Chapter Text
Janine is pretty sure it’s the end of the world, and of course the ER is getting a front-row seat as people in various states of injury flood in. She barely registers all the hype on the TVs scattered throughout the hospital. Something about a government organization and another organization within that and lawmakers “demanding answers” like they always do when the public gets scared.
What’s more disturbing is the guy in her patient’s room that refuses to leave. It’s well after visiting hours, and he won’t prove that he’s related to the patient in any way. He won’t do much of anything, really, but stare at her like he’d like her to drop dead on the spot. Add that to the fact that he looks and dresses like he lives under a bridge, and Janine’s about ready to never pull another night shift ever again.
Still, she does try to be nice. “So, Mr. …uh…?” She looks at him questioningly. He stares at her, shifting slightly. She’s almost positive she heard something mechanical moving under his hoodie. He’s standing next to the patient’s bed like he’s waiting for the man to wake up and demand something. “Okay, then… Well, I’m Jan. You wanna take a seat?”
The man looks to the only chair in the room. He at least understands English. Maybe. Icy blue eyes fix on Janine again, and she’s pretty sure this guy should be in the psych ward. She’s had about enough, though. She can’t check her patient’s vitals with 1995’s last grunge band reject standing so close to the gurney. Janine stalks up to the man, sticking her chin out defiantly and glaring. “Look, buddy. I’ve stuck IVs in patients that were trying to knife me in cocaine-induced psychotic breaks. You will sit your ass down in that chair, or I will have the police come get you.”
Whatever reaction she was expecting, the implacable stare isn’t it. The man seems to hesitate a bit, looking uncertain and glancing at her patient again. Finally, he haltingly shuffles to the chair and sits, still watching her like a hawk.
Janine grabs the patient’s chart and starts taking his vitals and looking over the notes. Fractured radius and ulna. Multiple lacerations to the face, arms, legs… Well, pretty much everywhere. A few second degree burns. Smoke inhala—
“Is he… malfunctioning?”
Janine’s back stiffens at the sudden break in the silence. The strangeness of the question sinks in a moment later, and she turns to look at the man. The guy obviously isn’t all there. But he doesn’t seem to be completely out of his mind, either. “He’s… in-jured,” she says slowly, wondering if the man even understands. He makes no indication one way or the other. “Is Mr. Rumlow a friend of yours?”
Cold blue eyes slide over to the figure on the bed, intubated and silent. Pink lips press together in a line as his brow furrows. “…to the end of the line.” The words are shaky, sound more like a question than an answer.
Janine lightly rests her hand on the man’s shoulder, and it’s unyielding, cool underneath the gray hoodie. A prosthetic? Those bright blue eyes lift to meet hers and she reflects that they look oddly lost and uncertain. “He’s hurt pretty badly, but he’s in stable condition. He’ll get better.”
“I failed.”
The words are so focused and certain that they seem almost like an outburst in spite of the fact that they’re no louder than anything else he’s said. It’s the most certain thing the man has uttered, and he looks scared as hell when he says them. “I’m sure you did all you could.”
He shakes his head, eyes drifting to the floor and oddly crestfallen.
Janine bites her lower lip, starts to leave, then hesitates when she hears a loud grumble. She glances at the man and offers him a gentle smile. “Was that your stomach? I’ll get you something from the cafeteria,” she says. “You can stay here, but don’t go walking around. Visiting hours are over.”
---=---
It’s been three days, and Janine is pretty sure that her patient’s visitor hasn’t left his side except for bathroom breaks. She’s already had to tell him to shave and shower in the room’s cramped facilities, but otherwise he hasn’t really been a problem. He hasn’t said much since the first day he showed up, but he seems to be getting increasingly agitated, fidgeting in his seat and staring at the vitals monitors.
“He’s getting better,” she offers, pointing at the patient. “See? No more tube. His lungs have pretty well healed. He should be awake in a few hours. We backed off the pain meds.” She’s not sure, but she thinks she sees relief on the visitor’s face. She offers a faint smile. “I’ll go get you something to eat.” Technically, she’s not supposed to be feeding this guy, but she has a feeling he won’t eat otherwise. Whether he just doesn’t know how to get food, can’t get it, or just won’t, she has no idea, but she’s not going to let someone starve to death on her watch. “Back in a few.”
---=---
The fact that he’s not in a prison hospital when he wakes up comes as a surprise. But the absolute last thing he expects is the sight that greets him when his eyes finally find some bleary degree of focus. He’s not wearing his usual gear, and he’s not looking as typically dead-eyed, but it’s still impossible for Brock to fail to recognize the… ‘person’ he’s been working with for years.
He coughs. His throat feels like a hundred miles of bad road. Come to think of it, so does the rest of him. He can feel bandages taped to his face and arms, and he’s pretty sure the sling is a bad sign. He doesn’t pay it much mind, though. He’s been hurt worse. Order from pain.
Right now, though, Brock Rumlow is more interested to know why the hell the Winter Soldier is sitting in a flimsy plastic chair at his bedside and staring a hole through him. “Uh… Frosty?” No one’s ever told Brock what to call the Asset, and ‘Winter Soldier’ takes too damn long to say. So he’s improvised. He’s pretty sure he has about half a dozen working nicknames for HYDRA’s Fist by now.
The Soldier’s entire body goes from stoic waiting to tense focus, blue eyes flashing as they meet Rumlow’s gaze. “I need orders.”
“Glad to see you, too,” Brock slurs. There must be some good painkillers in the IV. He’d really like to go back to sleep.
A gloved hand that Rumlow knows isn’t made of flesh and blood grasps at his thigh, and he gasps painfully. “I failed.” The Winter Soldier takes a deep, shaky breath, his brow creased, the closest thing to panic Brock has ever seen in his eyes. “I failed the mission. I let him go.”
“Okay, Snowflake… Okay, just… You wanna let go of me? Thanks.” Rumlow takes a deep breath. He’s seen the Asset like this a handful of times: making full sentences, showing actual human emotion, making demands and even decisions not directly related to killing someone. He’s been out of cryo too long. But if the Soldier is here and someone hasn’t come for him or Rumlow, there’s a fair bet that things went south for HYDRA. Which means that no one’s going to come along to stick Frosty back in the fridge. Rumlow wonders what happens if the Asset’s out of cryo for more than the four week tolerance. He’s not sure he wants to know. More immediately, though, “Who… Wait. Last mission was...” His drug-addled brain stumbles to remember. It was Cap. “You let your target go?”
A jerky nod. “I knew him.” Blue eyes dart around nervously as if he’s expecting a beating. Pierce is nowhere to be found, though.
So, the Asset disobeyed an order. So much for your fucking mind control, Pierce, Rumlow thinks to himself, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction knowing that that goddamn chair didn’t take. Another surge of relief knowing that the Soldier’s not getting wiped again, and that Rumlow doesn’t have to see it or listen to the screams. Then he remembers that there’s still the matter of the Asset slowly going nuts while he’s out of cryo. “You feeling okay, Winter?”
The Soldier looks at him blankly. Feelings aren’t exactly a thing he comprehends.
Rumlow heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Status report, Soldier.”
The command phrase seems to trigger something, and the Asset straightens in his chair a little, his gaze shifting more toward that unnerving, dead look that Rumlow frankly hates. “Functioning…” The rigid discipline in his demeanor fades rather quickly back into confusion. “I… Mission parameters?”
Rumlow’s face twists in a look of exasperation. He’s not sure what to do about this. He’s stuck in a hospital bed, half-conscious at best, and HYDRA’s most deadly weapon is sitting next to him, looking like a lost puppy and asking for orders that Brock doesn’t have. He’s about to tell the Soldier to sit down and shut up so he can go back to sleep when he hears the heavy thump of boots echoing down the hallway. His blood runs cold as he wonders who’s found him first.
“Brock Rumlow?”
He breathes a little easier. They look like SWAT. Considering several alternatives Brock can think of offhand, this is probably the best scenario. He keeps his one good hand where they can see it. “You caught me.” He offers his best irreverent smirk. “Though I don’t think you’re gonna need those pistols.”
The team leader doesn’t seem moved, gesturing to two of the men with him who seem to be toting a military litter. One of them has handcuffs.
The Winter Soldier just watches in confusion for a few moments before he slowly stands up. “You can’t take him.” The words are quiet, but he’s obviously not open to suggestions.
The litter clatters to the floor and the two holding it draw down on the Soldier. “Sit down,” one growls.
Feeling utterly helpless, Brock’s eyes dart around the room, and he wonders how much of a chance he’ll have if he tries to stand up and at least get himself further from the line of fire. “Okay, Winter, why don’t you do what the nice men with guns say?” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “Before they shoot you, and me in the process.”
The Soldier, wild-eyed and breath hissing loudly through his nostrils, shakes his head, denying an order, and Rumlow knows right then that bad shit is about to happen.
“Frosty, maybe you should—“
“You… can’t have him!” The Soldier snarls, his voice dropping in volume suddenly to a ferocious hiss. “I need him.”
Rumlow allows himself a manic sort of half-smile. “You boys might wanna run,” he slurs, though he sounds more amused than concerned.
The words are barely out of Rumlow’s mouth when the Soldier wades into the middle of them. Bullets fly, ricocheting off the metal arm. Men scream. The Soldier shucks one out of his body armor and cracks his spine over one knee like it’s nothing. That’s all it takes to put them on the retreat, and Rumlow expects the Soldier to hunt them down.
But he doesn’t.
Painkillers are making Rumlow fuzzy, and he’s barely able to process it when the Soldier starts to gently gather him up from the gurney. Rumlow takes his own IV between his teeth and tears it free, as the Soldier doesn’t seem to consider such practicalities. “Wait… Where’re we… I should probably stay…” Rumlow trails off. He can’t exactly stay at the hospital. Someone else—someone probably nastier—will come for him or the Soldier once this story hits the news.
“Somewhere safe.” The Soldier pulls him up in a fireman’s carry, and Rumlow groans miserably as the move aggravates every injury he has.
“I hope to hell you know what you’re doing. Stealth isn’t exactly your thing—ah! Fuck! Easy!” Rumlow growls as his broken arm is jostled roughly, and he sees white for a moment.
“Quiet.”
Now Rumlow knows he’s high as a kite, because the Winter Soldier just gave him an order.