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“Did you miss me?” someone called out as Bucky stepped out of the stairwell. He stopped in his tracks, keys hanging from his gloved fingers and he stared down the hallway at the ghost in his doorway.
“Yeah,” Bucky replied, recovering quickly once he realized who it was. “Just about as much as I miss polio.”
Rumlow cracked a smile, but it didn’t reach very far on his face. The scar tissue there was thick and ropey and it didn’t move right. That didn’t seem to bother his former commander much though, because he just continued to smirk like an idiot, casually leaning against the doorframe of Bucky’s apartment.
Bucky sighed and started walking toward him, using each step to carefully plan out his next. While he wasn’t afraid of Brock Rumlow, Bucky absolutely knew what he was capable of. He was a sick, twisted kind of man, who was often unpredictable and famously volatile. He remembered that Pierce loved the guy.
“Whatd’you want?” Bucky asked, stopping a few feet before the door. He shook the keys, nervously, in the palm of his hand and thought, briefly, about driving one of the keys through the pink, puckered scars on Rumlow’s face. Ultimately, he decided against it. He had to live with his neighbors. And his therapist would probably frown on him breaking rule #2, even if it was for a good cause.
“I wanted to see it for myself,” Rumlow explained, that lopsided smile trying to take over his face again. “I just had to see the Winter Soldier playing a real person.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes and shifted a little, trying to prepare himself for whatever Rumlow was planning on doing.
“Aren’t you on some kind of list?” Bucky questioned, fake curiosity curling over his words. Rumlow’s smile faltered for a second and he pushed off the doorframe fluidly. Bucky fought the urge to take a step back.
“Let’s go inside so we can catch up,” Rumlow suggested, reaching down quickly and snatching the keys out of Bucky’s hand. Bucky flinched at the motion, but ignored it and watched Rumlow turn the keys in lock and push the door open smoothly.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers as Rumlow sauntered inside, chucking the keys on the little table next to the door. Bucky followed and shut the door behind him, leaning against it with his Vibranium hand still on the handle. Rumlow’s gaze wandered around the apartment before settling back on Bucky. He cocked his head and put his hands on his hips.
“Man, this is crazy,” Brock said, waving a hand up and down Bucky’s body. “I knew you were an inside cat now, but shit—”
Bucky pushed away from the door, crowding Rumlow’s space and effectively shutting him up. He heard Rumlow swallow and saw a twitch light up the left side of his face.
“You know, you’re not nearly as scary as you used to be,” Bucky chided, hoping the acid he was attempting to insert into his words sank in. In one quick motion, Bucky stripped off the canvas jacket he was wearing, revealing the impressive Wakandan-made prosthetic he now wore. Watching Rumlow carefully, he looped the jacket over a hook by the door. “I guess we both changed, huh?”
“Not as much as you think,” Rumlow replied, licking his lips and pressing them together. His eyes darted from the Vibranium arm back to Bucky's face. He casually sucked on a tooth and smiled again. Bucky rolled his eyes and stepped around him, heading for the kitchen and removing his leather gloves as he went. He tossed them on the counter as he rounded the end of it and they made a satisfying 'plop' as they landed.
It was fundamentally unwise to put your back to the enemy, but in this case, Bucky had to make a point. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he didn’t stop walking until he reached the fridge. Rumlow hadn’t followed him, but when Bucky glanced back, he found him looking at him hungrily, like some fucked up wild animal. Bucky remembered that look. It was the look he always had before he made Bucky do something he didn’t want to do.
“How’d you find me?”
“It wasn’t hard now that you’ve got a social security number again,” Brock mused. Bucky leaned down into the light of the open fridge and pulled out one of the last remaining beers inside. He did not offer one to Rumlow. Somehow that made him feel a little more in control.
As he stood up and wrenched the bottle's little cap off with his metal fingers, he saw his former commander settling himself in Bucky's only armchair as if he’d been invited to make himself comfortable. Rumlow let his legs fall open, casually, adjusting himself through the canvas material of his pants. Bucky scowled and took a sip from the bottle. Brock looked over at him with half-lidded eyes and just stared.
“I don’t do that anymore,” Bucky said flatly. Rumlow tried to hide a smile by turning away and clearing his throat.
“Do what?” he asked, failing to keep a chuckle out of his voice. It reminded Bucky of the girls from the dance hall who used to stare at him from across the room, giggling like they’d never seen a man before. It was a gross comparison. Bucky didn’t falter, he just took a long drag on the beer and set it, loudly, down on the counter.
“Get out,” Bucky said, motioning toward the door. Brock sat forward in the chair and shook his head.
“Oh, don’t be like that—“
“Get out of my house, Brock.”
Rumlow’s face fell a little and he narrowed his eyes. Bucky remembered calling him Brock once, while they were deployed. He also remembered the severe beating he received for it. Rumlow had loved to use the Soldier’s capitulation against him, especially when he wasn’t feeling particularly respected. The Soldier never cared about rank or station and he was never in a position to need to worry about how it effected him. His handlers told him what to do and he didn’t care what position they held or for what military they worked. In fact, Rumlow was the only handler he had ever encountered that cared so much about him recognizing his ranking. Repeatedly. He seemed to garner some kind of weird joy out of making the Soldier call him Commander.
Rumlow stood up slowly, like a snake rising out of the grass, and took a deep breath in. Bucky stood his ground behind the counter. If Rumlow decided to make a move, Bucky had a barrier between them that would buy him a good amount of time.
“I thought we’ve had this conversation, Soldier—“
“Sergeant,” Bucky snapped, watching Rumlow’s face, briefly, turn a slightly deeper shade of pink. He worked his scarred jaw to hide his irritation.
“Right,” Rumlow replied, recovering and cracking another lopsided smile. “I’m surprised they let you keep that title after all the sedition and murder.”
“I got a pardon,” Bucky replied lightly, picking up the beer and chugging it. He tossed the bottle into the trash can near the fridge.
“No, I know,” Rumlow said, his face falling a little. He shook his head and leaned against the counter with his elbows, casually resting his chin on his hands. Bucky resisted the urge to look away from him. “But you can’t just walk around acting like you didn’t do all the things you did. And, boy, did you ever. I watched you put bullets in the eyes of children, Barnes.”
Bucky looked away finally, feeling a zap of cold electricity race down his spine. He remembered that, too. He felt nausea bubbling up in his stomach, curdling the beer in there. He shifted a little, standing straighter. His hands twitched at his side, like he wanted to do something with them. Choking Rumlow sounded good.
“All those years of people telling you what to do and you didn’t even question it. You just did it,” Rumlow continued, obviously pleased that he was still able to make Bucky squirm. “You remember that old guy in Progue you drowned in a bathtub because I told you to?”
Bucky closed his eyes and clenched his hands into fists, taking a deep breath.
“Yeah,” Brock whispered, cocking his head a little and licking his lips. “You remember. You probably also remember how I made you suck my—”
“Stop.”
“No,” Brock said sternly. Bucky clenched and unclenched his fists again, still looking away from Rumlow. He felt his cheeks heat up and his stomach roll uncomfortably. “Ideal'naya sobaka. Zimniy Soldat.” The perfect dog. The Winter Soldier.
Finally, Bucky couldn’t take it. It wasn’t that what he was saying was untrue. Everything Rumlow was telling him was just history; facts. But Bucky didn’t have to listen to it anymore. He had his own autonomy now and he was allowed to tell people to leave him alone. He didn't have to do anything anyone told him to do anymore. Not anymore.
“Fuck you!” Bucky roared, slamming the closed Vibranium fist on the counter. The cheap material groaned under his hand, but Rumlow didn’t even flinch. He just narrowed his eyes and chewed on his bottom lip, like he was watching a wild animal have a tantrum from behind glass. Rumlow seemed to have all the faith in the world that Bucky wouldn’t shove that fist right into his face. He wasn’t sure if it was cockiness or confidence, but Rumlow wasn’t backing down.
“I like you so much better this way,” Rumlow said, smiling through white teeth. Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath and let out a frustrated sound. Rumlow laughed out loud. It sounded like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
“Fuck. You.” Bucky repeated, quieter this time. He sucked in, what should have been, a deep breath but it got caught somewhere in his chest. Rumlow was still looking at him with that stupid lopsided smile. He was just watching Bucky from where he leaned on his elbows. He was watching him struggle and he seemed to absolutely be enjoying it.
“You think you can? Fuck me, I mean.” Rumlow asked, quietly; sadistically. Bucky scowled and tried to take another deep breath. He stepped back and pressed his spine against the cold edge of the fridge when he found he couldn’t. He gasped shallowly and closed his eyes. Rumlow prattled on, “I mean, if I recall, I was the one who always--“
“Stop,” Bucky begged again, his voice a sound like ripping flypaper. He couldn’t breathe. Jesus Christ, he was going to pass out, right there in his kitchen in front of Brock fucking Rumlow. “Please.”
There was a long moment of silence where the only sound was Bucky’s desperate attempt at breathing. He didn’t look at Rumlow, but he assumed he was still leaning on the counter like a giggly schoolgirl, watching a grown man fight to suck in enough oxygen not to pass out. This didn't happen much to Bucky anymore. It was rare that something was able to trigger him so deeply like this. It was embarrassing. It was infuriating.
“Ok,” Rumlow finally replied softly. He stepped, casually, around the counter and was in front of Bucky in just a few steps. The kitchen was small; narrow. Two men standing in front of each other was about all there was room for between the cabinets. Bucky tensed like a bow string, waiting for whatever Rumlow was going to do, and tried to suck in another breath. It felt like he was breathing through a straw.
Without explanation or preamble, Rumlow reached down and grabbed Bucky’s human hand in his and guided it up, resting the sweaty palm onto of Bucky’s scalp. Looking him squarely in the eyes, he did the same with the Vibranium hand. Bucky gave him a confused look, but let him do it.
“Take a deep breath,” Rumlow said quietly, a little sadness in his voice. He nodded to emphasize his point when Bucky just stared at him. Bucky narrowed his eyes and continued to suck in stuttering gasps, watching as static began to crowd around the edges of his vision. Rumlow shook his head and placed a hand on Bucky’s diaphragm, pressing slightly.
“Come on,” Rumlow encouraged, his voice sounding smooth and even, like he wasn’t just antagonizing someone for the last twenty minutes. Bucky’s throat clicked wetly as he made a small, thin sound.
Rumlow sighed and took a deep, dramatic breath in to show him what he was supposed to be doing. Finally, Bucky drew in a small, shuddering breath of his own. It was enough to clear the stars dancing in front of his eyes and he realized that he was still looking directly at Rumlow.
“Good. Again,” Rumlow directed, breathing his own deep breath and rubbing his thumb, absently, against the fabric of Bucky’s t-shirt. Bucky sucked in another gasp of air, this one actually filling his lungs. He coughed, raggedly, and finally started to take in regular, even breaths. He could now feel the warmth of Rumlow’s palm against his diaphragm, thumb still rubbing smooth circles against his belly. He couldn’t decide if he like the sensation or not.
Bucky closed his eyes and turned away, feeling shame rise up on his face. He let his arms fall from his head and back down to his sides where he wiped the sweaty palm of his human hand against his jeans. Rumlow’s thumb stilled and he let his own hand fall away from Bucky’s stomach. Bucky suddenly became very aware that Brock Rumlow had just helped him through a panic attack. Like he was a person; like Rumlow was a person.
Rumlow took a step back, giving Bucky as much space as he could and just waited. Bucky glared at him out of the corner of his eye, but Rumlow just watched as Bucky collected himself. When Bucky finally turned to face him fully, he saw that Rumlow looked somewhat concerned, like he had no idea that all his needling would end in this. If Bucky hadn't known better, he would even think he looked a little embarrassed, himself.
“You good?” Rumlow asked, cautiously. Bucky snorted a laugh out through his nose.
“Oh yeah, I’m great,” he replied, muttering a few curses under his breath and pinching his eyes shut. Finally, after a few seconds, Bucky dipped his head and peeled open his eyes, ready to tell Rumlow to fuck off and get out of his fucking apartment.
But he didn’t have to.
Rumlow had already rounded the counter, wordlessly, and had walked to the front door. Before Bucky could even comprehend what had just happened, Rumlow opened the door and made to step out into the hallway. He stopped, though, and turned back around to take one last look around the apartment. He nodded thoughtfully.
“It was good to see you,” he said, looking back at Bucky before smiling sadly and shutting the door behind him.