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The Soldier hates Agent Rollins from the first day they meet.
The technicians wake him up from his frozen sleep, an army of gloved hands descending upon his body, bright light shining under his eyelids and steady beeping of machines like nails scratching at his fuzzy brain. Everything moves slowly and too fast all at once, floor spinning as he stands up on unsteady feet, as he is washed and dressed. Someone recites a litany from a small red book, and the world around him falls into place one word at the time.
It is all over as quickly and efficiently as possible, and the moment the last of the buckles of his uniform is fastened and he is declared operational, Commander Rumlow appears in the room. The second he stands in front of the Soldier, sharp gaze assessing his preparedness, all of the discomfort is forgotten.
Commander Rumlow looks just as beautiful as he did the last time the Soldier saw him. Maybe a bit older, but such is the nature of all things except the Soldier himself, preserved in frozen stasis for ages to come. He is dressed in all black, as always, his skin almost glowing against the darkness and amber eyes looking right through the Soldier’s insides, filling him with warmth. He stands proud, firm muscle on display beneath his skin-tight shirt, and the Winter Soldier knows that if he is to see any of the glorious future HYDRA makes him create, this might very well be a sliver of it.
They think that just because the Soldier is a weapon, he doesn’t understand what beauty is.
Oh, how wrong they are.
He understands, because out of all weapons, he is the best one. Deadlier and stronger than anything else, and more beautiful. He understands the power of comparison.
Commander Rumlow is not alone, as he usually is when the technical department hands the Soldier over for missions. There is a man looming behind him, tall and awkward, bulky in a way that has everything to do with unrefined, brute strength and nothing with the poetry in motion that is Commander Rumlow when he fights. The man has a rough, ugly face, with a nose crooked a bit to the left, like he lost in a fist fight. His disproportionately large hands grip tightly onto his rifle, betraying underlying cowardice.
He reeks of fear. Cigarettes, pine, and fear.
“Winter, this is Lieutenant Jack Rollins, my new second-in-command. Rollins, this is the Winter Soldier. Be nice, both of you” Commander Rumlow instructs.
The Soldier knows it is polite to smile, his espionage training preparing him for mimicking convincing human interaction. He has also been told that his particular expression apparently makes people uncomfortable. Obeying Commander Rumlow's orders, he flashes his widest grin, showing as many teeth as possible.
Rollins takes a step back, clumsy hands clutching onto his gun as if it would be any help if the Soldier were to disobey Commander Rumlow and stop being nice. He's clearly unsettled. Nervous.
The Soldier dislikes him instantly.
The Winter Soldier has no objective reason to hate Agent Rollins.
He’s a good field agent, dedicated and reliable. He’s hard-working and smart, and a good addition to the team. He never hurts the Soldier. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge him most of the time, much less lay a finger on him for any reason. When they’re stuck in safe houses, waiting for intel or pickup, Agent Rollins cooks. Although the Soldier isn’t allowed solid food, the act itself is oddly comforting, conjuring hazy memories of when he was welcome to join his Soviet comrades at the table.
Agent Rollins is a good second to Commander Rumlow. He is attentive and obedient, anticipating orders before they are given and carrying out tasks with minute attention to detail. He commands the respect of both his teammates and his superior officer, taking charge when necessary and providing support otherwise, never overstepping his boundaries.
With every mission, Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins work better and better together, moving in a carefully synchronized dance in the flurry of battle, fitting comfortably together in the rare moment of respite.
Commander Rumlow stalks through the dark, concrete hallways of a bunker. Agent Rollins follows right at his back, watching his six. Commander Rumlow grabs an enemy from behind, twisting his hands behind his back. Agent Rollins slits his throat, knife always at the ready. Commander Rumlow dozes off on the flight back to base. Agent Rollins moves in closer so that they’re sitting thigh to thigh, giving the Commander his shoulder to lean on.
The Soldier is devoid of his Commander's attention. The Soldier wants what is being taken from him right in front of his very eyes.
The Soldier desires vengeance.
The Soldier can’t wait to wedge his knife right into that newfound trust Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins are working tirelessly to build.
The occasion presents itself earlier than expected.
The mission is an attack on an insurgent base somewhere in the Middle East, a seemingly simple task of eliminating a few tribal leaders and breaking their alliance. They are camped out behind a rocky outcrop a few miles away from the compound, and the Soldier cannot contain his excitement as he reports from his reconnaissance.
The intel was incorrect. They are outnumbered and outgunned, their chance of success dropping exponentially as he speaks.
He, of course, will survive. And he will ensure Commander Rumlow does too. The rest of the team he is not so certain about.
They wait until sundown, but just as they move in close enough to begin infiltration, there is movement in the enemy encampment. What few lights are available are switched on and people emerge from every nook and cranny of the shantytown of tents and makeshift buildings, armed men appearing at the perimeter of the compound in far too great a number to take on in a direct confrontation. STRIKE Alpha are forced to retreat into the cover of darkness.
Seeing Agent Rollins alive and unharmed, closing the ranks as his teammates move out along a narrow pathway running inbetween jagged hillside to where their Jeep is stashed, the Winter Soldier learns what disappointment feels like.
The drive back to the safe house is mostly silent. Once they arrive, there is no time for the agents to divest themselves of their sand-ridden gear. Commander Rumlow lines them up so that they’re standing at attention against a kitchen wall like they’re awaiting execution by firing squad, his gaze almost sharp enough to cause more harm than bullets ever could.
His hair is mussed by the desert wind and the veins on his temples stand out from anger as he stalks up and down the line of his subordinates, ready to pounce like a predator on his prey. The Soldier wants.
“Alright, which one of you fuckers tipped those bastards off? I wanna know right fucking now!” Commander Rumlow requests.
The Soldier knows an opportunity the very moment he sees is.
Maybe not all is lost yet.
“It was Agent Rollins, sir” he says, making his voice low and even with practiced ease, concealing the steadily building mirth. “Agent Rollins alerted the enemy to our presence by switching on the flashlight mounted on his rifle for an approximate five seconds as we were approaching.”
“Is that so?” Commander Rumlow asks, and despite his calm tone, he seems furious. The Soldier will be able to placate him soon. He has experience with his previous handlers, an intimate knowledge of what to say and where to touch to make anger subside. For Commander Rumlow, he will make it perfect.
“Yes, sir” Agent Rollins admits, and the Soldier knows he's won.
He always does, in the end. They die, and he wins.
“Everyone, out. Rollins, don’t fucking move” Commander Rumlow orders, and the Soldier exits the kitchen alongside the rest of the team. He sits with his back against the living room wall, ready to listen for the fruits of his labor.
Soon enough, it begins.
It’s quiet, a forceful whisper like a bullet fired with a silencer, and just as delightfully sharp. The rest of the agents cannot hear it, but he does, and he lets himself indulge.
“What the fuck did you do, Rollins?”
“Saved all our asses, that’s what. You heard what Winter said about the numbers, it would have been a fucking slaughterhouse in there!”
“What makes you think you get to decide if we retreat? Last time I checked I was in charge, not you, Lieutenant Rollins!”
“What makes me decide is that I'm not going to watch my commanding officer lead his men to certain death!” Rollins pauses, and the Soldier can hear him take a deep breath. “I’m not going to watch the man I love die for an idea.”
“HYDRA is more than –“
No one ever cuts off Commander Rumlow when he speaks and lives to tell the tale. If there was any chance for Agent Rollins to save himself from being demoted, it is surely gone now. Emboldened by his success, the Soldier shuffles closer to the kitchen door, peeking through a crack, the lock long broken by previous units stationed here.
What he sees makes his blood boil.
Agent Rollins is holding Commander Rumlow in an embrace, eyes closed and mouths pressed together. It is awkward at first, like they are both holding back, but the Soldier can pinpoint the moment when Commander Rumlow lets himself fall into the kiss. He presses himself impossibly closer and grabs onto Agent Rollins' tactical vest, melting into the touch, and Agent Rollins embraces him tighter, like Commander Rumlow will crumple to the ground if he is not held closer.
Their lips move together, one of Agent Rollins’ hands resting on Commander Rumlow’s neck, the other rubbing circles into the small of his back. It is slow, slow and gentle and still a touch hesitant, quiet in a way that’s not just about sound. When they finally pull apart, Commander Rumlow's cheeks are flushed, and he leans up on his toes to press his forehead to Agent Rollins'. Standing still, he looks into Agent Rollins’ eyes, and he smiles.
The Soldier's lessons in disappointment continue.
Soon enough, the floodgates open.
Most of the Soldier's waking hours are now contaminated, tainted with images he has no desire to see but cannot stop looking out for. Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins attempt secrecy with their affections, but there’s no hiding from the Soldier's expert marksman gaze.
There’s hands brushing against hands in mission briefings. Bodies pressed side to side during long flights, small gifts of food and cigarettes when they’re far from home and supplies run low. Kisses pressed to cheeks and necks, to the top of Commander Rumlow's head and to Agent Rollins' clavicles. Fleeting touches, uncertain fingers slipping underneath hemlines and below waistbands when they think no one is looking.
How completely and utterly unprofessional.
How absolutely disgusting.
The Soldier doesn’t think much about what love is. Such elusive concepts are none of his concern. But if anyone asked him, he would say it is two hearts beating as one on the battlefield. It is a constant striving for improvement. Obedience. Order. A perfect symmetry with no room for flaws.
It is not Agent Rollins fretting over a minor stab wound to Commander Rumlow's thigh. It is not Agent Rollins dragging Commander Rumlow to the roof of the safe house, to laze about looking at the night sky. It is not Agent Rollins bringing out the worst in his Commander, softening him around the edges. Making him weak.
It’s definitely not what Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins do together in the shower that one night.
It has become a sort of a habit for the Winter Soldier, to keep an eye out for his Commander at all times. After all, it is his ultimate, self-imposed mission to keep him safe from any harm at all cost, other assignments included.
And so he peeks when he is meant to be keeping watch, sat outside the safe house, crawling towards the window of the tiny, dingy bathroom.
Commander Rumlow is showering while Agent Rollins brushes his teeth, facing towards the mirror over the sink. All of a sudden, Commander Rumlow pulls back the shower curtain and reaches out, grabbing Agent Rollins by the waist. Agent Rollins flinches in surprise, unobservant and clumsy as ever, dropping his toothbrush in the sink as Commander Rumlow pulls at the towel wrapped around his waist.
With Agent Rollins fully nude, pallid skin riddled with scars on full display, to the Soldier’s disgust, Commander Rumlow pulls him into the shower. Agent Rollins laughs, an ugly, guttural sound, as the Commander pushes him against the tiled wall, wedging a thigh between his legs.
They kiss under the spray of water, hands roaming over each others' bodies. It’s almost playful at first, Commander Rumlow attempting to pin Agent Rollins' wrists over his head, failing to do so as Agent Rollins bites at his ear and along his jawline, down to his neck.
From there on, they slow down, touching more deliberately than before. One of Agent Rollins' hands tangles itself in Commander Rumlow’s wet hair as the Commander bends down to bite and lick at Agent Rollins' chest. Agent Rollins grinds his hips against the Commander’s leg, gasping entirely too delicately for a man his size.
The Soldier observes, revolted, as Agent Rollins comes.
Once his erratic breathing slows down, Agent Rollins reaches for Commander Rumlow’s length, hard and flushed against his thigh, and wraps his fingers around it. He moves his hand at a slow, methodical pace, ending each stroke with a delicate press of his thumb against the tip of Commander Rumlow’s cock.
Commander Rumlow presses his forehead to the crook of Agent Rollins’ shoulder, eyes closed and a soft moan escaping his parted lips, followed by a murmur of Fuck, Jackie, so good, followed by a barely audible Love you whispered against Agent Rollins' lips when the Commander comes down from the rush of his orgasm.
This was his mistake, the Soldier realizes. Passively waiting for things to fall into place, setting things into motion without seeing them through.
The Winter Soldier was not made to experience pleasure. But if pleasure is what it takes to win his Commander back, he will provide.
The following night he abandons his watch, silently stalking back into the safe house. Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins are both asleep on the single bare mattress on the dirty, concrete floor. Agent Rollins is zipped up in his sleeping bag, curled in on himself, teetering close to the edge of the mattress. Commander Rumlow, on the other hand, is sprawled on his back, taking up most of the space. He’s only partially covered by a single, threadbare blanket, an expanse of unblemished skin and firm muscle offered to the Soldier.
The Winter Soldier will prove himself worthy of his Commander’s affection.
Agent Rollins is a heavy sleeper, and so the Soldier doesn’t worry about him too much as he crawls over Commander Rumlow’s sleeping form. Ever so slowly, he pulls away the blanket covering his Commander's skin, pausing only when the Commander's left eyelid twitches and he murmurs something unintelligible.
Once the blanket is removed, the Winter Soldier positions himself on all fours over the Commander’s body. The moon shines bright, bathing Commander Rumlow in its glow, and the Soldier runs his palm along a sharp cheekbone and down a stubbled cheek, just to see what it feels like.
The thrill of it is exquisite.
He moves his fingers down a toned arm, feeling hard muscle beneath smooth skin, tracing along the hint of blueish veins along the wrist. The Commander mumbles in his sleep, something along the lines of Stop it, Jackie, lemme sleep and the Soldier knows he mustn’t get distracted if he wants to accomplish his goals. It’s his only chance of showing Commander Rumlow that there is no need for Agent Rollins. That the Soldier can give him pleasure too, if this is what is required.
The Soldier shoves his hand down the front of Commander Rumlow’s underwear, grasping blindly.
The very same moment Commander Rumlow’s eyes snap open and he sits up bolt upright, meeting the Soldier’s gaze. For the first time ever, the Soldier sees him look absolutely horrified.
“What the fuck, Winter?” Commander Rumlow asks, and the Soldier does not have time to explain, not without Agent Rollins waking up and ruining everything, like he always does.
With his metal arm, he reaches for Commander Rumlow’s neck, pressing him into the mattress and preventing him from screaming, his flesh hand still down Commander Rumlow’s boxer briefs. The Soldier hasn’t done this in a while, hasn’t been made to touch anyone since Commander Rumlow took over as his handler, but being out of practice is no excuse for how lamentably soft the flesh beneath his fingers feels.
The Commander kicks and bucks, but he is powerless against the Soldier’s strength. The Soldier regrets having to hold his Commander down, but he knows best that sometimes learning requires discomfort. Sometimes, one has to suffer to learn the true nature of things.
Focused on touching Commander’s Rumlow length, trying to make it flush and swell for him, the Soldier doesn’t notice the absence of the Commander's hands, up until now feebly shoving and hitting and scratching at the Soldier’s face and chest.
Taking advantage of the Soldier’s attention being placed elsewhere, the Commander stretches an arm across the mattress, delivering a punch to Agent Rollins' shoulder.
It is over in a matter of seconds, Agent Rollins reaching for the knife beneath his pillow the second he wakes up. He lunges at the Winter Soldier, using his full weight to knock him off of Commander Rumlow’s body. Agent Rollins has the element of surprise on his side, the Soldier not expecting such a quick reaction, and they tumble onto the floor in a flurry of limbs.
Agent Rollins lasts a few commendable minutes, but of course, he is no match for the Soldier. The Soldier overpowers him, pinning him to the ground and wrenching the knife from his hand.
Just as he is about to slit Agent Rollins’ throat, there is a pinch to his right arm. The last thing he sees before his head spins and the room goes dark is a syringe of injectable sedative sticking out of his flesh, Commander Rumlow pulling Agent Rollins out of the Soldier’s reach and into the safety of his arms.
The incident is dismissed as a malfunction to be corrected by a memory wipe, the Soldier expertly playing the part of a scolded child. He whines and looks down at his feet, provoking sympathy, and soon his apparent transgression is forgiven and he is back out in the field.
The Soldier is not meant to experience hurt, so he pretends it does not hurt him when Commander Rumlow's fond gaze turns wary, and if he was close to Agent Rollins before, they are now practically inseparable.
He waits and waits, for an occasion to present itself to make amends on his previous failure. After all, he owes it to Commander Rumlow, estranged as he is becoming with every passing day. Though his memory is fairly unreliable, he still remembers when Commander Rumlow took over as his handler and everything that hurt stopped all at once. He has a debt to repay.
He is in love, and so he waits.
Good things come to those who wait.
The mission is a shitshow from start to finish, from the incorrect coordinates for their drop off point to insufficient rations. They are navigating their way through German woodland, trying to locate a bunker containing a scientist, containing knowledge which HYDRA cares deeply about.
They have been walking for ages, the agents all bleary-eyed and complaining about blisters from their boots, Commander Rumlow and the Soldier at the front of the line, Agent Rollins in the very back, where his rightful place is. The Commander should be pleased to be walking with the Soldier, who offered to carry his pack for him only to be met with refusal, but he seems tense, flinching when the Soldier tries to rekindle their bond with a touch to the Commander’s shoulder or a gleeful smile.
They walk and walk until the Soldier stops abruptly in his tracks, hand splayed on Commander Rumlow's chest to prevent him from moving forward. The Commander looks at the Soldier, questioning.
“A mine field, Commander. Old one” is all the Soldier says, pointing to the carcass of a deer slumped into a shallow hole in the ground. Its front legs are missing.
The Soldier is trained to see what others don’t. Vegetation of the forest floor changing its pattern. Soil washed away by the rain. Shallows and mounds like graves waiting to be filled. A death trap where others see a pleasant stroll.
An enemy disguised as a lover, aiming to separate the Soldier from his Commander. A lesser man, trying to drag Commander Rumlow down to his level. A darkness, tarnishing Commander Rumlow’s warm glow.
The Soldier will make Commander Rumlow see what Agent Rollins is like on the inside.
There is no combat engineer on the team, but prior to the mission the Soldier had been programmed with updated sapper training, just in case of such obstacles. He knows what to do.
The Commander gathers his team and informs them of the minefield. “Winter will stay here and use this lil' bastard the Marines gave us to find a path. I will be staying too, in case Winter fucks up. Rollins, to the front, comms on at all times. Make sure everyone makes it through. Last one in line, mark the path. See you on the other side” the Commander instructs, and the Winter Soldier cannot wait to disobey.
The agents shuffle positions, Rollins moving to the front, adjusting his radio communicator. Commander Rumlow launches the MIWRAC drone into the air, and the Soldier holds the tablet displaying the map. He pretends he doesn’t notice the lingering look exchanged between Commander Rumlow and Agent Rollins.
Soon enough, he won’t have to pretend anymore.
Commander Rumlow flies the drone over the field, ahead of the slowly proceeding team, and the Soldier relies information of potential threats. As much as he hates to admit that Commander Rumlow has flaws, it is true that navigation was never his strong suit, and it is better to delegate the task to the Soldier.
Maybe the same could be said for personnel choices. There's no one to stop the Soldier from making his own decision about who makes up STRIKE Alpha.
“Twenty feet to your twelve, then stop” he says into the communicator. Agent Rollins doesn’t reply.
“Turn thirty degrees north east, proceed ten feet. Two unexploded devices to your left."
“Back on your twelve, seven feet, then right."
A bird darts right past the Soldier's head as soil and vegetation explode into the air. He smiles, just to himself. All is well again.
“Everyone fall back! Move back along the path!” the Commander is screaming, clearly panicked, but the Soldier doesn’t listen. The echo of explosion is all he can hear. It proves that everything is falling back into place.
Order through pain.
Three men run back along the branches they have been using as markers for their route, and Commander Rumlow pats them down one by one, to check for shrapnel. The Soldier doesn’t care much for any of them, knowing well that they are extremely unlikely to take Agent Rollins' place as the object of his Commander's affection.
Next, Commander Rumlow rushes along the marked path himself, to where Agent Rollins must be. The Soldier lets him. There is no saving Agent Rollins, the Soldier having led him straight into the land mine.
The Winter Soldier is ready to feel whole again, right back at his Commander's side for good.
What he is not prepared for is for the Commander to emerge from between the trees carrying Agent Rollins in his arms. Agent Rollins' face has a sizeable piece of shrapnel stuck in it, his jaw hanging at a strange angle and blood flowing uninterrupted down his neck, soaking through his tactical gear. The angles of his left leg are all incorrect, and he is four fingers short.
He is still breathing.
“What the fuck are you all staring at, call in evac right fucking now!” Commander Rumlow screams, placing Agent Rollins on the ground and scrambling for his medical kit.
The Soldier pretends he doesn’t see the urgency with which Commander Rumlow attempts to stem the blood flowing from Agent Rollins' face. The gentleness in how he cradles Agent Rollins close to his chest, pushing back bloodied hair from a clammy forehead. The tenderness with which he whispers, It's okay Jackie, I've got you.
He wishes he could pretend forever.
The punishment the Soldier receives for failing the assignment and endangering his team is nothing compared to the fact that he is reassigned to a different STRIKE unit, and he does not get to see Commander Rumlow again for a very long time.
Agent Rollins survives the explosion. He will have scars left, and one hell of a story to tell.
The Soldier is seething.
He finds them years later, after the helicarriers fall from the sky and he is lost and found, and lost again. There is a voice inside his head now telling him to go back, but he can not. There is work to be done here.
The house is more of a cabin, secluded in the midst of a forest, in a clearing overlooking a lake, a mountain range towering on the opposite shore. He ditches his motorbike halfway down the dirt road and walks the last few miles. To anyone else, the quiet would probably appear eerie, but for him it causes a rush of adrenaline, conjuring memories of many a mission spent stalking through soundless woods.
He makes good time, reaching the clearing just past sundown. The lights in the cabin are on, emanating a warm glow into the darkness outside, and a plume of smoke winds unhurriedly from the chimney. They’re home.
He finds a vantage point on a sturdy pine and climbs with ease, nestling himself against the branches. From his backpack he pulls out a pair of binoculars he purchased in a hunting equipment store alongside his camouflage jacket and a Bowie knife. It is nowhere near the quality of tactical gear he is used to, but it will have to do. He adjusts his position against the tree trunk, and observes.
It’s a straight line from his nest into the living room and he instantly spots Commander Rumlow. He is sprawled out on the sofa, feet propped up on the armrest, and he is dozing. The left side of his body is completely and utterly ruined.
Thick, rope-like burn scars sprawl over Commander Rumlow’s face, down from the temple to the cheek and along his jaw. The skin is pulled tight, shining sleek like wax, covered in a gossamer of scar tissue. His left eyebrow is burned off, and his ear is practically melted, only a hole and a sharp ridge of cartilage left where it used to be. The Soldier wonders why the Commander maintains his old haircut, exposing the damage so openly.
Commander Rumlow looks disgusting. Disfigured and deformed. The Soldier is uncertain whether he’s still in love, but what is to be done has to be done regardless.
A traitorous voice in the back of his brain supplies that the Commander deserved this, for ignoring his Soldier's warnings. For rejecting him when he was right all along. He told the Commander that Agent Rollins would not keep him safe, and as always, he was correct.
Speaking of which, the Soldier finally spots Agent Rollins. He walks into the living room carrying a tray with two mugs and a teapot on it. He sets it down on the side table, the sound of his uneven footsteps, favoring his right leg, undoubtedly rousing Commander Rumlow from his sleep. The Commander sits up, rubbing at his eyes. His hair is sticking up in all directions, and Agent Rollins reaches out a hand to fix it.
Agent Rollins sits down and puts a pillow in his lap, Commander Rumlow laying down his head contently. He twists onto his side, burying his face into the fabric of Agent Rollins’ sweater, and Agent Rollins looks down at him with a fond smile.
The fire roars happily on the fireplace. Commander Rumlow snores softly as Agent Rollins runs mangled fingers through his hair, along the mess of scars.
There's fifty feet from the Soldier’s vantage point to the cabin, with no cover available. The house is equipped with motion sensors on every door and window. Two brindled mastiffs are lazing about on the front porch.
It will be easy work.