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Rumlow pushes open the cold metal door with both hands and enters the room before it even has a chance to slam shut behind him. A group of technicians hastily scramble through their papers, sorting reports and notes into a pile, their white lab coats bright, almost burning in the cold, harsh light of the fluorescent neon tubes.
He doesn’t pay much attention to them, and his dark eyes skip around until they land on the one thing he’s been dreading.
A technician moves to the side, away from the frame of a body he had previously hidden with his own.
Before he can open his mouth to say anything to him, Rumlow is already at his side, roughly shoving him away with his shoulder, as he bumps into him, too busy assessing the damaged good, sitting there on the narrow, metal-rimmed cot.
“What happened?”, he barks at Lab Coat 1 without looking at him, his eyes never even leaving the asset, taking it all in.
In short, the overall impression is not a good one. He looks horrifying.
The asset sits there, bare-chested, posture straight and stiff, hands folded in his lap, boots placed straight on the ground.
He just stares straight ahead, his icy blue eyes, normally sharp and focused, are frighteningly empty and distant, clouded with an expression of absence.
There are a few welts across his skin, the usual, constant light bruising pattern that always seems to accompany him, already on its way to healing, but there is no immediate trace of blood on him. He looks clammy and frighteningly pale, even for a man whose body hasn’t seen the rays of the sun in seventy years. His lips are of an almost colourless blue, bordering on violet.
“Status report,” Rumlow orders, looking at him.
The asset remains silent, not even hinting at whether he has heard him, and just continues to stare into nothingness. If he were not blinking or breathing shallowly from time to time, he would have sworn he would be dead.
Rumlow curses and grabs the asset’s long hair, his gloved hand running through it before yanking it back with a rough motion and twisting his face up and towards himself. The asset's neck is straining under his grip, his Adam’s apple bulging out, his head forced up at an unnatural angle, but there is no noteworthy reaction otherwise.
When nothing happens, Rumlow does it once more, with more roughness this time, but the asset doesn’t even flinch as he violently pulls at the hair again, to get the asset to look at him.
“I said status report. Now.”, he repeats, louder than before.
The asset’s empty eyes stare past him, vacant and lifeless. The usual shine in them is gone, erased, as if it has never even been there. They are hollow now, like the ones of a dead fish. Trout, maybe.
Rumlow lets go of his hair again and roughly shoves his head to the side with a displeased sound, looking down onto him.
When that’s not enough, he raises his hand and slaps him across his face without a warning. He’s certain that a technician behind him flinches as his palm connects with the soldier’s face, leaving a red mark on his pale skin with a loud thwip.
The asset doesn’t react.
With each passing moment, the condition of the asset is worrying him a bit more.
“When was the last maintenance?”, he then asks into the room, looking down onto his own hand and rubs his index and middle finger against his thumb.
Some Lab Coat clears his throat behind him.
“The last one, just now. They just hosed it off and then send it back to us for assessment. Its condition hasn’t changed since then.”
The asset’s long, dark hair is still wet, there is cold water still dripping down into his neck, so in case there were any traces of gore or come, they are now washed off him. Great job. Fucking perfect.
“What’s the condition?”, Rumlow asks sharply.
He notices the barely visible claw marks of fingernails at the asset’s shoulders, especially on the one where metal meets skin, a marred ugly cluster of red scars weaving over half of the left side of his torso.
The sight makes Rumlow’s stomach drop as a cool shiver runs down his spine.
Somewhere between mission debrief this morning, and the maintenance team getting rid of any evidence on or in the asset, three hours have passed, in which Pierce had the time to reprimand the soldier for the failed mission and the endangerment of the Strike Team send with him.
Whatever punishment he had to endure in that time, it seems that it had fucked him up more than usual. Way more. He seems fucking brain dead. Comatose.
“It is unresponsive. No pupil dilation on closer inspection, no noticeable change in pulse or its breathing pattern,” the lab coat finally lists, his voice laced with nervousness.
“And no reply to superiors, as it seems. No recognition of its environment or authority figures. Refusal to eat or drink.”
“It is fucking catatonic,” Rumlow hisses through his teeth, bumping his own boot against the asset’s foot, a last attempt, hoping to get a reaction from him. Anything, anything at all.
"What the hell happened to it?"
Nothing.
“And it hasn’t been wiped yet?”, he asks, looking down at him.
One Lab Coat behind him shifts his weight.
“Scheduled for tomorrow morning, six hundred. But we cannot send it like that-“, he starts, but Rumlow’s patience finally snaps.
“Get out.”, he just says, voice low, but cold.
There is a pause in the room in which nobody moves.
Then, someone takes a deep breath.
“We aren’t authorised-“
“Get the fuck out.”, Rumlow repeats, clenching his hands to fists.
“I am its handler and if it’s not fixed by tomorrow, we are all gonna get a bullet in our head. You wanna take that risk, or rather leave me with my asset?"
The Lab Coats exchange looks.
"Thought so. Now leave the goddamn room or you’ll deeply regret it, I promise you.”, he hisses, pointing at the door.
Lab Coat 1 swallows, but then nods, his eyes not able to hold Rumlows strong gaze. He sorts his papers together and the other technicians quickly follow his lead, all keeping their heads down low.
As they are about to leave the cell, Rumlow turns back to the soldier.
“Keep the sound off and dim the goddamn lights.”, he adds, speaking to the Coats, hurriedly on their way to flee the scene.
He knows better than to push his luck and to ask for the cameras to be shut down as well. He will have to do with what is given.
After another moment of silence, in which he is certain that they nod quietly behind his back, the heavy metal door falls shut again.
The whole time, the asset hasn’t moved one bit, continuing to stare onto the opposite wall.
Apart from the narrow cot and a drain in the middle of the floor, his cell is empty. Four cold walls made of concrete, nothing more.
Rumlow can hear a little click in the constant surr-ing sound that is coming from the two-way speakers in one top corner of the room, and knows that they must have muted them to the outside world. A second later, and the bright white light is dimmed, so that it doesn’t burn his eyes anymore.
He sighs and leans down to the asset, searching his blue eyes with his own.
“Look at me.”
His tone is already softer than the moment before, but the asset keeps staring straight ahead.
Rumlow presses his lips into a thin, hard line and then slowly sits down on the left side of the soldier, onto his cot.
There is not a lot of room, just barely big enough for two grown men, but by now he knows how to use the little space that is given. He had been often enough alone with him in his cell to know the number of the cracks on each grey wall.
Rumlow tries again.
“Hey, darling, look at me.”, he says softly, one of his hands raised to the asset’s face to brush away some of his dark, damp hair, tucking it behind his ear.
He gently grabs the asset’s chin, turning his face towards himself. Not being able to resist, his thumb finds the asset’s bottom lip, pulling it down softly, so that he can feel the wet warmth from the inner part of his lip. He traces it, from left to right and back again, but there is no recognition in the asset’s eyes, and he pulls away again.
Instead, he lets his hand rest on the side of the assets neck, gently stroking over the cool, bruised skin in that certain, familiar way.
“Oh, they messed you up real good this time, didn’t they?”, he quietly asks under his breath, more speaking to himself than to the asset.
“My poor baby.”
His warm fingers run over the nape of the asset's neck, once again and then he can suddenly feel him slightly shiver under his touch.
The asset blinks a couple of times, and his expressionless eyes finally, thank God, meet Rumlow’s.
“Hey there, soldat.”, Rumlow whispers, knowing that he doesn’t actually have to keep his voice down. It just feels more right that way.
“Remember me?”
The asset’s pale lips part, but no sound manages to leave his throat. He tries again, and the only thing Rumlow hears is a small, rattling rasp, escaping from the soldier in a low puff.
"Rruh-"
He sounds absolutely terrible, his hoarse voice completely wrecked, as if he had been screaming for a long time.
“Its alright, darling.”, Rumlow soothes him, his hand continuing to run down his neck, as if he were petting a kitten.
“Just try again.”
The soldier does, but it doesn’t sound better than before.
Rumlow lets out a tsk and lets go from the asset’s neck.
He stands up without a comment, walking over and banging against the metal door. After a moment, the little hatch opens, at eye level with Rumlow and he looks back at a technician, his small, dark eyes framed by glasses.
“Get us some water.”, he orders, already mentally preparing himself for the Lab Coat's incompetence and having to repeat himself.
But the hatch quickly is closed, and then slides open a gain, a little plastic bottle of water passed between the two men.
Rumlow turns back to the soldier as the hatch shuts behind him and sits down once more by his side.
The asset’s eyes are on him again and he tries to say something, but Rumlow just shushes him.
“Here.”
The soldier takes the water bottle with his right hand, the normal one, and looks down at it, waiting for further instruction. Rumlow notes how his fingers seem to tremble ever so slightly.
“You can drink.”, he says, and the asset opens the bottle, raising it up to his lips, slowly starting to drink in long gulps.
Rumlow leans forward again, with his left hand, still gloved, running over the front of the assets throat, steadying him. He presses his hand palm against his skin, feeling the asset swallow and his Adam’s apple move, bobbing up and down with each gulp. With his other hand, he runs again over the neck of the soldier, stroking it gently, continuing where he had left off.
When the asset is done, he removes his hand from the asset’s throat, tracing it with his fingertips a last time, before taking the empty bottle into his own hand and throwing it aside. It lands somewhere on the other side of the cell.
“Better now?”, he asks him calmly and the asset nods as a response. Rumlow raises an eyebrow.
The asset blinks and catches himself. He clears his throat, rasping a low;
“Yes, sir.”, his voice still rough and strained, but at least he can speak again.
“I want you to tell me what happened.”, Rumlow says, the hand in the asset's neck curling around the back of it, when another little tremor runs through his body. Poor thing must be freezing.
“Can you do that for me, darling, hm?”
The asset nods again, before taking a deep breath. The look on his face twists into something that resembles utter desperateness and his lower lip trembles.
“Post mission debrief and standardized following of protocol. Reprimandment of the asset for failed mission, authorised and executed by Alexander Pierce.”, he lists, following the script like he is used to.
Rumlow has none of it.
“Cut the bullshit.”
His hand tightens around the asset’s neck.
“How did he punish you this time?”
The asset looks at him for a long moment, with those big, blue eyes, but he doesn’t manage to answer his handler.
Rumlow sighes.
“Alright. Did they fuck you?”, he asks bluntly, his face a mask, looking back at him.
The soldier keeps staring back, but then quietly shakes his head.
“No, sir.”, he whispers.
Rumlow exhales, a feeling almost resembling relief washing over him, hearing that.
“No sexual punishment, then?”, he clarifies.
“Yes. No.”, the asset says and his brows furrow in confusion, not knowing what to say.
He wets his bottom lip, looking at him, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.
“Soldat. Answer me with one word: were you ordered to perform sexually on someone?”, Rumlow tries again.
The asset nods.
“Yes.”
A few heartbeats pass, and then Rumlow understands.
The asset is usually on the receiving end of the line, just last week he has made a whole show for Rumlow's team, but every once in a while he gets the chance to use someone in return, as either part of information extraction or simple torture of prisoners or captives. Sometimes, it is his “reward”, after a mission well done. It is a rare occasion, but it happens nonetheless.
But today he fucked up. Totally blew it. Got spotted and caught by the son of his target after killing his father. What should have been a simple, quick and easy assassination turned into an open fire. Two men of Rumlow’s Strike team got wounded. The entire operation was endangered by exposure.
So, he is damn sure that Pierce did not order a hooker for the asset this time.
“Did you have to rape someone.”
The way the sentence comes out of his mouth, makes it sound more like a statement than a question.
It wouldn’t be the first time, and they both know it. Usually, the asset performed with little issues, seeing it as simple tasks, just like the times he is ordered to break a man’s fingers one by one or waterboard someone.
The asset stares for an awfully long moment. Then he nods again.
“Yes, sir.”
His voice is a mere whisper, so quiet that he almost cannot pick it up.
Rumlow stomach protest weakly but he has to continue.
“Who was the target?”, he asks.
“How did they look like?”
The asset takes a shaky breath.
“Maxim Harchev. White, Caucasian male, twenty-one years old. Son of Russian diplomat Vadim Harchev, who was killed today at four twenty in the morning. Five feet nine. Blonde hair, blue eyes.”
Slowly, he gets the picture.
“And how did procedure go?”, Rumlow follows up.
The asset’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times. He weakly shakes his head.
“Please, sir…”, he breathes, begging Rumlow to stop the questioning.
Not gonna happen.
Rumlow’s hand begins to stroke again gently the asset’s neck.
“You have to tell me, darling. I want to know what went wrong.”
The asset takes a deep breath, and his lip quivers again.
“I was brought into the interrogation room under the direction of Alexander Pierce. The subject was already in a state of undress, but not bound, cowering on the floor. There were signs of protest and evidence of prior violent treatment by a third party. Maybe someone from the Strike team.”
The asset bites his lip and looks over at Rumlow. Usually, he is not supposed to make assumptions.
He just nods, encouraging him to go on.
“I was ordered to strip. Then I got the order to use the subject’s body for my own sexual pleasure. Anally.”
Nothing about the stiff posture of the asset, his slightly shaking voice or wet eyes indicates that there was actually any pleasure present at that moment, apart from Pierces’.
Rumlow’s gloved hand wanders over to the asset’s naked shoulder, gently squeezing the skin just above the metal border to the prosthetic arm.
“What happened then?”
The soldier looks absolutely wrecked, eyes glistening with wetness. Rumlow lets out a prayer that the quality of the cameras isn’t picking it up.
“Come on.”, he urges him on, his thumb digging in a bit harsher into the skin above his collarbone.
The asset swallows and closes his eyes. His shoulders drop as he exhales shakily. His whole body is shivering.
“I did what was asked of me. The subject stopped fighting back after a while. He showed visible signs of distress and pain and kept on whimpering the whole time. Approximately twelve minutes in, Pierce pulled out his gun and shot him into his head, between his eyes. He was immediately dead. His body twitched twice, and then he went limp under me.
I was told to finish the job.”
Rumlow stares, and for once, he cannot say anything, even if he would have wanted to. His stomach lurches up at the mental image of the young boy, becoming just a lifeless body, becoming a corpse underneath the asset, in the matter of seconds.
“Did you finish?”, he asked quietly, his voice toneless.
The asset doesn’t react. Then he swallows again.
“I refused the order at first. Pierce did not allow me to accept another form of punishment. So I had to do as I was told.
It took me fifty-four minutes. His body has gone cold and stiff under me. As soon as I was done, I pulled out and retreated, looking at it, lying on the ground. More I don’t remember.”
The asset’s watery eyes find Rumlow’s, who has turned a bit green around his nose. He wants to vomit.
Necrophilia seems even for Pierce a new level of perverted wrongness. No wonder the soldier has gone into shock afterwards.
“I had to.”, the asset repeats, whispering.
Rumlow cannot help himself but has to reach out and to slowly pull him into his arms, closer to himself.
“I know.”, he whispers back.
“I know, darling. It’s alright.”, he says, knowing very well that it is not alright.
“You’ve done everything that was asked of you.”
Now the asset’s body really starts to shake, wrapping his own arms back around him, and Rumlow can feel his clammy, naked skin against his shirt. The soldier buries his face in Rumlow’s neck as if he wants to hide himself from the world and soon, he can feel something warm and wet.
The asset is crying.
“Shhh, come here.”, he whispers into his ear, rubbing his naked back, down to the dip of his spine.
Rumlow slowly pulls him closer, bringing his own knees up and onto the cot, not bothering with slipping out of his heavy, dirty boots. He pulls the asset over to his side, shielding him with his body from the other camera in the room, doing his best to hide him.
His hands gently run over the assets ribs, and he has to turn him to the right, so that he is lodged between the cold, concrete wall and Rumlow’s chest, his naked back pressing back against him as he is hugging him from behind.
There is little room on the cot, but he manages to position them both somewhat comfortably on their sides, and wraps his hands around him again, holding him close against his warm chest. A part of him secretly wishes for a blanket, but this will have to do. They are spooning.
“It’s alright.”, Rumlow repeats, and gifts him a little kiss onto his dark hair.
The asset lets out a shaky sob, pressing himself against Rumlow as if searching for his body heat, forehead resting against the cool wall.
“I did not want to do it.”, the asset whispers through the tears.
“I had to.”
“Darling, baby, I believe you.”, Rumlow murmurs against his skin.
“No need to cry. It’s not gonna last anyway.”
It takes another while, but soon, the asset stills.
“When?”, he just breathes.
Rumlow just has to hug him closer.
“Tomorrow morning. They will wipe you again. You won’t remember afterwards.”
The asset stays silent for a moment, but then he nods again.
“Thank you, sir.”, he lets out.
After that, neither of them speak up for a long while.
Rumlow doesn’t know how much time they have, but soon, the Lab Coats are going to want to check in again.
He doesn’t have to be a technician to notice how the asset stops crying and how his breathing seems to calm down. His shoulders stop shaking after a while and his skin seems to warm up thanks to Rumlow. The tense muscles in his neck relax. He doesn't fall asleep however, just staying there, in his arms, silent, pliable.
Soon, way too soon, he has to part with him again.
He places a last, little kiss onto the top of his hair, and moves away again, getting up from the cot.
The asset sits up right away again, looking at him with those sad, blue eyes, that under the right condition could be considered being beautiful, but he doesn’t say anything, when Rumlow walks over to the cell door.
Both men look at each other for a long moment, a silent exchange between them.
Then, Rumlow knocks against the door, letting the Lab Coats in.
They enter and quickly check the asset over, confirming what he had thought, anyway. Stabilisation of vital signs, no signs of permanent damage. They don’t care much about the trauma the soldier has experienced. Why should they?
Rumlow exhales and then turns around, leaving the room, without paying much attention to anything else. As he is walking down the halls of the Hydra Base, he thinks to himself that he will have to have a talk, one to one, with Pierce. Can’t go running around damaging and ruining his beloved toys, after all.
The next morning, the asset is back in his chair, being wiped as protocol suggests, and for the first time in his life, Rumlow is jealous of that poor bastard.
The asset is going to forget.
Rumlow is not.