Before the Asset, before STRIKE alpha and long before his position as commander: Brock Rumlow adopts a dog.
It is an unkempt, disheveled, scrawny little thing: barely a few months old when the secretary hands it to him. Babbling something about the need for learning and discipline: the new position he's been training for requires him to know more kinds of skills other than kill, and Rumlow briefly wonders if Alexander Pierce is planning to turn him into a Nazi dog handler.
Rumlow is not a dog guy, but the last person who said ‘no’ to the secretary of defense left his office in a body bag: so, he accepts the offer, thanks the kindness, and nods a few times when the man promises to meet him soon to discuss his next orders.
“I didn't know you had a dog,” Jack Rollins comments flatly when he catches him that same afternoon, looking for puppy food online.
“Neither did I.” Is his lax response.
The faint hope of handling things calmly vanishes the moment the animal’s cage is thrust into Rumlow’s hands. At first, he can’t even get a good look at the dog—the animal furiously lunges at the metal bars, chewing and growling at the slightest hint of approach.
The first few weeks pass in a tentative coming and going, where Rumlow feels like an intruder even in his own home: tiptoeing to avoid unleashing the storm of barking that his neighbors keep repeatedly reporting to the police, even after his pleas for them not to.
Things hit a breaking point when Rumlow realizes that the sudden increase in desk work isn’t just an unfortunate coincidence—it’s a deliberate move and, consequently, that he won't be easily freeing himself from the responsibility by simply ignoring it.
So, he sets to work trying to gain the animal's trust or, at the very least, to avoid losing his fingers every time he has to feed it.
“Hey... big guy” He mutters, trying to keep his voice low and even. He sits down on the floor a safe distance from the cage. His knees creak in protest as he crosses his legs, the sound enough to catch the animal’s attention.
Those slightly hooded eyelids frame the hostile gaze of the dog and Rumlow ignores all his self-preservation instincts in order to continue speaking as if nothing had happened.
“You're hungry, aren't you? Look what I brought you.” the animal's nostrils flare, capturing the metallic smell of the juicy piece meat in his hand.
I gotchu.
“ Yes… You like that, huh? Spoiled thing."
A growl meets his insolence, which— screw it, he won't be reprimanded by a stupid animal. So, he simply continues to wiggle the piece of meat for a few seconds in the hope of coaxing him into it: before he begins to carefully move it towards the edge of the cage.
That seems to be the dog's limit, because the second Rumlow crosses that imaginary line between the two of them: barking echoes in the air shrilly. A high-pitched rumble that makes the hair on his arms stand on end.
At that exact moment, he abruptly removes the food: shouting a loud “No! Bad dog” while hiding it in plain sight behind his own back.
While that doesn't calm the angry bastard, as the command means nothing to him and he is not exactly trying to fool him. The repeated action eventually gets through. The dog quickly understands that if he continues barking and lashing out at the hand trying to feed him: he will only continue to be teased with food, never fed .
The next time the hand is near the cage. The dog just stares at him with a distrustful but silent gaze.
“Good dog,” Rumlow praises.
The routine repeats daily with different types of offerings: meat, chicken, bones and even treats. Which his obligatory pet doesn't seem to like very much, but food is food, and he licks them up begrudgingly.
Each time, Rumlow inches his hand a little closer, keeping it over the food despite the dog's growling protests.
His work seems to pay off. One day, he manages to brush the fur with the tip of his fingers. Sure, the mutt walks away as soon as his feast is finished, but it doesn't matter. He will take any victory he gets in this situation.
They settle into a rhythm, and soon, Brock goes from moving like a clumsy dancer avoiding broken glass to occasionally tripping over forty-three pounds of dog sprawled across the floor.
The most remarkable thing about that?
He doesn't lose a foot because of his mistake. In fact, he receives nothing beyond an unimpressed look from the dog before he returns to his undisturbed slumber.
That doesn't mean their problems are over—quite the opposite.
Now that the mutt is allowed out of the cage and confident enough to roam around, he seems to have gained endless energy that any child would envy. He runs around Brock’s legs, scratching the floor with his nails and destroying shoes at ungodly hours of the night.
His attempts to reprimand him by showing authority are fruitless—Brock’s angry screams earn him uninterested glances with glowing eyes, before the dog returns to chewing whatever thing had the misfortune to fall prey between his teeth.
It's... Irritating, but he doesn't dare complain to anyone for advice without feeling like an idiot. So, when the secretary asks how things are going: Rumlow lies through his teeth, watching the old man's face light up with a satisfied smile—a smile that fades as quickly as it appears.
“This is your first time having a pet, isn’t it?” Alexander Pierce's question catches Brock off guard. He barely has time to rack his brains trying to figure out what gave him away when the secretary's eyes drift to the floor, scrutinizing the holey combat boots that cover his feet.
He draws them up towards himself, primly but discreetly, trying to hide them while shame burns on his cheeks.
The man chuckles, lightheaded. “You really should start training him, Agent Rumlow. Even animals need discipline, why don’t you try teaching him some tricks?” Pierce suggests, turning his eyes to his face with a knowing look. “Animals are smart, he’ll learn quickly.”
The dog, in fact, does not learn quickly and to make matters worse: he’s completely stupid.
He doesn't understand instructions, ignores the toys Brock bought him especially to chew on in favor of any other personal items, and continues to pee wherever he pleases. And the bastard Alexander Pierce must have known this because a quick internet search reveals that the Husky breed is an odyssey to train.
So Rumlow is stuck with an especially braindead and difficult dog. Great.
In any case, giving up is not an option. Every morning, Brock heads out for a run, leash in hand, hoping to drain the dog's endless supply of chaotic energy. He buys hormone sprays to prevent his territory marking and resorts to swatting him with newspapers when that fails, earning disgruntled grunts but no violence in response.
Above all, he’s patient—because this is a test and lashing out with his usual bubbling anger is not wise. So, he tolerates destroyed shoes, peeling sofas and dirty floors with the composure of a saint.
“My grandmother had a dog that did that, you know?” Rollins conversationally remarks one day, glancing at Brock’s mud-covered boots that had seen better days. “It was a real nightmare; my grandmother was about to get rid of her.”
Swallowing his pride, Rumlow asks, “And what did she do about it?”
Rollins looks back at him for a few seconds, no particular emotion showing in his attentive gaze. “I don't know. My father just started treating her like he treated his soldiers in the army. It helped them both, I guess. One day she just became obedient, and that was that.”
Brock is about to give Jack a hard time for what seems like a joke at his expense, just to realize that the idiot is completely serious. And… hell, he must be really desperate because it starts looking like a good idea.
But anything is better than walking barefoot, as if he was too freaking poor to buy shoes. He is a field agent, sure, the pay is not great—but he doesn’t need to use holey shoes like he couldn’t afford anything else, not anymore.
Rumlow takes the advice with grace, looking for appropriate commands to teach the house resident, toe-biting demon.
Half a year passes before the secretary brings up the dog again. To be honest, Rumlow can’t even be mad about it. Between the nightly Hydra training sessions and his return to short-term missions, even he had forgotten the dog was supposed to be part of an assignment.
Then, one day, after a debrief session, the secretary casually asks to meet the pet. He wants to see how much it has grown and what skills Rumlow, his capable agent, has managed to teach it. Expectations seem high, and Rumlow—being the dumb fuck he is—agrees, not knowing what else to say.
Rumlow must admit, his chest swells with pride when Alexander Pierce compliments the dog’s health. The secretary admits he didn’t have much faith when he first handed over the dog, given the look on Rumlow’s face, but to his surprise, Rumlow has proved him wrong with his dedication to the task.
Pierce scratches under the mutt’s chin—an action that once would’ve cost him a limb, now only prompts an enthusiastic wag of the tail. The dog, called over, looks like the very picture of loyalty and affection.
“He seems well-behaved and trained,” Pierce observes. And of course he is, he is Brock’s dog. He lies down, rolls around and barks when asked with all the enthusiasm of a little puppy.
An aura of pride and affection fills the room. For once, the secretary doesn’t seem like the vile old man he usually is. Instead, he looks like a grandfather, genuinely pleased with Rumlow’s newfound ability to care for another living being. When Rumlow looks at the dog, his heart fills warmly with personal realization: He did it.
However, the feeling of accomplishment does not last long. Pierce’s voice cuts through the moment. “Congratulations, Agent Rumlow. Now, there’s just one last thing to complete your task”
And… What the hell does that even mean ? The task has been completed: this is the most polite and peaceful dog he’s ever met in his life (not that he has met many, but still). What else could Rumlow possibly teach him at this point?
He's tempted to tell the secretary to screw himself—He’s a field agent, not a dog handler. He’s done everything he can with his limited training skills and...
"What thing?" Rumlow asks. The man’s peachy hair bounces slightly as he tilts his head, giving Rumlow that ever-present, amused look everyone must be tired of receiving as he is.
“It’s time to complete your task,” Pierce repeats, as if that means anything. He’s stopped looking into Rumlow’s eyes, and as Brock follows his gaze, he notices it’s fixed on his belt. For a brief moment, vanity strikes him—wondering if his fly is down or his belt out of place. But the only noteworthy item there is his P226, a weapon Pierce has previously admired for its customization.
“I don't understand.” He admits, and the secretary snorts.
“Well, Agent. If you don’t understand, I can’t tell you,” Pierce says, adding after a pause, “That would defeat the whole purpose of your task.”
It takes Rumlow a moment to realize why Pierce’s gaze is fixed on his gun when he shifts his focus to the dog—the one still sitting obediently in front of them as previously commanded.
Disbelief must be seeping through the cracks in his mask, because the old man gently prods him, “Go ahead, Agent Rumlow. Finish your task.”
Despite his hesitation, Rumlow draws the gun and takes aim, his index finger hovering tentatively over the trigger—awaiting for the order to toss his weapon and the subsequent praise for his willingness to do something he clearly doesn't want to do.
The order doesn’t come, and his hand starts shaking.
At the edges of the gun's muzzle, he can see the dog's eyes—two orbs full of love and unconditional loyalty that stare directly at him, waiting for a new command to please the humans around like any well-trained animal would do.
The dog doesn’t understand weapons and clearly has no idea what is being pointed at him between his eyes, but he also seems indifferent to it. Trusting that it is Rumlow in front of him and as history shows, he would never hurt him.
Right?
He turns his face to look at the secretary one last time, his expression expectant. He makes no comment as Rumlow’s gaze shifts back to the front and fires.
Stupid dog...
For a couple of weeks, that’s all he can think about. It’s not the first time he’s taken a life—he’s a double agent, specialized in infiltration and elimination. Of course, he’s killed before.
Somehow, that doesn’t make it any easier to process. In fact, it only seems to make it worse.
Mission kills are impersonal. You haven’t seen those people’s faces beyond a photo, a video, or perhaps the reflection in glass if you’re lucky. You know their lives only vaguely from what’s written on paper, so the agent in charge knows what to expect—absent daughter, gold-digger spouse, nosy cleaning lady, slob security guard. And usually, they’re fucking idiots.
Bizarre senators, politicians whose morals clash with Hydra’s ideals, unfaithful businessmen, agents whose betrayals have been exposed and need to be dealt with—these are the pieces of shit that no one will miss.
Never an animal, never a dog: his dog. Because fuck Pierce and his shitty task, that dog was his .
For a while, Brock resents the secretary and refuses to meet his gaze. Because every time he does, he’s reminded of those two blue eyes that shined with love one last time before fading away—bleeding out on pristine floors and in the patched holes of his boots. Rumlow hates Pierce for this—for forcing him to become attached to another living being, for making him take care of its needs, its sick days, its rewards and punishments.
Rumlow hates Alexander Pierce for making him love a dog, an especially stupid one. Just to take that away from him, and for what?
The worst thing is that he doesn't understand: What was the purpose of all that? The man never clarified it, and it's not like Brock would have been able to process it even if he did—his brain disconnected from his body when he pulled the trigger. The only thing that registered was the difference in weight of his P226.
What was the point of forcing him to look into the innocent eyes of an animal that bled trust? Hard earned trust. He can't understand it at all.
It’s not until he meets the Winter Soldier and gets lost into his bright blue eyes that Brock Rumlow finally understands.
“Hey, big guy.”