Brock Rumlow glares at the Asset as the silent Soldier bends over his twisted knee, helping to wrap it in tight bandaging. They've just gotten in from a job turned sideways and getting split from the rest of the team after Rumlow slid down a steep hill in the snow.
Rumlow had been ready to lie there and remain for hours, pain spiking up his leg and the sun setting through the trees. The rest of the team had vanished to safety and Rumlow didn't blame them. One of the first rules in the Hydra teams was never sacrifice yourself for a downed teammate. It made sense. They all had skills that helped in a team situation, but losing one soldier was better than losing two or more.
He'd been closing his eyes, teeth chattering in the cold and ready to give in for the night, when a hand had gripped the back of his vest and yanked him along through the snow, dragging him like a doll. He'd craned his head to see who it was, grabbing at his knife, only to gaze up along a metallic arm and toward the Winter Soldier, whose pace did not slow at all through the forest until they got to the safe house on the edge of the trees.
They're alone here now, and Rumlow stares at the Soldier while it tends to his injuries, gaze focused and expression blank. Neither of them has spoken since getting here, except for a gruff, "Stay," from the Asset as it had pressed Rumlow down onto a mattress in the middle of the front room.
Once Rumlow's knee is wrapped, the Asset stands and goes to the fireplace. It starts a fire, reaching into the flames with its metal hand to adjust the logs for the best burn. Rumlow watches, but says nothing, unsure just what's going on here. He knows the rules for the Asset are different. It has its own set, and few of them know or understand them.
Granted, Rumlow was given a set of those rules, as well as the trigger phrase, when he'd been assigned as the Soldier's official handler just over a year ago, but he never really sat and studied them.
He sighs when the Soldier turns and looks at him, narrowing its eyes as it seems to study him. There's a moment, brief as it may be, where there seems to be some sort of emotion that passes behind its cold eyes, but it's gone almost immediately. With a grunt, the Asset stands and walks out of the room to the kitchen.
"Why did you save me?" Rumlow asks after a few moments. He's not even sure why he's bothering. Half the time, the damn cyborg doesn't answer him.
He's met with the sounds of things being moved around in the kitchen, the stove and some popping sounds, a quiet grunt of frustration, and then a stretched silence that almost scares him. It's never good when you absolutely can't hear the Asset. That usually means it's going to kill you.
It returns a little while later with a plate in one hand and a glass of water in the other. The plate holds a couple sandwiches, which the Soldier hands to Rumlow. Rumlow shifts to sit up and takes the plate, though he eyes it warily.
The Soldier sighs and sits, taking its mask off and grabbing one of the sandwiches. It takes a bite, chews, swallows, then sets the rest of the sandwich back down with a raised eyebrow, its expression speaking volumes.
'I wouldn't eat it if I poisoned it.'
Still, it doesn't say anything out loud, but Rumlow nods and cautiously picks up the sandwich the Soldier had just set back down, taking a bite himself. He takes a deep breath and chuckles around the bite.
"BLT? Really?"
The Soldier stares at him. "I can go get you a bowl of dirt and snow if you're going to complain."
Rumlow blinks, then laughs, caught off guard. He forgets, sometimes, that the damn thing has taken on his sense of humor and snark in their time working together. He shakes his head. "I fucking like BLTs, you asshole."
"I know you do," the Asset hums, handing him the glass of water. "BLTs, French onion soup, a proper Cesar salad, steak cooked medium rare, and the number 6 at Carl's Jr."
Rumlow takes the water, but simply stares at the Soldier for a long moment. He knows the thing is programmed to study. To observe and absorb when it's not killing. He just never thought he'd be the subject of study. And his food choices, of all things.
"Eat," the Asset growls, turning its head to look around. It tilts its head, listening maybe, and reaches to push the glass closer to Rumlow as well. "And drink. You're dehydrated."
"What about you?" Rumlow says, without thinking. "You need to eat and have some water, too. You can't remember to take care of me and forget your own fucking body. It doesn't work that way."
The Asset looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "I had a bite." It shrugs.
Rumlow takes a breath and lets it out with a growl. He picks up the sandwich the Soldier started and shoves it forward. "Eat, goddamn it."
The Asset blinks, but takes the sandwich in its left hand, carefully as though afraid to crush it with metal fingers. It stares at the sandwich, now a bit of a mess thanks to Rumlow's thrusting it against the Asset's chest, then looks back up at the other.
"You get a lot more heated about my care than previous handlers," it says. "Before, they gave me water or juice and just left it at that. Figured the supplements when we got back would be enough. They usually are."
"Yeah, well you talk a lot more with me than you have to your previous handlers, according to the files," Rumlow counters. "So what's going on there?"
The Asset shrugs, then takes a bite of the sandwich again. It gently adjusts the ingredients so they won't fall out, then lowers its hand for a moment, resting the sandwich against its knee.
"You fluster easier," it says finally. "There's some fun in that. I don't have much fun."
"I'm sorry, is giving me shit fun to you?" Rumlow snarls. "I should shoot you for that."
Another shrug from the Soldier tells him it really doesn't care what he does to its body. Clearly, it is just a machine, even now. The thought is eerie and makes Rumlow want to gag. Even the most hardened assassins he's worked with have at least cared about self preservation. Until now.
Rumlow opts to drink his water and then dig into the second sandwich, trying to ignore the rising anger at the Soldier's belligerence. He knows part of his irritation is his pain, but God this guy is such a piece of work.
He wonders, briefly, what kind of man he must have been, before Hydra took to him. What sort of man lives under the brainwashing, and does he even exist anymore? Rumlow suspects the sort of man who can be this cruel and turn off so easily has got to have started off a monster, but there's something itching in the back of his mind that states otherwise, and he hates it.
"Why the hell did you save me?" Rumlow asks again after a bit.
The Asset turns and looks at him, humming. He looks back down at his sandwich, seeming to remember it's there, and takes another bite. Chewing slowly, he looks to contemplate, until he swallows and locks eyes with him.
Rumlow's throat runs dry at the sight of those eyes. Pale storms with no emotion, but also devoid of malice. He is no monster. He is just a machine.
Then, Rumlow realizes with a start that he's been thinking of the Asset as a he for some time now, a man. Not it, like he's been trained to. It. It is a machine. The Soldier is no man.
Yet, looking at this face, those eyes, he's terrified of the man he used to be. The Winter Soldier has seen and done so much, and Rumlow hasn't seen all of the files, but he does know the man used to be named James, and he was a soldier in the second world war. He hasn't gotten much deeper than that. At least not yet, but he wants to now.
"It is my duty to protect my handler," the Soldier says, breaking Rumlow from his thoughts. "You were injured. You would have died of hypothermia if you stayed out there. That's counter-intuitive to my duty to protect you." It- He shrugs again and takes another bite of his sandwich.
Rumlow lets out a breath and nods.
"Well, thank you. I guess." The Soldier looks at him. "For doing your job," Rumlow adds hastily.
The Soldier huffs a breath through his nose, maybe a laugh of a sort, and looks away again. He finishes his sandwich in silence, then stands and goes to stoke the fire before slipping away to the kitchen once more.
Rumlow sighs and finishes his own sandwich, setting the plate aside and lying back, wincing in pain. He stares at the ceiling, listening to the quiet surrounding the safe house, and waits. It's all he can do now, is wait. He's trapped in this place with the Asset until he's healed enough to walk and they can get out.
He debates trying to sleep, but the thought of sleeping with the Asset so close is almost unnerving. Even if he's supposed to protect Rumlow, it doesn't change how frightening and imposing he can be. And it definitely doesn't change that Rumlow's beginning to see him in a completely different light, trying to identify the man he used to be, behind the weapon, and that's going to make for problems further down the line.
What if the Soldier disobeys in front of the team? He can't go soft on him just because he's seeing him as human now, can he? No, he's got to stop this line of thought. The fucking thing just saved his life because it's programmed to do that. That's it.
Rumlow groans and sits up, tossing the plate beside him into the fireplace. It shatters with a satisfying sound and he watches as the flames lick at the pieces. The Soldier steps into the room again and pauses not too far away, watching him. It sighs after a second (and good, the Asset is it again, not he, keep it together, Rumlow) and shakes its head.
"Do you want to throw the water glass, too?" it asks, voice deadpan. "Will that make you feel better?"
Rumlow picks up the glass and throws it at the Soldier, who raises its left arm to block the blow. The glass shatters against the metal and tumbles to the floor around its boots. The Soldier looks down, then at Rumlow.
"You're acting like a child," it states.
"I swear to fucking God, I'll shoot you," Rumlow growls.
The Asset shrugs and moves to a chair, dropping into it and resting its elbow on the arm of the chair, fingers pressed to its temple as it leans back to watch him. Its body language is almost screaming at him to do it, challenging him, yet Rumlow knows he won't.
Instead, Rumlow sags and drops back onto the mattress with a grunt. "Eat a dick."
The Soldier hums, but says nothing. The room falls quiet but for the crackling of the flames. Rumlow knows he's being watched, but he's too tired to care and too wound up to sleep. He decides to just watch the ceiling some more.
Eventually, the ceiling fades away as his vision blurs with exhaustion and pain. He drifts off, finally able to get some rest. When he wakes up next, there's a blanket over him and a plate and bowl at his side.
The Asset is nowhere to be found. And neither is Rumlow's gun. He wonders if maybe that's so Rumlow can't follow through on his promise to shoot the Asset, and he muses on the brilliance of the move while he eats his sandwich and soup.