our leaders past.” The image of a red skull flashed briefly, along with a burst of pain, but it was pushed to the back of his mind. “Very unfortunate that I must take on the mantle so quickly, but it is often the case in our field of work,” he grinned ruefully, as if the entire situation amused him and it was nothing more than a happy inconvenience.
“Y-yes, sir. It is very unfortunate, sir.” The uniformed man cautiously stepped over the door jam, wide eyes darting around the room to try and discover why such a power struggle occurred. “Should I send out a general alert to our outposts, Director, explaining the transfer?”
“Ah, yes, that would be greatly appreciated. Also, please don’t call me Director.” The American smiled at the full-body flinch when he spoke and wondered if the smaller man thought he was going to attack him. He was not insane or mentally unstable; he wasn’t going to start attacking random strangers or operatives out of the blue.
The American had been trained since the beginning to fix things, to make things run as smooth as possible for those he worked with, by either acting as live bait or destroying platoons that would make the mission difficult. It was his purpose in HYDRA; had been for the past forty years.
It was just unlucky for Brock Rumlow that he was considered “damaging” to HYDRA’s efforts towards world domination and thus needed to be removed.
“We are a military operation. We always have been,” He mused, nodding when the man placed his rifle onto the table so he could snap on a pair of nitrile gloves from his utility belt. “It was the way HYDRA had been run in the past. It seems the ideal has...diverted slightly in my absence. I will now be leading HYDRA to a new level of superiority not known to our enemies.”
The American shrugged against the feel of wrongness that settled across his shoulders at his words, brushing it off as the strong drugs still circulating throughout his bloodstream, “In the meantime,” The blond paused as a name floated up from a foggy part of his brain, “In the meantime, address me as Commander Rogers. Make sure to let the others know before the end of day close, or you will be punished,” he stated, turning into the hallway and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him. A shower seemed like the perfect way to celebrate.
Later, as he sat down at the polished desk inside a room that smelled strongly of bleach, the man pulled the keyboard closer. He had a name for the man who rescued him, the one in the robotic suit. Plucking at the keys, he let his mind wander as he searched for information pertaining to Tony Stark.
He would like to thank him personally if possible.