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The Asset was ready to comply at all times. Always ready, always prepared, and always willing to do whatever he was told to do. The Asset didn’t ever have thoughts like the ones floating in his mind right now. Really, he didn’t think at all. The Asset only sorted information into a neatly organised collection of orders and didn’t think. Didn’t linger or overthink.
The Asset didn’t have a mind.
Which was good.
The bottle was already half empty when the helicopter lights passed overhead somewhere far above the clouds.
The Asset sitting on the edge of the rooftop didn’t move.
His boots hung over the side of the building, swinging slightly in the wind that swept through his hair that brushed his jawline. Twenty floors down, traffic crawled through the city like glowing veins of red and white light. Somewhere a siren wailed, thin and distant.
The Asset tipped the bottle back again.
It was cheap whiskey. Or vodka. Or something else entirely. He hadn’t bothered checking before grabbing it from the kitchen counter of the ratty St. Petersburg apartment.
Male. 41, 5’9” with graying blonde hair and a scar across his nose.
The liquid burned. That was enough.
The Asset sat there very still, elbows resting on his knees, the metal fingers of his left hand wrapped carefully around the neck of the bottle so it wouldn’t snap by accident. The cold night air didn’t bother him. Neither did the height.
He watched the sky.
Clouds drifted lazily across the dark sky lit by the city. The asset wasn’t supposed to like, but if he were to like something, it would definitely be the sky.
Mission complete.
Target eliminated.
No witnesses.
The building was smoking in the distance, bits of orange and yellow lights scattered across the tall building.
His work was done.
Waiting for extraction.
The words still echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, like a radio transmission that never quite turned off.
He took another drink.
It did nothing. Of course, it did nothing.
Serum didn’t let him get drunk.
Still, the burn helped. It gave his brain something simple to focus on instead of the strange, hollow quiet that followed every mission.
For a while, he just sat there. The bottom of his bottle his only friend.
Maybe he should have jumped right then and there.
Wouldn’t be a first.
He knew that he would survive.
Last time he had hit the pavement, and then? Nothing. He was still here. Left only a big crack in the sidewalk that would probably never be patched up anyway.
Breaking a few bones did nothing to dull the emptiness in his chest. Maybe that was normal, though. He couldn’t recall a time he hadn’t felt it. Not that he recalled much. He was rather forgetful these days.
He heard it long before a man should have.
Steps. Footsteps of heavy tactical boots.
Waiting for extraction.
The metal door on the rooftop banged open. Heavy boots stomped across gravel.
“Status report, Asset.”
The Asset sighed, eyes shifting back to the faint stars scattered between the clouds on the canvas of the dark blue sky.
“Mission accomplished. Calorie intake required in the next twenty-four hours to ensure full functionality. Hydration levels are decent. Sleepiness level high.”
“Sleepy boy, huh? Bedtime isn’t soon yet.” The voice was rough and irritated but not actually angry.
The Asset didn’t turn his head immediately. He just took another sip, staring off into the sky. Then he lowered the bottle and glanced over his shoulder.
He knew he wasn’t allowed to drink or do anything really without permission from his handler. The Asset doubted that the alcohol was worth earning a punishment over, but then again, he had nothing to lose, did he?
Commander Rumlow stood there with his hands on his hips.
Brock Rumlow looked like a man who had fought his way through life and enjoyed most of it. Broad shoulders, tactical vest half unzipped, a five-o’clock shadow, and the expression of someone who had long ago accepted that the world was bullshit and he might as well roll with it.
Right now, he was staring at the Asset sitting on the edge of a skyscraper. A rather small skyscraper, to be fair.
“Buddy,” Rumlow said slowly, “why are you like this.”
The Asset blinked at him. “Waiting for extraction, Commander.”
Rumlow rubbed a hand over his face. “I can see that.”
He took a few steps closer and peered over the edge beside the Asset.
“You know,” Rumlow continued casually, “normal people wait inside the building.”
The Asset considered that before answering. “This location has optimal visibility.”
“Yeah,” Rumlow said. “Also optimal falling distance.”
The Asset tilted his head slightly. “I would survive.”
Rumlow pointed a finger at him.
“That’s not the point,” he shrugged, the corners of his lips tugging up into a small grin. “You falling would give me hell of a time with paperwork.”
The asset wasn’t sure what to say.
The wind tugged at the sleeves of the Asset’s jacket, sending a shiver down his spine.
Rumlow noticed the bottle at that very moment and squinted at it.
“Oh my God,” he said. “Are you drinking?”
The Asset looked down at the bottle in his hand like he’d forgotten it existed. He could have thrown it down the edge and lied, but what was the point? He had nothing to lose.
“Yes, Commander.”
“You’re lucky I’m not a snitch son of a bitch,” Rumlow sighed so deeply it was practically theatrical.
The Asset probably should have thanked his commander for that. For not telling Pierce and giving him a punishment. He didn’t feel anything, though. Maybe he was unable to.
“Where did you even get that?”
“Target’s kitchen.”
“You robbed a dead man’s liquor cupboard?”
“No.”
It had just been on the counter, to be honest. And before burning it down to nothing, along with the entire building, he had taken it. Didn’t think about it much. Not his first time.
Rumlow narrowed his eyes. “You unhurt?”
The Asset nodded once.
Rumlow stared at him for a full three seconds. Then he barked out a laugh.
“Alright, that’s new. Look at you. Discovering drinking.”
The Asset didn’t react.
Rumlow walked over and crouched next to him on the rooftop edge, close enough to grab him if necessary, which he had done before. Twice if you went into detail.
The Asset’s suicide attempts hadn’t been to Rumlow’s liking. Too much bureaucracy.
“You done with it?” Rumlow asked, gesturing at the bottle.
“Yes, Commander.”
“Good.” Rumlow plucked it from his hand and took a swig.
“Wow, that’s fucked up,” he muttered, pulling a disgusted face at the taste.
Then he stood and jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon, buddy. Ride’s here.”
The Asset slid off the ledge in one smooth motion. Perfect balance. Perfect control. The metal arm glinted briefly under the rooftop light as he adjusted his sleeve.
He should have jumped.
“Yes, commander.”
He didn’t.
They headed for the stairwell after Rumlow pushed the door open and started down the concrete stairs.
“You know,” he said as they descended, “most assassins celebrate after a job.”
“Celebrate?”
“Yeah.”
“How.”
Rumlow shrugged.
“Drinks. Music. Food. Maybe a bar fight.”
The Asset walked silently beside him, pondering the words. Drinks? Not allowed without permission. Music? He only ever listened to it when he was in the van with Rumlow and the team. Food? He couldn’t remember ever having eaten solid food. Bar fight? He wasn’t sure what that was.
“I eliminated the target efficiently,” the Asset offered softly, working his chapped lips between his teeth.
“That you did.” Rumlow snorted.
They reached the lower floors quickly. The building was mostly dark with the office lights off, corridors empty except for the hum of the air vents.
Outside, a large black van waited by the curb. The back doors were shut, the windows tinted dark. The engine hummed.
Rumlow opened the passenger door and leaned in. “Hey fuckface, you miss us?”
From the driver’s seat, Jack Rollins looked over his shoulder.
“Only every second,” he said flatly.
Rollins had the permanently unimpressed face of someone who had worked too long with Rumlow and stopped questioning anything years ago.
Behind him sat two more Strike team members.
Garrett lounged in the back with a bag of chips balanced on his vest, while Sitwell fiddled with a headset connected to the communications console.
Both looked up when the Asset appeared.
Garrett grinned. “Hey! Murder robot’s back.”
Sitwell nudged him. “Don’t call him that. He’ll rip your balls off.”
“He doesn’t care,” Garrett retorted with a smug face.
“Alright, circus is over. Everybody behave,” Rumlow announced as he swung the back doors open and began to steer the Asset in.
The back of the van looked less like a vehicle and more like a cramped mobile command center with at least ten monitors bolted to the walls. Other than those there were radios that hummed quietly and a padded bench seat for the Asset along one side, along with a locker containing spare weapons, medical supplies, and a suspicious amount of protein shakes.
The Asset climbed inside and sat down automatically. He knew his place.
Rumlow followed, shutting the doors behind them.
The van immediately pulled away from the curb, making Rumlow grip a handle by the doors for balance as Rollins navigated traffic up front.
St. Petersburg was a pretty sight at night, which the Asset could tell by the view he had up on the rooftop. Every now and then, he took the liberty to glance through the windshield up front and watch the city before turning back to his commander, awaiting instructions.
Rumlow leaned forward on his seat by the monitors, bracing his forearms on his knees, then straightened again like he’d made up his mind.
“Alright,” he said, voice firm. “Let’s get you out of all that.”
The Asset turned his head slightly.
“Yeah, yeah. You did great. Gold star. Now strip the murder armor.” He gestured to the Asset. “C’mon, buddy. Mask first.”
The Asset complied immediately.
The mask came off the hook on his belt in one smooth motion. Rumlow sometimes called it a muzzle. Maybe it was a joke the Asset simply didn’t understand. He rarely understood humour.
He held the black mask out for Rumlow, who took it and tossed it into the open locker without ceremony.
“Good. Now vest.”
The tactical vest followed, heavy and solid when it hit the bench between them. Rumlow immediately leaned over and started unstrapping it further, checking the fastenings like a habit.
“Any hits?” he asked.
“Negative.”
“Pain?”
“Negative.”
Rumlow grunted. “Of course.”
He pushed the vest aside and tapped the Asset’s shoulder.
“Arms up.”
The Asset obeyed.
Rumlow ran his hands down the sleeves of the compression shirt, firm but quick, checking for damage, rips, and blood. His fingers paused briefly at the metal arm, knocking lightly against it.
“Still attached,” he muttered. “Good start.”
The Asset remained perfectly still through the inspection.
Rumlow crouched slightly to check his sides, then his back, tugging the fabric just enough to make sure nothing was hidden or bleeding through.
“Turn.”
The Asset turned on his seat.
“Turn back.”
He did.
Rumlow nodded once, satisfied. “Alright. Rest of it.”
The Asset removed the remaining gear piece by piece. Gun and knife holsters. Spare magazines. Utility belt. Each item was handed over, and Rumlow either tossed it into the locker or handed it off behind him without even looking.
Eventually, there was nothing left. No armor. No weapons. Just black cargo pants, a dark compression long-sleeve stretched over his frame, and his boots.
Rumlow leaned back slightly and gave him a long once-over. He reached over and grabbed a set of straps attached to the bench.
“Sit back.”
The Asset was already seated, but he adjusted immediately, pressing his back fully against the padded surface.
Rumlow pulled the straps across his chest and shoulders, buckling them with practiced efficiency. They weren’t harsh restraints. Just secure. Functional. Still firm enough that the Asset couldn’t move much without effort.
“Standard procedure,” Rumlow said, almost offhand. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Understood, Commander.”
Rumlow tightened one strap slightly, then another, testing the hold.
“There we go.” He gave the buckle a final tug.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Liar,” Rumlow smiled.
The van hit a slight turn. Up front, Sitwell adjusted his headset.
“Pierce’s on the line.”
Rumlow leaned forward. “Patch him through.”
A small speaker crackled to life immediately.
“Status.”
“Asset is secured,” Rumlow replied. “Mission complete. We’re on the way to the safe house.”
A pause.
“Condition?”
Rumlow glanced sideways. “Let’s ask him.”
He tapped the Asset lightly on the arm. “Buddy. Report.”
The soldier didn’t hesitate. “Physical condition stable. No structural damage. Minor muscular fatigue. Hydration levels below optimal threshold. Nutritional intake insufficient.”
The van went quiet for a second.
Pierce’s voice came back through the speaker, unfazed. “Hydration will be addressed at the facility. Do not deviate from protocol.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rumlow said. “We know the drill.”
“Keep him contained,” Pierce said, voice just a bit harsher than the Asset usually knew it to be. Maybe Sir had a bad day. “No stunts.”
Rumlow’s tone flattened slightly. “Copy that.”
“Don’t let that fucker try to kill himself again, Rumlow,” Pierce added sternly. “I mean it.”
“Nah, he won’t try any bullshit. Promise.” Rumlow grinned at the Asset.
Maybe this was all a joke too?
The line went dead.
Then Rumlow leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “You hear that, buddy? No suicidal crap.”
Him suicidal? He didn’t really think he was, though. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure what it really meant. Maybe he was a little after all.
“Understood, Commander.” The Asset stared straight ahead.
There was a pause before the Asset spoke again, in the same even tone. “…Additional report.”
“Go ahead,” Rumlow sighed.
“Bladder requires emptying.”
Garrett broke out into laughter. “Did he just-”
Rollins barked a laugh from the front.
“He did.” Sitwell turned halfway around in his seat, eyebrows raised.
Rumlow pinched the bridge of his nose. “You gotta be kidding me.”
The Asset remained completely serious. “Requesting permission to empty the bladder.”
Garret lost it again. “‘Requesting permission’- I can’t-”
Rumlow dragged a hand down his face, then looked at the Asset. “You have to piss.”
“Affirmative.”
“Of course you do.” Rumlow leaned back, thinking for a second, then knocked twice on the van’s wall on Rollins side.
“How far out?” Rumlow asked impatiently
“Ten minutes,” Rollins said. “Maybe less.”
Rumlow nodded. “You can hold it.”
“Yes, commander.”
Rumlow looked back at the Asset again.
“You gonna be okay for ten minutes, buddy?” he asked, feigning kindness.
“Affirmative. Capacity within acceptable limits.”
“Fantastic.” He leaned back against the wall again, folding his arms.
“No more drinking before extraction,” he added. “Add that to your protocol crap or whatever.”
The Asset blinked. “Understood.”
Garrett leaned in again. “Are we putting him in time-out too?”
“Keep pissing me off, and you’re next.” Rumlow pointed at him without looking.
The Asset sat strapped in place, hands resting still in his lap, shoulders slightly hunched now that the adrenaline of the mission had fully burned off.
Rumlow watched him for a moment out of the corner of his eye.
“Hey,” he said after a bit.
The Asset’s gaze shifted. “Commander.”
“Your diaper is full?”
The Asset hesitated.
“…Affirmative.”
Rumlow huffed lightly.
The soldier went still again, nodding softly and suddenly weirdly aware of the cold wetness between his legs. Of the bump under his loose cargo pants. He winced softly, swallowing the discomfort down like he usually did. Pierce called him a crybaby whenever he asked to get his diaper changed, so he had stopped long ago and always waited until a handler asked about it.
The Asset knew he needed to be diapered for missions. It only made sense when you considered that he sometimes spent hours waiting in the same spot for a target with a sniper. He actually had to go long stretches a lot without the opportunity to pee somewhere. So wearing a diaper was best. It only made sense. Pierce had told the Asset many times. It made sense.
So here he sat, uncomfortably aware of himself after hours in the same wet diaper. The material had grown irritating against his skin, a slow itch building that he tried his best to ignore. Maybe he’d get a rash again, but that wasn’t what worried him most. The rash he could take. He had many times before. What scared him most was Rumlow's insistence on applying cream over the red, irritated skin on his genitals.
Ten minutes passed. The Asset had counted every one of them, trying not to squirm in his seat. He knew Rumlow didn’t like it when he fidgeted, and he did try to stay still, but eventually, restlessness crept in. His bladder ached, and he had been holding himself tense for so long that his muscles had begun to burn.
He had to pee. Now.
The Asset glanced at Rumlow, who sat across from him, focused on his flip phone, frowning at the small screen. The Asset tried to stare long enough to draw attention. It didn’t work. Speaking without permission wasn’t allowed.
Neither was pissing his pants, though.
The Asset always followed the rules. Always, without exception. At all times.
Carefully, he gathered what little courage he could and cleared his throat.
Maybe it was the radio Rollins was singing loudly and terribly off-key along with, that overturned him. Or perhaps Rumlow was just too absorbed in whatever he was doing on his phone. Either way, he didn’t react.
For two more minutes, the Asset made little pained noises, hoping that Rumlow would finally look up and see the discomfort plastered across his usually so cold features. Rumlow always noticed when something was off. All the Asset needed was for the car to stop for just a minute so he could piss somewhere, and he would jump straight back into the van. A member of the STRIKE could even accompany him to make sure he didn’t get himself in trouble like so often.
Not that he intended to cause trouble.
All he needed was to pee quickly. Just a minute.
Finally, the Asset couldn’t bear the pressure inside his tummy anymore and gently brought a hand up, still knowing better than to speak up directly. He wiggled his palm helplessly, almost like a student in class waiting to answer the teacher’s question.
That got Rumlow’s attention. His gaze flicked up, eyebrows pulling together.
“What now?” he asked, visibly displeased about what he was witnessing.
The Asset wants attention? Even he himself felt embarrassed about that, even if he knew it was necessary.
“Ten minutes passed three minutes ago, Commander,” he said, voice steady but quiet.
Brock groaned and brought a calloused hand up to the bridge of his nose.
“You pissed yourself?” He asked, eyes shifting to the clenched thighs of the Asset.
“Negative, Commander. Capacity of holding bladder approaching limit.”
Another sigh, heavier this time. Rumlow leaned his head back, muttering something under his breath. Too quiet to make out, but clearly meant for the Asset. Not kind words.
“Sit still,” Rumlow snapped, already leaning forward.
He reached out and pressed two fingers briefly against the Asset’s lower abdomen, where the bladder was located behind the belt. His touch was not hard, just enough to test. The reaction was immediate. A sharp tightening of his lips. A micro-flinch.
“Yeah, no,” Rumlow muttered.
Then louder: “Rollins.”
“Yeah?”
“How far now?”
Rollins hesitated. “Five?”
“You said ten.” Rumlow’s head snapped up.
“Traffic changed-”
“There is no traffic. We’re in the middle of nowhere, dickhead!”
Garrett snorted. “He means you messed up.”
“Thank you, Garrett, very helpful,” Rollins shot back.
Rumlow was already moving. “Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull. Over.”
There was a beat, but then ollins swore under his breath and steered the van toward the side of the empty street. The tires crunched lightly over gravel as the vehicle came to a stop.
Rumlow was on his feet before the engine even fully settled.
“Bullshit,” he muttered, already reaching for the buckles across the Asset’s chest. “Five minutes, he says-”
He yanked one strap loose. Then the other. The tension around the Asset released with a soft snap.
“Up.”
The Asset stood immediately.
“Move.” Rumlow shoved the back doors open and jumped out first, turning back just in time for the Asset to step down after him with clenched thighs and a strained posture.
The night air hit colder outside. Quieter, too. No city noise now, just distant wind and the faint hum of the van behind them.
Rumlow grabbed the Asset lightly by the arm. Not rough, but firm enough to steer, and started walking down the side of the road.
“C’mon. Over there.” He instructed harshly in annoyance.
Was the Asset supposed to feel bad about this? He wasn’t sure. He tried to hold it in and didn’t speak up without being told to. He tried so hard, and yet Rumlow was pissed off at him.
The Asset chewed on his lips as his handler dragged him along a few meters away to a patch of overgrown bushes lined the edge of the road, half-shadowed and only lit slightly by the van’s headlights behind them.
Rumlow stopped by a bush and turned to face the Asset, hands on his hips, still visibly annoyed.
“Alright,” he said. “Here. This is fine.”
The Asset stood exactly where he was placed. Waiting.
“…Commander.”
“What.”
A small pause.
“Requesting further instruction.”
Rumlow stared at him for a full second. Then another. Simply baffled at how dependent that fully grown man in front of him really was.
“You’re kidding.”
“Negative.”
Rumlow dragged a hand down his face again, slower this time. “You’ve done this before, right?”
“Affirmative.”
“Great. Then do it again.”
The Asset remained still. “Clarify.”
Rumlow made a frustrated noise under his breath. He pointed vaguely at the bushes. “Go. Handle it. Pee. Whatever damn word you prefer.”
“Understood.” The Asset stepped past him toward the bushes, stopping just at the edge of the shadows.
Rumlow stood close enough to reach out if needed, not even attempting to give the Asset at least an illusion of privacy. His posture stayed tense with arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes scanning the empty street more out of habit than concern.
He just stood there, waiting.
And the Asset? He just also stood there, waiting and unsure what to do with his hands.
Rumlow watched for maybe two more seconds before he spat out a laugh of sheer disbelief and stepped closer, hands coming up to undo the Asset’s belt and pull the zipper of the black cargo pants down.
“Fucking useless piece of shit,” Rumlow cursed, annoyed. “Why can’t you just pull this stupid little dick out and piss, huh?”
The Asset winced at the sudden anger in Rumlow’s movements as he tugged the cargo pants down and let them drop to the ankles onto the grass.
“Commander-”
“Shut the hell up, motherfucker,” Rumlow immediately cut in and began to rip the adult-sized diaper at the side before throwing it into the bushes with more force than necessary.
The Asset felt his knees go weak, his lips trembling between his teeth as he watched the white diaper fly into the darkness with a sad face.
“Here. Piss.”
The Asset avoided meeting his handler’s gaze, eyes locked on his penis that hung uselessly between his legs, shrunken by the cold air and discomfort of being naked. Commander Rumlow had seen him like this many, many times before, and the Asset knew he had no right to hide himself, but still something in him always sensed that it was off. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Just as he was about to let the pressure win and release the contents of his aching bladder, Rumlow’s cold fingers cupped around the shaft of his penis.
The Asset whined, fighting the reflex to jump away and escape his handler’s touch around his genitals.
“If you piss all over yourself, I will slap your dick until you curl up on the ground and beg me to stop.”
The Asset nodded helplessly, biting down on his lip hard enough to taste blood.
Rumlow held his penis before the Asset let go, the ache in his tummy easing with the urine streaming out. He tipped his head back just enough to see the stars above them, finding the comfort he so desperately yearned for.
The urine hit the leaves of the bush for quite a while before the relief of the emptied bladder settled, and he glanced back at Rumlow.
The man released his dribbling penis and wiped his hand on the sleeve of the Asset’s compression long-sleeve before he spoke up.
“Go to the van. We’ll put a new diaper on in there.”
The Asset tipped his head. “No mission protocol active, Commander.”
Rumlow barely showed an emotion at that, coldly maintaining eye contact and standing his ground. If he wanted to, he could be very intimidating, and the Asset knew not to push it that far.
“Do I look like I give a fuck?”
The Asset just glanced at Rumlow, searching his face for any trace of sympathy. It was a silly thing to do, really, knowing he won’t find anything.
Rumlow didn’t give the Asset much time to consider the situation and grabbed him by the arm, steering him casually back towards the van. He didn’t have to be firm. Not when the Asset had learned decades ago that resisting only meant making all of this worse.
Being naked in front of Rumlow was one thing. Climbing into the van with his penis hanging out and butt on full display in front of the entire STRIKE team? That was something else, even if the Asset had seen way worse. Worse things he would rather forget, as he did with most things. Unfortunately, the chair seemed to wipe everything but the dirty feeling and scary flashes of the countless times men had taken turns violating him in ways he couldn’t even describe.
Every so often, he wished to be just a little more forgetful.
“Ew, why is he naked, perv?” Garrett scrunched his nose at Rumlow, receiving a slap on the shoulder by Sitwell, who looked up curiously from his monitor.
The Asset could feel the gazes shifting to him. Seeing the pair of dark, narrowed eyes in the rearview mirror only made the discomfort more unbearable.
“He needs a fresh diaper,” Rumlow said as if the sheer concept of having to change the Asset personally offended him. Which was unfair since Rumlow was the one to insist on a diaper when no mission protocol was even active.
“Fuck, man. That’s freaky,” Garret pulled a sour face.
“You wanna shut the fuck up or have the honor of changing our boy?”
Garrett mutely shook his head at that, jokingly pulling an imaginary zipper shut across his thin lips. Another joke, the Asset guessed.
“Thought so,” Rumlow groaned before pulling the van’s heavy door shut and pushing past the Asset towards a black bag.
The Asset awkwardly shifted on his feet, pants still hanging at his ankles, slightly muddy at the parts where the fabric hung into the grass outside. Maybe if he behaved well enough for his change, he would get a pair of comfier pants now that the mission was over. Though he didn’t put his hopes up high. You never knew these days.
“Lie down.”
The Asset glanced up, unsure about what that meant. Lie where?
“You deaf now too?” Rulow raised a brow.
“Clarify, Commander.”
“Lie down.”
The Asset glanced around, still unsure. The space inside the van was tight with benches lining the sides, gear stacked neatly, and the metal floor cold and bare between them.
Rumlow exhaled sharply through his nose, already irritated. “On the floor. Now.”
The order was enough. The Asset moved immediately, lowering himself down with controlled precision despite the stiffness in his limbs. He stretched out flat against the metal, back pressed to the hard surface, arms at his sides as if awaiting further instruction.
The van lurched slightly as it began moving again, the engine rumbling beneath them.
Rumlow leaned forward, bracing one hand against the bench to steady himself as the vehicle picked up speed. Up close, his expression was all sharp edges and impatience.
“You got a rash already. That’s on you, fucker,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else.
The Asset stayed still. He focused on the ceiling, on the faint vibrations traveling through the vehicle, on anything that wasn’t the situation at hand. Compliance was easier when he didn’t think too much.
“You hear me?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Fuck,” Rumlow cursed under his breath, fiddling with the diaper before he tapped a hand to the Asset's waist. “Ass up.”
The Asset did just that, pushing his waist up and waiting until Rumlow slid the diaper under him before he plopped his butt back down on the soft material.
Then he waited, letting it all happen as he watched the van’s ceiling and tried to connect the dots of the screws all over it into fun shapes. He did that often.
There was the sound of fabric shifting, the quick, efficient movements of someone used to handling situations like this, whether he liked it or not. Rumlow worked fast, working cream over the Asset’s penis and testicles.
It burned, but not enough to get a reaction, really. The Asset didn’t even squirm when Rumlow worked the fatty cream into the folds of his foreskin, making his penis swell up just a bit. All he felt was dread. He never felt pleasure in these moments, questioning if he even could after all these years.
“Don’t move,” Rumlow added, though the Asset hadn’t even twitched.
“Yes, Commander.”
The van hit a slight bump in the road, and Rumlow swore under his breath, adjusting his stance to keep his balance. His grip was firm, practical. Nothing careless, but nothing gentle either. He just massaged the length of the penis, even if there was objectively no need for that.
The Asset didn’t think about it much anymore. Maybe Hydra men didn’t need a reason.
“Pierce’s idea with the fuckass diaper,” Rumlow muttered again, as if that explained everything. “Wouldn’t be dealing with this otherwise.”
The Asset said nothing. There was nothing to say about the irony.
A few more moments passed in tense silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional off-key singing from the front.
Then Rumlow finally pulled the tapes shut on the diaper, giving the setup a quick, critical once-over to make sure it was snug enough not to leak. Then he tugged the pants up over the hips, not bothering with the belt. No new pants. Good thing the Asset hadn’t put his hopes up high.
“Done,” he said shortly, already shifting away. “Sit up.”
The Asset obeyed immediately, pushing himself upright with practiced ease despite the confined space. He settled back onto the bench, posture straight, hands resting neatly where they belonged.
Rumlow dropped back into his seat across from him, picking up his phone again after cleaning his hands on a tissue, as if nothing had happened.
“Piss in there,” he added without looking up, “no toilet for you at the safehouse either.”
“Yes, Commander.”
— — —
The safe house sat slightly apart from the rest of the small village outside St. Petersburg.
A modest, old cottage tucked behind a crooked wooden fence, its paint peeling, the roof sagging just enough to suggest it had seen better decades. One weak porch light flickered above the door, buzzing faintly.
The Asset’s gaze flicked across the building anyway.
Windows. Door. Fence.
“Four potential entry points visible,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, and we’ll be using one of them,” Rumlow snorted. “C’mon.”
Inside, the cottage smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The lights flickered on one by one as they entered, revealing a cramped interior with low ceilings, worn furniture, mismatched chairs, and a threadbare rug that had seen too many boots.
It wasn’t abandoned. Just very, very neglected.
Garrett didn’t waste a second.
“Kitchen,” he said, already moving past them, brushing the doorway. “I’m starving.”
Rollins followed immediately. “If there’s food here, I’m claiming it.”
“You don’t get to claim food,” Garrett replied.
“I absolutely do.”
Their voices faded down a short hallway.
Sitwell lingered just long enough to glance around.
“…Cozy,” he said, then wandered off after them.
Rumlow didn’t engage with any of it. He had a different priority. Which was a very lost and anxious supersoldier who needed care.
He steered the Asset down a narrow hallway, one hand still resting lightly but firmly against his upper back.
“This way.”
The bedroom door creaked when he pushed it open. The room inside was worse than the rest of the house. Small. Barely enough space for the narrow bed shoved against one wall. The mattress sagged in the middle, the thin blanket folded stiffly at the foot like it hadn’t been used in years. A single chair sat in the corner, one leg slightly shorter than the others. The window was covered with a yellowing curtain that didn’t quite close all the way.
The air smelled stale. Unused.
The Asset stepped inside and stopped. Not because he was told to, but because something in him registered it.
Closed space. Limited exits.
His shoulders tightened, and not even a second later, Rumlow noticed it.
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “It’s ratty.”
Yet he nudged him forward.
“Sit.”
The Asset obeyed immediately, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed with controlled precision, hands resting on his knees.
Rumlow shut the door behind them with a quiet click. Then he crouched down in front of him, already pulling something from his pocket.
“Don’t move.”
“Yes, commander.”
Rumlow reached for his ankle, fingers firm as he rolled the fabric of the cargo pants up just enough to expose skin.
The device was small and black. It clicked into place around the Asset’s ankle with a soft snap and a faint light blinked once.
Active.
The Asset looked down at it, taking maybe a second at most to register what it was exactly.
“Monitoring device,” he states slowly.
“Good job,” Rumlow said dryly. “You get a head pat for remembering it.”
He tightened it slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure it stayed. Then he chuckled as he actually patted the Asset’s greasy hair.
“That,” he continued, “tells us if you leave this room.”
“I remember.” The Asset’s gaze lifted back to him.
“Yeah. I figured you might from last time.” Rumlow stood, brushing his hands off as he looked around the room like he was judging it personally. Then his attention snapped back to the soldier sitting on the bed.
“You’re staying here.”
“Yes, commander.”
“I’m gonna get you set up,” Rumlow went on. “Food, fluids, whole shit show.”
The Asset nodded once.
Rumlow crossed his arms. “And until then?”
Silence.
“Await further instruction.”
Rumlow tilted his head slightly. Then, with a tone that shifted just enough. A little sharper now, a little meaner around the edges.
“You sit here.”
The Asset didn’t move.
“You don’t touch anything,” Rumlow continued. “You don’t wander. You don’t get creative.”
Another step closer.
“You stay exactly where I put you.”
“Yes, commander.”
Rumlow leaned down slightly, enough to make sure he had his full attention.
“Because if I come back and you’re not here,” he said, voice lower now, quieter but heavier, “the next two days get real unpleasant for you.”
The Asset’s posture stiffened. Not fear. Not quite. But something close to it.
“Clarify.”
“Oh, I think you understand just fine.” Rumlow’s mouth twitched.
A pause. Then, almost casually…
“No solid food. No water by mouth. Tube feeding, IVs. You don’t like that part, do you?”
The Asset didn’t respond immediately, but his fingers curled slightly against his knees.
“Procedure is… efficient.”
“Uh-huh.” Rumlow straightened again. “So let’s not make it worse, yeah?”
“Yes, commander.”
After a moment of silence, Rumlow’s tone shifted again to something lighter, almost conversational, like none of this day had happened.
“There we go. Good.” He reached out and gave the Asset’s shoulder a quick, firm pat.
“Be a good boy and stay put.”
The words landed oddly in the quiet room.
“Yes, commander.” The Asset didn’t react outwardly.
Rumlow turned toward the door, already reaching for the handle.
“I’ll be back with water and food,” he added. “Don’t get any ideas.”
The door opened. Rumlow glanced back one last time at the Asset who sat exactly where he’d been placed with his back straight. Hands on his knees. Eyes forward. As still as a statue.
“Good.” Rumlow nodded once.
Then he stepped out and shut the door behind him. The lock didn’t click. Not that it needed to. The Asset wouldn’t leave anyway.
For a while, the room stayed exactly as Rumlow had left it. If someone had walked in, they might have thought he hadn’t moved at all.
But he was listening. He always listened.
At first, it was just the distant shuffle of movement in the house. Boots against old wooden floors, the low murmur of voices, the occasional scrape of a chair.
Then, slowly, it changed. The voices got louder and more relaxed with every minute passing.
Someone laughed too loudly at something. Rollins said something back that earned a muttered, “Oh shut up,” followed by another round of laughter. There was the distinct sound of a cabinet opening. Then closing. Then opening again.
“Jackpot,” Garrett’s voice carried faintly down the hallway.
“No way there’s anything edible in this place,” Rollins replied.
“Speak for yourself, I’ve eaten worse.”
“That explains a lot.”
Then the unmistakable clink of glass bottles.
The Asset’s head tilted just slightly. He didn’t move otherwise.
More sounds followed.
A chair was dragged across the floor. Someone tapped something against a table. The soft hiss of a bottle opening.
“Don’t finish all of it,” Sitwell’s voice said, more distant.
“No promises,” Garrett answered immediately.
Another laugh.
The Asset’s gaze shifted toward the door.
Rumlow had said to stay. So he stayed.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time didn’t work the same for him, but even he could feel it stretching now.
No footsteps approached the door. No handle turning. No Rumlow.
His fingers flexed once against his knees. Then stilled again.
More laughter.
The Asset’s brows drew together just slightly.
“Nutritional intake insufficient,” he murmured quietly to himself.
The words sounded the same as always.
“Hydration levels below optimal threshold.”
He swallowed. It didn’t help.
From the kitchen, another clink of bottles came along with more voices.
They were… enjoying themselves. The concept sat strangely in his mind. Enjoyment. After mission completion, the team engaged in social behavior. Food consumption. Alcohol. Laughter.
The Asset remained seated. Waiting for Rumlow to come back like promised.
Another minute passed. Then another.
Still nothing. Rumlow had said ‘soon’. Soon had to be over by now, right? How long was ‘soon’ anyway?
The Asset shifted just slightly. His hands lifted off his knees, then settled again.
His head turned toward the door again. Listened. Nothing changed. A small frown touched his face.
“Statement inconsistency,” he said under his breath.
Rumlow had said he would return soon. Rumlow had not returned.
The Asset looked down at his worn hands. At the battered knuckles of his hand and the shiny silver one of his other hand. Then, slowly, he leaned back just a fraction on the bed to relax his back. The mattress dipped under his weight with a quiet creak. He stilled again immediately after, like he’d done something he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to do.
Then he waited. Nothing happened. No footsteps. No correction. The sounds from the kitchen only grew warmer, louder, and another bottle had opened.
The Asset’s gaze drifted again to the door. To the wall. To the floor.
Then carefully… he shifted his foot. The one with the device. It made a faint sound against the fabric of his pants, at which he froze instantly and listened again.
No reaction. No alarm. No Rumlow bursting furiously through the door. The device remained silent. The Asset looked down at it.
“Monitoring active,” he murmured. But it hadn’t done anything.
He tilted his head. Then, very carefully, he slid one foot back. Then forward, testing it.
Nothing.
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then slowly he pushed himself up from the bed. The motion was almost cautious. It wasn’t like he couldn’t move. It was more like he wasn’t sure he should.
He stood there for a second, just beside the bed, shoulders slightly tense, eyes flicking toward the door again.
Still nothing. The voices outside carried on.
A quiet exhale left him.
Then, with small steps, he moved a few inches away from the bed. Then a few more. The room felt different standing up. Smaller somehow. He turned in place slowly, looking around.
The Asset reached out and touched the wall lightly with his fingers. Dust clung faintly to his fingertips. He looked at it and rubbed his fingers together once, then let his hand fall down to softly wipe it on his pants to get rid of the gray particles.
Another step. He circled the bed halfway, movements quiet despite the old floorboards.
There was something almost… exciting about this. About exploring.
His gaze dropped to the nightstand. One drawer was half-open already. He crouched slightly down to it and pulled it the rest of the way open. It creaked loudly in the quiet room.
He froze. Waited. Listened.
No reaction. The voices down the hall didn’t even pause.
The Asset looked back down. Inside the drawer was nothing useful. Just old paper, a broken pen, and something that might have been a button.
He closed it carefully and stood again. The chair in the corner caught his attention next. It leaned slightly to one side. He stepped toward it like it might do something unexpected.
His fingers brushed the backrest until it wobbled, which made him let go immediately. Then he crouched again, lower this time, eyes scanning the floor near it.
Something metallic caught the light, half-hidden under the edge of the chair. He reached for it. His fingers closed around it and pulled it free.
A pair of old scissors. Rusty along the edges and blunt at the tip.
The Asset held them in his hand, turning them slightly to examine them with a tilted head.
He didn’t have to think long before he passed the scissors into his metal hand and tugged his sleeve up to reveal his human wrist.
So far, he had only tried this once, and he was sure it failed because he missed the right vein.
He knew a lot about his body and how to aid his own injuries sporadically before HYDRA got to him and could tend to him properly.
This time, he wouldn’t miss the artery.
The Asset opened the scissors and brought one of the blades up to his wrist, assessing the position of the artery he knew was connected to the heart. If you slit it just right, you could bleed out in minutes. He was about to find out how long it took for a supersoldier.
The first few cuts weren’t deep enough. He could tell so rapidly by the lack of the feeling of impending death in his chest.
He slit and slit over and over again, the blade dripping with the dark red fluid that left a lingering scent of iron in the air. The scissors were too blunt, but that wouldn’t stop him.
He had all the time in the world since ‘soon’ didn’t seem to be over just yet.
No Rumlow meant he didn’t have to rush in finding the right artery. He had slit a few veins and arteries already before he eventually unleashed a way stronger flow of blood that dripped down his wrist and soaked his sleeve. The small puddle by his feet grew bigger and bigger, and that’s when the Asset knew that he had found it.
He shut his eyes momentarily, a breath escaping his lips that sounded equally as drained as peaceful.
The Asset could finally rest and catch up on all the sleep he had missed over the decades. Because when you died, it was dark all over, and you could rest for eternity. At least that was a concept he had come to like after pondering the question of what was after in his tiny cell. During all those times, they left him sitting in his urine and shit with nothing but his mind and silence.
By the time Rumlow came back, the house had settled into that heavy, late-night quiet that followed too much food and just enough alcohol.
The voices in the kitchen had dropped. Sitwell’s voice cut in occasionally from the other room, clipped and irritated as he worked through whatever signals he needed to establish. Garrett had gone quiet entirely.
Rumlow pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder.
“Alright, buddy, let’s-”
He stopped in his tracks.
For a second, nothing moved.
The bed was empty. That was what Rumlow registered first. Then…
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The Asset was on the floor. Breathing slowly with his chest rising and falling in slow motion at a pace that couldn’t be healthy. As if his body was shutting everything down slowly.
He was just lying there on his back, one arm resting slightly away from his body, the other bent awkwardly at his side. His head was tilted just enough that he was staring straight up at the ceiling.
His face looked pale under the weak light. Not ‘basically already dead’, Rumlow knew better than that, but enough to really, really worry.
And his hand. Rumlow’s eyes locked onto it immediately.
“Oh, for-”
There was blood. An alarming amount, even for what the Asset was and definitely a puddle big enough to look like someone was bleeding out, which was more than Rumlow was in the mood for dealing with right now. It smeared across the Asset’s palm and fingers, a fast trickle that had already stained the floor beneath him.
“Buddy.”
The Asset’s eyes shifted toward him.
“Commander.” His voice was slower than usual. Flat and delayed.
“What did you do.” Rumlow planted his hands on his hips and looked down at him.
A pause.
“Sleep forever.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Rumlow let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You little asshole tried to kill yourself again.”
He crouched down beside him, grabbing his slit wrist. His touch wasn’t gentle at all when he turned the injured arm slightly to get a better look.
The cut was deep enough to be deadly for a normal human being.
“Fuck you. You always do this shit when I'm responsible for you.” Rumlow clicked his tongue.
The Asset didn’t pull away. “Injury critical.”
“No kidding,” Rumlow muttered. “You slit your wrist before I got a day off, you shithead.”
He let go of the wrist and straightened slightly, already irritated.
“How many times,” he went on, mostly to himself, “how many times have we done this exact scenario-”
He cut himself off and turned his head toward the door.
“Rollins!”
There was a pause. Then, from down the hall: “Yeah?”
“Get in here.”
Footsteps approached quickly. The door opened again, and Rollins stepped in, taking one look at the scene before stopping dead.
“Oh, come on,” he groaned.
“Right?” Rumlow snapped.
Rollins dragged a hand down his face. “The fucker slit his fucking wrist?”
“Yup,” Rumlow nodded. “And didn’t even fucking die.”
Rollins pointed at the Asset. “What did you even-”
“Sleep forever,” the Asset repeated calmly.
Rollins stared at him with a baffled expression.
“First aid kit. Now.” Rumlow jerked his head toward the hallway.
Rollins didn’t argue. He just turned and left immediately, muttering under his breath as he went.
Rumlow looked back down at the Asset, who was still on the floor. Still staring with heavy-lidded blue eyes and that innocent puppy-like look. Still bleeding out on the floor of the ratty bedroom.
The Asset had expected that it would take longer to fall asleep for a supersoldier than an average human, the moment you slit the artery. But that his body would heal itself and fight relentlessly for this long was new. Maybe it was just bad luck. Perhaps ten minutes later, Rumlow would have found him dead, and he would have succeeded. He’ll probably never know.
“Alright,” Rumlow said, exhaling sharply. “Status report.”
The Asset blinked once.
“Physical condition critical. Major cut to right hand’s artery. Blood loss severe. Hydration levels low. Nutritional intake insufficient.”
Rumlow nodded sarcastically. “Fantastic. Love that for us.”
The Asset didn’t respond.
Rumlow shut his eyes briefly. “You are a fucking pain in my ass for no reason, you know that?”
Rumlow opened his eyes again and pointed at him.
“Up.”
A pause.
“Experiencing dizziness.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re bleeding out, smartass.” Rumlow stared at him.
Another second passed, but the Asset didn’t move.
“Mobility temporarily compromised.”
Rumlow exhaled sharply through his nose, already reaching down.
“Yeah, yeah. Here,” he sighed harshly as he grabbed the Asset under the arms and hauled him upward. Lifting the big guy was probably one of the main causes of Rumlow’s backaches. Not that he had time to scold the Asset about that right now, though.
The Asset came up eventually despite the weight, but there was a slight lag in his balance, a brief unsteadiness that made Rumlow tighten his grip.
“Careful,” Rumlow muttered, more out of reflex than concern.
“Stabilizing,” the Asset said quietly.
“Do that faster.”
Rumlow guided him, half-pulling, half-steering him the few steps back to the bed, and pushed him down onto the mattress.
“Sit.”
The Asset complied immediately, shoulders slumped, one hand resting loosely against his thigh, the other still bleeding all over his pants.
Rumlow grabbed a piece of the thin blanket and shoved it into his hand.
“Hold that to your wrist.”
The Asset pressed it against the cut without comment, watching as the fabric darkened quickly.
“You’re a dick for ruining my day like this,” Rumlow muttered.
Maybe the Asset truly was.
The door opened again before Rollins stepped back in, holding the first aid kit.
“If he fucking dies, Pierce will hang all our heads on his office wall, boss.”
“He’ll be fine,” Rumlow said immediately. “Go get the IV setup too. And his… dinner.”
Rollins grimaced. “Right.”
He turned again without argument and disappeared down the hall.
Rumlow stood there for a moment, hands on his hips again, staring at the Asset like he was trying to decide whether to be more annoyed or more tired.
“You leave him alone for five minutes,” he muttered under his breath. “Five minutes…”
The Asset sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly rounded now, one hand clumsily pressing the blanket against his palm. There was something… off about the way he held himself. It was that you actually could see the nervousness radiating off him. That was rare. The Asset had learned long ago that showing emotion did nothing for him.
Rumlow exhaled through his nose.
“Alright,” he muttered, stepping closer again. “Lemme see.”
He crouched in front of him and reached for the injured hand. “Move that.”
The Asset lifted the blanket away immediately. The cut looked worse now that it had time to bleed.
“Fuck.” Rumlow clicked his tongue.
He took the hand again, firmer this time, turning it slightly under the light.
“You like pissing me off?”
A pause.
“No, Commander.”
“Don’t lie.”
Another pause.
“Real intentions unclear. Perhaps a malfunction.”
Rumlow let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so tired. He grabbed a roll of gauze from the kit Rollins had dropped off and pressed it against the cut properly, replacing the blanket.
“Hold still.”
“Yes, commander.”
Rumlow worked quickly and efficiently, but there was a familiarity to it. This type of situation clearly wasn’t new.
It wasn’t. He’d done this before. Too many times.
Not that the Asset remembered the details. While having forgotten about those, he still knew in a way that he had done this before. It was like little flashbacks washing over his memories like fractured, lost pictures of something sharp at his wrist. The faint scarring had only confirmed the weird feeling. He had tried before, and he will again. Probably.
“You went exploring,” he said after a second, glancing up at him as he rolled another gauze roll around the wrist.
The Asset didn’t answer.
“After I told you to stay put.”
“Yes, commander.”
Rumlow shook his head slightly, not even surprised.
“So you disobeyed.”
He adjusted the pressure on the wrist, watching the bleeding slow while the Asset quivered just a little in reaction to his aching hand. Maybe it would have been best if they had cut both his arms off back then. He couldn’t hurt himself then anymore.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Why?”
The question came quieter this time.
The Asset blinked.
“Clarify.”
Rumlow huffed lightly. “Why do you keep trying to end your shitty life?”
The Asset’s gaze drifted.
“Awaited your return,” he said finally.
Rumlow stilled for half a second.
“Delay exceeded expected timeframe.”
Rumlow pressed his lips together. “And?”
A pause.
“Nutritional intake unavailable,” the Asset continued, voice even but softer somehow. “Hydration not provided.”
“So you got bored?” Rumlow glanced back down at his hand, adjusting the wrist again as he wrapped layer after layer over the skin and all the small cuts around the slit artery.
“Negative.”
Rumlow looked up again. The Asset met his gaze.
“Unfair,” he corrected his handler. The word sat oddly in his voice. Maybe because it had never left his mouth yet.
Rumlow raised an eyebrow.
“Team engaged in food consumption,” the Asset said. “Audible indicators. Laughter. Bottles.”
A huff.
“While I remained here.”
Rumlow stared at him as he leaned back slightly on his heels.
“You’re telling me you slit your damn wrist,” he said slowly, “because we were eating snacks without you?”
“Affirmative.”
There was a silence. Then, from somewhere deep in his chest, Rumlow let out a quiet, disbelieving chuckle.
“Jesus Christ. They gave me a fucking toddler shithead to watch after.”
The Asset watched him and sighed, but there was less edge to it. He wasn’t so upset anymore when Rumlow was with him, tending to his mistake and cleaning up the mess he made of himself. It was the isolation that upset him. He could go days without food or water, and could sit for days in his feces. But when he was alone, his already broken mind fractured even more.
Rumlow studied him for a second. Then shook his head again, softer this time.
When the door opened again, Rollins stepped in, carrying a small medical bag and a hanging fluid pack.
“I’ve got- oh good, he’s okay.”
“Barely,” Rumlow said. “Put it down.”
“He behave for ya, boss?” Rollins set everything on the chair, glancing between them.
Rumlow waved him off with a snort. “Yeah, yeah. Go bother Garrett or something.”
“You sure?” Rollins hesitated.
“He’s my toy, I got him.”
Rollins looked at the Asset one more time, then at the cut, then back at Rumlow before he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Rumlow stood and moved to the chair, grabbing the IV setup.
“Okay,” he said, tone shifting again to something less annoyed now. “Let’s get you sorted.”
The Asset watched him closely. “Yes, commander.”
Rumlow snapped the IV stand into place with a practiced click, hanging the fluid bag and checking the line quickly. Then he pulled on a pair of latex gloves, snapping them into place around his wrists.
The Asset knew this routine too well.
“Arm.”
The Asset extended his right arm immediately. The human one with the battered wrist. He avoided catching a glimpse at it on purpose, unsure if he wanted to see the gauze soaking through slowly.
If he could turn back time, he would do it again, but this time be quicker so he’d actually finish bleeding out before Rumlow returned. The man had seen many dead men before, so one more body wouldn’t do his humanity any harm. The Asset doubted that Rumlow had any humanity to begin with anyway. Not that the Asset could say the opposite about himself.
Rumlow took his arm gently, turning it palm-up, then tapping lightly at the crook of his elbow.
“Relax,” he ordered as he leaned in closer to see the faint vein under the layer of icy pale skin.
He grabbed an alcohol wipe and started cleaning the area, movements steady and precise.
“Little pinch,” he said, almost automatically.
The needle went in clean, and the Asset didn’t even flinch.
The line filled, and the drip started as Rumlow taped it down securely.
“There we go,” he said, stepping back slightly to check the flow. “Fluids first.”
The Asset’s shoulders eased just barely. “Hydration intake initiated.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Rumlow moved again, reaching into the bag for the next part.
“And now the part you hate.”
The Asset went very still. His gaze flicked briefly to the thin tube in Rumlow’s hand. Then back to him with his nose scrunching upward. He really did hate this part.
Rumlow stepped closer again, his tone dropping a notch.
“Hey.”
The Asset’s eyes shifted.
“Look at me.”
He did.
Rumlow tilted his head slightly, gloved fingers squeezing his chin harder than he needed to get the Asset’s attention.
“Same as always. Easy. Breathe through it,” he muttered, not exactly softly. It was more mechanical in a way, as if he said this every single time before pushing the tube through his nostril.
It did nothing to provide comfort.
“…Yes.”
“Head back a little.” Rumlow guided him gently, one hand steadying the back of his head.
The Asset obeyed, eyes closing as he felt the cold tip of the lubed tube slide through his left nostril.
The tube slid in smoothly.
The Asset’s fingers tightened slightly against his leg, his breathing hitching once, but he stayed still, just like he’d been told.
“Almost there… yeah, I know… just a second-”
The tube settled into place.
“Swallow.”
The Asset did, lips pressing into a thin line as he gathered all the saliva in his mouth to swallow the tube. It didn’t hurt really, but he did gag twice before it settled in his throat just right to not be really noticeable anymore.
Before Pierce, he had been allowed shakes and protein bars. Now he had gotten used to being fed over the nasal tube. There had been a fancy term for that, but it had slipped the Asset’s mind at some point. He didn’t deserve to eat, so they made sure he never really did anymore.
Rumlow secured the tube on his cheek with tape before muttering a soft little “Done.”
Rumlow stepped back again, checking everything. The IV, the line, the tube. It was all in place and working. Satisfied with the final product, he pulled the gloves off and tossed them aside.
For a moment, he just stood there. Then he sighed and dropped down onto the edge of the bed beside him.
“Alright.”
The Asset sat quietly, shoulders slightly slumped now, the tension from earlier fading under the steady drip of fluids. There probably was some sort of calming stuff in one of the bags to keep him a good boy during his stay with the STRIKE team. He should have expected it.
Rumlow leaned back on his hands.
“We’re here for two days,” he said. “Maybe less if things clear faster.”
The Asset turned his head slightly toward him.
“We lay low,” Rumlow continued, dramatically counting with his fingers as he went on. “No noise, no wandering, no… suicide bullshit.”
The Asset nodded once.
“You stay in this room unless I say otherwise.”
“Yes, commander.”
Rumlow jerked his chin toward the bed.
“We’re sharing. So don’t kick me in your sleep.”
Then, after a second, he reached over and gave the Asset’s shoulder a light shove. Not rough, just enough to guide him further back onto the mattress.
“Lie down.”
The Asset complied, shifting carefully, the IV line pulling slightly before settling.
Rumlow adjusted it automatically. “There.”
He leaned back again, watching him for a moment.
“Try not to bleed on anything else,” he added. “Imma get the bathtub ready for you while the bags finish.”
— — —
By the time everything was done, the house had gone quiet again. The kind of silence that came when everyone had eaten, argued, and run out of things to say.
He sat propped up against the bed’s headboard, legs stretched out under a new blanket, shoulders wrapped in a soft, worn long-sleeve shirt that didn’t quite fit right but was better than the compression gear.
Rumlow had swapped his clothes out earlier. Black cotton pants now, looser, easier. The kind of thing that didn’t restrict movement. Or breathing. Or anything else.
His hair was still slightly damp. Rumlow had brushed it earlier in quick, rough strokes at first, then slower when the tangles had given way. The Asset hadn’t said anything when he tugged too hard. He didn’t dare to complain, not when these after-mission times were the only ones where he got a real bath, and his hair was brushed.
The bath wasn’t comfy, but good enough to feel just a bit better. Cold water didn’t bother him. It never had.
He shifted slightly against the pillow, and the bed creaked under his weight.
Rumlow, standing near the door, glanced over before he reached out and flipped off the main light. The room dropped into dimness at that, the only illumination now coming from a small lamp on the nightstand of Rumlow’s bedside. It cast long shadows along the walls and turned the room from something harsh into something almost peaceful.
Rumlow pulled his shirt off as he crossed the room, tossing it aside and grabbing a worn pair of sleep pants from the chair. The Asset averted his gaze quickly as the pants and boxers came off.
“Shift over.”
The Asset moved instantly, making space despite already having settled near the wall where his side of the bed had been pushed to.
Rumlow climbed into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under the added weight. He reached over without looking and tugged the blanket up higher, tucking it around the Asset’s side with a firm, practiced motion.
For a moment, they just lay there side by side while the faint sound of the wind brushed against the outside of the house.
The Asset stared up at the ceiling.
Rumlow closed his eyes.
And then… a small shift. Barely there when the Asset adjusted one leg. Then his shoulder. Then his head on the mattress to get more comfortable. Rumlow had taken both the pillows for himself after all.
Rumlow’s eyes opened immediately.
“Fucking stop that.”
The movement immediately stopped.
“Yes, commander.”
“If you move again, I’ll glue you to the mattress.”
The Asset didn’t dare to question the lack of sense in that.
It took maybe two seconds before another slight shift of the Asset’s feet sent the blanket crinkling again. It wasn’t even on purpose this time. He was just a little restless.
Rumlow exhaled slowly. “You’re doing it again.”
“Attempting stillness.”
“Well, attempt harder.”
The Asset went completely rigid. A little too rigid.
Rumlow cracked one eye open and groaned deeply.
“Stop that. That’s worse.”
Another pause.
“Clarify,” the Asset whispered, a little confused.
Rumlow pushed himself up slightly on one elbow and looked down at him properly now.
The Asset lay stiff beside him, arms held too close to his sides, shoulders tense, like he’d locked himself into place rather than relaxed. Rumlow stared at him for a second, then groaned again.
“I will fucking murder you one day, you cunt.” He dropped back down and scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re impossible.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Yeah, don’t sound so proud.”
Another shift. Small again.
Rumlow turned his head to watch him. The slight tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed faintly against the blanket. The way his breathing wasn’t quite settling.
“You gonna sleep like that?” Rumlow asked.
“Sleep not initiated.”
“Motherfucker.” Rumlow sighed long and tired, like he was arguing with himself more than anything.
“C’mere.”
“Commander?” The Asset blinked.
Rumlow didn’t repeat himself. He just reached over, grabbed the fabric at the Asset’s sleeve, and pulled him closer. The space between them disappeared immediately as the Asset went still and let his handler pull him towards his body.
Rumlow shifted, turning slightly onto his side, one arm coming up and settling loosely, but firmly, around the Asset’s shoulders, pulling him in against his bare chest.
“There,” he muttered. “You’re my little spoon. Now stop fidgeting.”
For a second, the Asset didn’t move at all. Then slowly, something in him… softened. Not visibly at first, but the tension eased just a little. His head tilted hesitantly and came to rest lightly against Rumlow’s shoulder as he pressed his back further into the warm chest behind it.
The faint knock of Rumlow's steady heartbeat kept tapping his skin as he listened along and let the warmth settle around him.
“Yeah,” Rumlow said quietly against his ear. “That’s better.”
“Warm,” the Asset murmured back.
Rumlow huffed a quiet laugh. “Funny how that works.”
He adjusted his hold slightly, his hand coming to rest on the Asset’s butt, thumb tapping once absentmindedly against the fabric of the cotton pants.
“Try to sleep.”
“Yes, commander.”
The Asset expected the hand on his butt to lift and move away, but Rumlow didn’t move the hand back to his own space. Instead, the hand cupped one of his buttcheeks and began to massage it firmly, fingertips digging in deep enough to make a shiver run down the Asset’s spine.
Yet he stayed exactly where Rumlow had put him.
The room stayed quiet as the touching went on.
After a minute, a small moan echoed in the room before the Asset felt it.
Something hard radiating warmth near his hole, creeping closer and closer with every heavy breath Rumlow took.
“Fuck,” he said. “Stay quiet.”
The Asset didn’t lift his head.
“I could abuse your filthy asshole if I wanted to.”
The Asset didn’t move a muscle, eyes closing softly as a slight tremble sent his lips quivering.
Rumlow snorted softly. “Yeah. I could.”
Another quiet moment passed. He leaned just slightly away, almost without realizing it.
Rumlow noticed, but didn’t comment on it. Just let his hand settle a little more firmly against his shoulder.
“You’re like a damn furnace,” he muttered. “Ever think about turning that down? It makes me all horny.”
The Asset’s eyes had gone half-lidded now.
“Commander.”
“Yeah.”
A small pause.
“Please, no.”
Rumlow didn’t answer right away and only smiled as his hand gave one last tap against the Asset’s butt before he turned away from the Asset to settle on his side of the bed.
“Go to sleep, buddy.”
— — —
The door slammed open.
“Rumlow!”
Morning never arrived gently, and Rumlow probably should have known better than to expect a calm morning with breakfast ready in the kitchen and a warm cup of steaming coffee.
He blinked hard, disoriented for half a second before focusing on Rollins standing in the doorway, breathing a little too fast with an alarmingly pale face.
Oh well.
“What?” Rumlow snapped, voice rough with sleep and irritation.
Rollins ran a hand through his hair. “We’ve got a problem.”
Rumlow pushed himself up on one elbow, already annoyed as he rubbed a hand over his groggy face.
“We always have a problem. Be specific,” he muttered, voice still raspy from sleep.
Rollins didn’t answer right away. That was the first bad sign.
Rumlow’s eyes shifted to the space beside him on the bed. He probably should have noticed earlier that it was empty when it shouldn’t have been. God forbid a hardworking man gets some good night's sleep after wrestling a suicidal supersoldier and finishing a big mission of wiping that annoying ass diplomat’s existence from this shitty world.
The blanket was pulled back slightly, the mattress still slightly dipped as if the heavy big guy lying in it hadn’t left too long ago.
For a second, everything went very still.
“Where is he?” Rumlow almost yelled.
“Kitchen.” Rollins exhaled.
Rumlow was already on his feet.
“When I catch that bitch.”
He didn’t even bother with shoes, just shoved past Rollins and stormed down the hallway, still half-groggy but running on pure irritation now.
Voices carried from the main room. Sitwell’s was sharp and controlled, but edged with something tighter.
“I’m telling you, we need to-”
Garrett murmured something lower in return.
The moment Rumlow stormed into the kitchen, the scene snapped into place.
The Asset sat at the table with his shoulders slumped forward slightly, one arm resting on the surface, the other hanging loosely at his side. His posture was off. Unbalanced in a way that had nothing to do with fatigue.
His face colored an odd shade of yellow like an old sheet of paper forgotten for a decade. His lips tinged faintly blue. His eyes were red-rimmed around the yellowed whites, unfocused, and blinking slower than they should.
Fuck.
Rumlow’s gaze flicked across the table full of empty pill containers. Several of them. His stomach dropped straight into anger at the sight.
“What did he take.”
Sitwell didn’t even look at him. “I’m contacting-”
“Put the phone down.”
“That is not your call-” Sitwell turned sharply.
“Put. The phone. Down.” There was something in Rumlow’s voice that cut through the room like a blade.
Sitwell hesitated.
Garrett glanced between them, calculating.
“We need to inform-”
“Shut the fuck up. You inform Pierce,” Rumlow snapped, stepping fully into the room now, “and he’ll have your ass as well as all of ours.”
That landed.
Sitwell’s jaw tightened. “You’re suggesting we hide-”
“I’m suggesting,” Rumlow cut in, voice low and furious now, “that it’s pathetic that the damn STRIKE team can’t keep one asset in line for twenty-four hours without it fucking offing himself.”
Sitwell looked at him in silence, clearly weighing it. Then, slowly, he lowered the phone.
“Pierce will murder us,” he said tightly.
“Yeah,” Rumlow shot back. “And we’re fixing that issue before it becomes a bigger one.”
Garrett exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Come on,” he muttered to Sitwell. “Let’s give him space to clean this mess up.”
Sitwell hesitated one more second before he turned sharply and walked out, Garrett following after him, both of them already arguing in low voices as they disappeared down the hall.
The room went quiet again. Except for the faint, uneven sound of the Asset’s breathing.
Rumlow turned back to him immediately.
“Buddy.”
No response, just a slow blink.
Rumlow stepped closer. “What did you take?”
The Asset’s head tilted slightly. “Medication.”
“No kidding,” Rumlow snapped. “Which one?”
“…Unknown.”
Rumlow swore under his breath.
Behind him, Rollins stepped closer, holding up the empty containers.
“Found him like this a few minutes ago,” he said. “Cabinet’s open. Lock’s busted.”
Rumlow grabbed one of the containers, scanning it. His jaw tightened as he tossed it back onto the table.
“If his liver won’t give out in the next hour, we are some lucky bastards, man.” Rumlow rubbed a hand over his face, his frustrated voice muffled behind his hand.
“How did he get the lock open?” he looked up at Rollins.
Rollins shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Rumlow looked back at the Asset. “You picked the lock.”
A slow blink.
“Yes, Commander.”
“Of course you did.”
Another glance at the containers. Another sharp exhale.
“Did he throw up?”
“Not yet.” Rollins shook his head.
“Great,” Rumlow muttered. “Just fantastic.”
He reached out and grabbed the Asset’s arm firmly enough to hurt.
“Up.”
The Asset didn’t resist, but didn’t really help either. He couldn’t. Not when he felt this bad. So he stood when pulled, movements slower than usual, balance off just enough that Rumlow had to steady him immediately.
“Mobility impaired,” the Asset said quietly.
“Fucking shut up.” Rumlow tightened his grip. “Move.”
He didn’t wait for coordination. Just dragged them both toward the bathroom down the hall.
Rollins followed halfway, then stopped in the doorway, watching as Rumlow shoved the bathroom door open with his foot to reveal the small space of cold, yellowing tiles and a toilet shoved against the wall. He maneuvered the Asset forward and pushed him down onto the floor in front of it.
“Sit.”
The Asset folded down immediately, back hitting the wall, head tipping slightly forward. His breathing was still uneven, eyes unfocused.
“Commander.”
Rumlow crouched in front of him, anger still sharp in every line of his posture.
“What did I say?” he snapped. “What did I say about staying put?”
The Asset blinked slowly.
“Instruction was to remain in room.”
“And?”
“Non-compliance occurred.”
“No kidding it occurred!” Rumlow dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once in the small space before dropping back down in front of him again.
“You swallowed that shit to die?” he added angrily.
The Asset’s head tilted slightly. “Clarify. Medication intended for consumption.”
Rumlow stared at him, and for a second, the anger almost faltered into disbelief.
“What the fuck.” He leaned forward again, voice sharp but lower now.
“You don’t take things you don’t know. You don’t open locked cabinets. You don’t just-” he cut himself off, exhaling hard. “This one is new.”
The Asset’s gaze drifted slightly.
“This bullshit tactic is new,” Rumlow snapped. “I have a feeling you try every single damn way to kill your stupid ass.”
He shifted closer, one hand bracing against the wall beside the Asset’s shoulder, keeping him upright.
“You’re dying.”
A slow blink.
“Affirmative. Acute liver failure registered.”
“Good job, smartass,” Rumlow muttered. “You happy now?”
The Asset wasn’t sure how to answer.
“Fucking answer,” Rumlow snapped, slapping the Asset casually across the face.
Not that he really registered that.
He only shook his head slightly, his tongue feeling too heavy to speak as the masses of different pills failed his liver slowly but surely. The serum streaming through his veins worked at full speed to heal the damage done, but maybe after all the times, it wasn’t able to save him anymore.
Rumlow jerked his head slightly toward the toilet. “You’re gonna throw all of those happy pills up right now.”
The Asset didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just sat there, pale and dazed, breathing unevenly.
And Rumlow stayed crouched in front of him, visibly furious.
Next thing the Asset knew was the way he hung over the toilet, gagging as Rumlow pushed two fingers down his throat. It took maybe two dry heaves that left his throat sore before he puked the entire contents of his stomach out. White, cloudy fluids of halfway digested pills filling the toilet bowl were all he saw before shutting his eyes and trying not to breathe in the sour smell that lingered in the air.
— — —
It took a while before the worst of it left his system. Eventually, the normal color came back. Not fully, but enough. The strange yellow tint at the Asset’s face faded to something more pinkish. His breathing evened out. The glassy, unfocused look in his eyes sharpened just a fraction.
Rumlow watched him for a long moment from the sink where he washed his hands thoroughly, his jaw tight.
“You done trying to poison yourself for the morning,” he muttered.
The Asset sat where he’d been placed, back against the wall, head tipped slightly forward.
“Physiological state stabilizing.”
“Yeah,” Rumlow said flatly. “We’re gonna make sure it stays that way.”
He pushed off the wall and jerked his head toward the hallway. “Rollins.”
“Yeah,” came the answer immediately.
“Help me.”
“On it.” Rollins stepped in, already rolling his sleeves up.
Between the two of them, they got the Asset back on his feet.
“Mobility suboptimal,” he murmured as they steered him down the hall.
“Nerd,” Rollins muttered under his breath.
The bedroom door was still open as they brought him inside and plopped him on the bed.
“Over there,” Rumlow told Rollins, nodding toward the far corner while he held the Asset steady.
The corner then had been cleared out completely. The chair was dragged out, the small table pushed aside. Even the loose debris that had cluttered the edges had been moved, leaving a bare patch of wall and floor.
Rumlow nodded, satisfied, at Rollins before steering the Asset against the headboard to get moving himself, finally. He grabbed a bag from beside the cooler box, pulling out a pair of anchors for a wall and heavy cuffs that were attached to sturdy steel chains. Probably Winter Soldier-proof chains.
“Stay there,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
The Asset wasn’t planning to move.
Rollins crossed the room and crouched near the cleared corner, already pulling tools from one of the bags in the room before he got to work with
“You really going through with this?” he asked, glancing up.
Rumlow didn’t look over. “Yeah. Not doing this again.”
The Asset’s gaze drifted slightly toward the corner where Rollins was still working.
“Yeah,” Rumlow said, following the Asset’s eyes. “That’s for you, shithead.”
The Asset's eyebrows twitched subtly.
“So you don’t go wandering off and getting into things you shouldn’t,” Rumlow shot back. “Like cabinets. Or sharp objects. Or anything else you decide looks interesting for fucking suicide plans.”
He placed his hands under the Asset’s arms.
The anchor settled into the wall with a dull, final sound across the room where Rollins was working.
“Honestly, it’s like babysitting a toddler with a death wish.”
The Asset didn’t respond.
Rollins leaned back on his heels and gave the anchor a testing tug.
“I asked to get one quiet night,” Rumlow went on, pacing a short step away and back again, “fucking one. And you still manage to ruin it.”
Rumlow leaned back slightly, looking him over with a sigh before he motioned Rollins over with a jerk of his chin.
“Up.”
The Asset moved immediately, sensing how thin his handler’s patience was running, and pushing him over the edge was not something you wanted for yourself. So he slid off the bed, slower than usual but without resistance, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thump. There was a slight sway when he straightened before Rumlow stabilized him.
“Careful,” he muttered, more reflex than tone.
“Balance suboptimal,” the Asset said quietly.
“I have eyes.”
Rollins stepped over, grabbing the Asset’s metal arm to help Rumlow out with all the weight of the pumped-up super soldier body.
They moved him together. Rumlow kept a firm hand on him, steering him step by step across the room while Rollins moved alongside, careful to keep the Asset from stumbling over his own feet.
The corner felt smaller up close. The metal anchors sat low against each wall, the metal rings dull and solid.
It didn’t take long to register to the Asset what they meant. Even in his hazy state, he knew.
“Sit.” Rumlow positioned him directly between them.
The Asset lowered himself to the floor with just enough hesitation to get a point across without angering the men, his back coming to rest lightly against the wall. His legs bent automatically, feet drawn in just slightly, posture settling into something that resembled more a scared child than anything close to a grown man with the ability to kill anyone in the room a little too easily.
“Good boy,” Rumlow muttered. “Let’s keep it that way.”
He crouched down in front of him, already reaching for the cuffs. They were harshly looking, the kind that was meant to hurt him. Reinforced enough to hold his currently weakened body. Resisting was not an option, but it had never been to begin with anyway. Maybe he deserved to be held like an animal after all the stunts he pulled.
If Hydra had wanted him dead, he would be. And if they wanted him alive, he would stay alive for as long as they wanted him to.
Rumlow took the Asset’s right arm first. “Give me that.”
The Asset extended it immediately, watching with glassy eyes as Rumlow slid the cuff around his wrist, tightening it just enough to cut into his bandaged wrist before attaching it to the anchor on the wall.
A soft click. Metal meeting metal.
The Asset didn’t react beyond a slow blink, gaze shifting as Rumlow moved to the other side, taking the left metal arm.
Same process. Same click. Just the awful noise of metal scratching over metal was new.
Now both wrists were secured, arms angled slightly outward but relaxed enough that there was nothing to worry about issues with the blood flow in his human one. Enough movement to shift, to adjust, but not enough to reach for anything. Not enough to reach for anything that could end his misery.
Not enough to wander or do anything but soullessly stare into the ratty room.
Rollins stepped back, giving the setup a once-over.
The Asset’s fingers wiggled slightly as he turned to look at his cuffed and chained hand, brows furrowing at the sad sight.
Rumlow, for once, didn’t comment all snarkily about the upset puppy eyes look on the Asset’s face. Instead, he stood, brushing his hands off, then reached for the bags nearby and pulled them out of easy reach just to make sure.
For a moment, the room went quiet.
Rollins shifted his weight, glancing between them.
“Well,” he muttered, “that’s one way to save us money for flowers for his grave.”
Rumlow shot him a dirty look, not in the mood for jokes after this very eventful morning of just another suicide attempt of the Asset he somehow had to keep out of the files and reports. Make sure Sitwell won’t snitch for an extra headpat from Pierce.
“I’m just saying.” Rollins held up his hands.
Rumlow didn’t answer, still looking at the Asset who sat exactly where he’d been placed. Back unnaturally straight against the wall.
“Buddy,” Rumlow said after a second.
The Asset’s eyes lifted immediately.
“You're gonna stay put this time,” Rumlow finished as he crossed his arms.
A small pause.
“Affirmative.”
“Yeah?”
“Attempting compliance.”
Rumlow let out a short, humorless breath.
“That’s what you always say.”
— — —
A few hours passed.
Rumlow had once returned in the meantime to give the Asset fluids and food through a nasal tube. Oh, and he had put him in diapers to let him pee before he tugged them back off, not putting on new ones, which was okay since the Asset could hold his bladder. Then he had left again, locking the door.
Another few hours had passed. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting in his corner and doing nothing but dozing off occasionally, counting cracks on the walls, or trying to eavesdrop on the team outside his room.
Whenever his knees ached, he would switch sitting positions or stretch his legs out. Occasionally, he rolled his shoulders or cracked his neck to relax his muscles, but none of that really helped the time pass more quickly. Not that he knew how much of it was still left.
Time here was only measured by the drips of the IV or how quickly the liquid food bag emptied. Maybe also the faint shifting light through the curtain that had told him that the sun was setting by now. He had been here for quite some time, he supposed.
When Rumlow came back, he didn’t expect to be freed. That would have been too easy. He was sure he’d be left sitting here overnight until they could leave St. Petersburg to return to whatever HYDRA base Pierce had chosen this time.
Rumlow pushed the door open with his shoulder, stepping inside already mid-thought, and stopped.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Right about that…
The IV stand was still there, exactly where he’d left it, but the lines were on the floor, leaking into the old wooden flooring and seeping into the wood fibers. The IV line’s end was still a little crusty with dried blood where it had been pulled free, while the feeding line leaked smelly beige fluids, the tape no longer securing it to anything.
The Asset’s nostril looked battered from having ripped the tube out, dried crust of blood under the tip of his nose as he sat exactly where he’d been placed, looking a little too innocent for his own good.
The chains attached to his cuffs were long enough to make time pass more quickly by removing the tube and IV.
His posture had changed since Rumlow had last come in. It was oddly curled inward now, shoulders rounded more than before, head lowered. And his hand…
Rumlow’s jaw tightened immediately. “Buddy, what the fuck?”
The Asset didn’t look up right away. His fingers were moving in small, repetitive motions as they picked at the skin around his nails, at the edges of his cuticles. His fingers were already raw, faintly reddened from where he’d worried at them too long.
Rumlow crossed the room in three quick steps.
“What did you do.”
No answer. Just another slow blink.
“Hey.” Rumlow crouched down sharply in front of him, grabbing his wrist firmly enough to stop the movement.
The Asset’s eyes lifted.
“Commander.” His voice was quieter than usual.
Rumlow’s grip shifted slightly as he turned the hand, taking in the damage.
“Jesus.” His gaze flicked up. “What happened to your tube and fluids?”
“Removed.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Rumlow snapped. “Why?”
“…Discomfort.”
Rumlow stared at him angrily.
“Yeah, it’s uncomfortable,” he said flatly. “That’s not new.”
The Asset didn’t respond. His gaze had already dropped again, drifting somewhere lower, unfocused.
Rumlow followed the IV line with his eyes, exhaling sharply through his nose and running a hand over his face before looking back at him.
“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
The Asset’s fingers twitched slightly in his grip.
“Attempted compliance.”
“Yeah?” Rumlow shot back. “Fucking liar.”
His gaze had already dropped again, drifting to the exposed scars along the Asset’s wrist where the gauze had been pulled off. Or rather ripped into pieces that were now scattered around his feet. The angry and still healing slits and cuts that adorned the pale skin on full display reminded them of yesterday’s trouble.
“And this?” Rumlow pointed to the pieces of gauze, some dark brown with dried blood.
“Removed.”
“Of course it was.” He let go of his wrist, only for the Asset’s fingers to immediately start moving again. Picking, scratching lightly at already irritated skin.
Rumlow grabbed his hand again.
“Stop that,” he scolded with a groan.
The movement halted instantly.
“Yes, commander.”
Rumlow held it there for a second longer than necessary, then released it slowly.
The fingers stayed still this time. For a moment at least.
Then they started again.
“Fuck off, jerk.” Rumlow made a frustrated noise under his breath. “I told you to fucking stop.”
He shifted closer, reaching out and catching both wrists this time, holding them lightly but firmly in place.
The Asset’s head tilted slightly.
“Look at me.”
He did.
Rumlow softened his tone just a fraction. “Knock it off.”
A pause.
“Unable to maintain.”
Rumlow exhaled, something between annoyance and resignation.
“Can’t you wait with your stupid malfunctions till we are done here?” He adjusted his grip, restraining the battered fingers to keep them still.
The Asset blinked, unsure about how to reply to that.
“…Physical discomfort present.”
“Yeah, well,” Rumlow said, a little sharper again, “that’s what happens when you rip out medical equipment, buddy.”
The Asset’s gaze flickered.
Rumlow huffed and loosened his hold just slightly.
Immediately, the fingers tried to move again.
He caught them again. “Seriously, stop!”
“Attempting.”
Rumlow leaned back on his heels, still holding the cold hand, studying him.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he muttered.
The Asset’s shoulders dipped slightly further.
Rumlow let out a breath, running his tongue over his teeth as he thought. Then he shifted closer again, one hand coming up to tap lightly against the side of the Asset’s arm.
“Hey.”
The Asset’s eyes lifted again.
“You’re fine,” Rumlow repeated, a little slower this time. “You’re just being difficult.”
A pause.
“Negative.”
“Yeah,” Rumlow said, almost absently. “Sure.”
He reached out and brushed his thumb once across the back of the Asset’s hand.
“Stop messing with your hands,” he instructed seriously.
“Yes.”
They stayed still. For a few seconds.
Rumlow sighed. “What is wrong with you today.”
The question wasn’t really a question. The Asset didn’t answer it anyway.
The lines hung loose beside him, pieces of the tape still clinging faintly to his cheek. Rumlow looked at them again, then back at him.
“Alright,” he muttered. “We’re fixing this.”
He shifted his grip, preparing to move to reset everything, and just as he turned to pick the IV back up, the Asset caught it.
The gun.
Attached casually to the black leather belt on the left backside of Rumlow’s hip.
Looking back at the situation, the Asset was pretty sure that not a single thought had crossed his mind at that very moment. It was rather a reflex. Or at least something close to that.
Rumlow had just started to turn the Asset’s hand again, thumb pressing lightly along the edge of his fingertips.
“Stop picking at-” He didn’t get to finish the sentence.
The Asset’s fist slammed into his jaw unnaturally fast, sending Rumlow flying against the wall. The loud cracking noise, met by the clinking of chains, only added to the initial shock moment.
Rumlow felt it before he fully registered it.
“FUCK-”
The Asset’s eyes flicked. Not to his handler’s pained face, but lower.
To Rumlow’s belt. To the black-handled pistol clipped there.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then everything kind of did.
The movement was instant as the Asset surged forward with a force that snapped the moment clean in half, his restrained arms yanking hard against the anchor before a loud crack echoed off the walls.
The metal ring didn’t just strain. It tore.
Pieces of the wall’s concrete splintered outward with a sharp, violent sound as the anchor ripped free from the wall entirely.
“Shit-!”
Rumlow barely had time to react before the Asset was on him. Not wild exactly, but rather focused as if the soldier had nothing to think about and only let his body move. It was fast. A little too fast to be human.
The metal hand closed around his neck, its crushing grip locking him in place while the other reached straight for his belt.
“Hey- HEY-!” Rumlow twisted, trying to wrench free, but the Asset’s strength overpowered him instantly, dragging him closer into the still chained hand’s reach.
The cuff on the other wrist snapped tight, and then that anchor gave in too.
Another sharp crack erupted as the second point tore loose from the wall, leaving the chain hanging uselessly from his wrist.
“ROLLINS-!” Rumlow choked out mid-struggle, bracing his weight, trying to shove the Asset back.
It didn’t work. Not that Rumlow expected it to. He was just desperate, really.
The Asset’s fingers found the gun finally, before he ripped it free.
“NO-!” Rumlow lunged.
Too late. The Asset shoved him back hard enough that he stumbled, hitting the edge of the bed with a heavy thud.
Footsteps hurried down the hallway.
“What the fuck?!”
The door slammed open.
“Rumlow!”
Rollins first.
Then Garrett was behind him.
They froze for half a second at the scene of loose chains, a wild supersoldier with a gun, and their boss uselessly pushing himself up from the floor by the bed with a face as red as a damn cherry.
“Buddy,” Rumlow said, his voice raspy now, sharper, trying to cut through the chaos.
The Asset didn’t answer, didn’t even look at him as he clutched the gun hard enough in his hand for his knuckles to go white. His gaze flicked rapidly from the door to the window and walls as if mapping and calculating every exit point in seconds.
“Stay down,” he murmured under his breath.
Rollins took a slow step forward. “Hey- easy…”
The Asset’s head snapped toward him instantly. That was enough to stop Rollins dead in his tracks, lifting his hands up slightly.
“Alright,” he said. “Alright.”
Garrett hovered just behind him.
“He just ripped the anchors out,” he muttered, baffled.
“Yeah,” Rollins said under his breath. “I can see that.”
Rumlow stepped forward again, slower this time.
“Buddy,” he repeated.
The Asset’s grip tightened around the gun, his breathing hitched, but his stance stayed firm, balanced, and ready.
“Stay back,” he said.
Rumlow’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
Another step.
The Asset shifted immediately in response, weight moving, body angling just enough to keep space between them as he aimed the gun at his head with a shaking hand.
“Hey- hey,” Rumlow said, holding one hand out now. “Nobody’s hurting you.”
“Stop.”
“You can’t shoot yourself,” Rumlow shot back. “Guys like you won’t make it to heaven.”
The Asset’s eyes flicked back up to his handler as his eyes softened just a fraction.
“…Heaven?” He whispered.
Rollins glanced at Rumlow and began to mumble a weak “He’s serious.”
“Shut your fucking mouth.” Rumlow didn’t take his eyes off the Asset as he took another careful step forward.
“Give it back,” he said, slowly extracting his hand.
The Asset didn’t move.
“Unable.”
“Try harder,” Rumlow shot back.
A beat. The tension in the room thickened.
The Asset’s fingers tightened again around the gun, knuckles paling even more. His stance shifted just a fraction more.
“Heaven?” he repeated softly.
“Yes, that’s where people go when they die,” Rumlow huffed out a subtle breath, nodding slowly.
“Me too?”
“No.”
Oh.
The Asset didn’t respond immediately. His fingers tightened slightly around the gun in his hand, the trigger of it cold but ready. He only had to press it now. He knew what that meant, even if not fully. Freedom. Or something close to it.
“Not how it works for you,” Runlow added, more gently.
The Asset’s gaze flickered, uncertain. “Because….”
Rumlow let out a faint breath through his nose. “Because you did all that bad shit that uninvited you from Heaven.”
The words twisted somewhere deep in the Asset’s chest, though he didn’t fully understand why.
Behind Rumlow, Rollins shifted his weight slightly, exchanging a glance with Rumlow. He didn’t speak, didn’t intervene. Neither did Garrett, who stood further back, arms crossed, watching.
They were waiting.
The Asset looked back down at his feet, biting his lips as he thought about Rumlow’s words.
“I didn’t want to do any of it,” he slowly mumbled.
“You still did it,” Rumlow shrugged softly, pushing his lips out to fake pity.
The Asset’s grip tightened around the gun, finger aching to press the trigger.
Maybe he had to try and see for himself if heaven would cut him some slack at its gates if he told the guards there that he never wanted to do all of this. They made him.
But then again, what would happen if they won’t let him in?
That scared him.
“If… I press it,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “I go away.”
Rumlow tilted his head slightly. “Yeah.”
“Gone.”
A pause.
“Yeah.”
The Asset swallowed. His throat felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with physical strain.
“And… no heaven.”
Rumlow didn’t answer immediately this time. His eyes stayed on the Asset steadily, but there was something else there now. Something the Asset couldn’t quite place.
“No more anything,” he said finally, eyes turning glassy as the words left his lips.
Silence stretched.
The Asset’s breathing had changed to a rhythm slightly uneven. His thoughts, usually so structured, so clean, had begun to blur at the edges.
No more anything. That meant… What did that mean?
No more pain? No more waiting? No more being here? Or eternal waiting, pain, and being here?
His fingers trembled slightly around the gun.
“I… didn’t want this,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Rumlow leaned forward just a fraction. “It doesn’t matter, buddy.”
The Asset’s head snapped up at that, confusion immediate and sharp.
“I didn’t,” he insisted, voice breaking just slightly at the edges. “I didn’t do it by choice.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
The Asset blinked.
Behind Rumlow, Rollins gave a small nod, like he’d been prompted without words.
“Yeah,” Rollins muttered. “Still your fault.”
Garrett followed with a short, almost dismissive shrug. “In Heaven, it only counts what you did or did not.”
The Asset shook his head slightly, struggling. “No. I’m not responsible.”
“Listen to me, buddy.” Rumlow’s tone shifted again to something firmer.
The Asset stilled.
“You did exactly what you were supposed to do,” Rumlow said, slower now. “You followed orders. That’s the job, and you did it. So it’s all on you.”
The words should have settled something, but instead, they made his chest feel tighter.
Because if that was true… then why did it still feel wrong?
The Asset’s breathing hitched, just barely noticeable, but it was there.
“I don’t understand,” he admitted, quieter now.
Rumlow didn’t push. He just watched him for a moment, then leaned back slightly, like he was giving him space.
“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to.”
The Asset’s composure started to slip. Not visibly, not in any way that would’ve been obvious to someone who didn’t know him, but the cracks were there. In the way his shoulders weren’t as rigid. In the way his grip on the gun shifted, uncertain now instead of controlled.
“You’re tired,” Rumlow added, almost gently. “That’s all this is.”
Tired.
The Asset frowned, a faint crease forming between his brows.
“I do not require-”
“Yeah,” Rumlow cut in, not harsh, just steady. “You do. Anyone would.”
Another quiet pause. Then, from the doorway, movement.
Sitwell stepped in, adjusting his glasses slightly, his presence more clinical than the others.
“Extraction’s been requested,” he said, voice even. “Pierce wants the Asset returned immediately.”
At the mention of Alexander Pierce, something in the Asset visibly flinched. Pierce scared him. Always had. He was the worst of them all.
“Yeah,” Rumlow said without looking away from the Asset. “We’re handling it.”
Sitwell’s gaze flicked briefly to the gun in the Asset’s hand, then back to Rumlow in a silent question.
Rumlow gave the smallest shake of his head.
Sitwell didn’t argue. He simply stepped back, folding into the background again like the others.
The Asset looked up again, his finger repositioning on the gun's trigger as he pressed it harder against his temple. His hands were shaking, he couldn’t stop it.
“If I die now,” he said, voice thinner than before, “I will not be reset.”
Rumlow’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice stayed even. “No.”
“No wipe.”
“No.”
The Asset’s breath hitched again. That should have made it easier.
It didn’t.
Because something else had taken its place.
“I will not be in heaven,” he said.
Silence.
And that silence was enough to finally crack the Asset’s fragile composure.
His shoulders dipped, just slightly. His grip on the gun faltered.
In the end of the day, it was the uncertainty of what comes after that scared him. Scared him like it scared all humans. Maybe he was human after all, even if just a bit.
“I don’t want to forget,” he said, and now there was something unmistakably fragile in his voice. “I don’t want to go into the chair.”
Rumlow didn’t move toward him. Didn’t even reach out when he saw the gun loosen in the Asset’s hand a little. He just stayed there, knowing very well that the Asset wouldn't shoot himself.
“You don’t have to,” he said softly.
It wasn’t true, and in a way, the Asset knew it.
His fingers loosened around the gun again. Tightened again. Then loosened.
“I am… tired,” he admitted finally, barely above a whisper.
Rumlow’s expression softened just a fraction more. “I know.”
A long pause.
Then, slowly, the Asset extended his hand.
The gun trembled slightly as he held it out.
For a moment, it looked like he might pull it back. Like he might change his mind, but he didn’t.
Rumlow took it without rushing.
— — —
The Asset was not built to hesitate. He executed. He completed. He reported. That was his job. There was no space in between for anything unnecessary. No room for reflection, no room for lingering. Orders came in, orders were carried out, and then there was the quiet afterward. The quiet wasn’t part of the job, but it was always there.
The Asset didn’t question it.
Which was good.
The sun sat high in the sky, glaring and bright, casting sharp shadows across the rooftop. The city below was alive with cars crawling through intersections, voices rising faintly from the streets, the distant hum of a world that kept moving no matter what happened behind closed doors.
The Asset sat at the very edge of the building, feet dangling as he swung them back and forth just enough for the heels of his boots to tap the building before he kicked them back into the air.
Thirty floors up this time.
The wind was warmer than usual, tugging lazily at his hair, brushing against his face.
He held a bottle loosely in his right hand.
Clear liquid.
The burn was weaker today. Or maybe he just didn’t notice it as much.
Mission complete.
Target eliminated.
Data secured.
Minimal collateral.
The building across the street was undamaged this time. Setting it on fire wasn’t part of his job. He had gone in, shot a few bullets into the target’s head, and walked back out. Nothing dramatic. Nothing that would draw too much attention too quickly.
The woman was 5’3", a bit chubby with short black hair and a birthmark on her left cheek.
Dead before she even could turn around and look at him.
The Asset lowered the bottle, resting his forearms against his thighs.
Waiting for extraction.
He took another drink.
Nothing. Of course.
The serum didn’t allow for intoxication. Never would.
The Asset stared straight ahead, taking in the sun on his pale skin.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. Time didn’t mean much these days.
Then he heard them.
Footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.
The rooftop door slammed open hard enough to echo.
“Status report, Asset.”
The Asset didn’t turn immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the skyline, eyes slightly narrowed against the brightness.
“Mission accomplished,” he said, voice even. “Target terminated. No pursuit detected. Hydration levels adequate. Structural fatigue minimal.”
There was a pause behind him.
“Structural fatigue minimal,” the voice repeated, flat.
The Asset blinked once. Then, slowly, he turned his head.
Commander Rumlow stood there, already looking like he regretted being here. His tactical vest slightly askew, sleeves rolled up, expression caught somewhere between annoyance and something more tired. The sunlight didn’t do him any favors. He squinted his eyes as he lifted a hand to shield them.
“Why,” Rumlow started slowly, taking in the scene of the Asset sitting once again at the edge with a bottle of whatever he had gotten his hands on this time, “are you always like this.”
The Asset processed the question. “Clarify, Commander.”
Rumlow gestured vaguely at everything. “This. The edge. The-” he pointed sharply at the bottle, “day drinking.”
The Asset glanced down at it, like he’d temporarily forgotten it existed.
“I am waiting for extraction.”
“Yeah,” Rumlow said. “You and your dramatic ass always are.”
The Asset didn’t respond.
Rumlow walked closer, boots scraping lightly against gravel, until he was standing just a step away from the edge. Close enough to reach out if needed.
“You know there’s a perfectly good building behind you, right?” he said, nodding toward the open space. “Flat. Safe. Boring.”
The Asset considered that. “This position offers optimal viewing point.”
“It offers optimal chance of you taking a dive and ruining my entire week.”
“I would survive.”
Rumlow closed his eyes briefly, having heard this far too many times before already.
“That is,” he said carefully, “not the point.”
The Asset tilted his head slightly.
The wind shifted again, carrying the city noise upward.
“You didn’t learn your lesson, huh?” Rumlow’s gaze dropped back to the bottle.
“Clarify.” The Asset looked at him.
Rumlow huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, but there was no humor in it.
“Yeah. Lesson. Like- don’t drink random crap off targets’ counters?” He explained casually.
“It was available,” the Asset replied simply.
“Of course it was,” Rumlow muttered.
He stepped forward without asking and took the bottle straight from the Asset’s hand. He put up no resistance. He never did. Rumlow sniffed it, made a face, and then took a small sip anyway.
“Jesus,” he said immediately. “This tastes like spoiled fish.”
The Asset watched him. “It is ineffective.”
“No kidding.” Rumlow handed it back, then seemed to reconsider halfway through and pulled it away again with a quiet shake of his head. “Actually, no. You’re done.”
The Asset’s hand lowered without protest.
Silence settled again as Rumlow glanced at him from the corner of his eye.
“You hurt?”
The question came out rough, like it had been forced through habit rather than concern.
The Asset shook his head once.
Rumlow studied him for a moment longer than necessary, then sighed.
“Of course you’re not,” he huffed, scrubbing a hand over his face before stepping even closer to the edge now, standing just to the side of the Asset.
“You’d think,” Rumlow muttered, mostly to himself, “after all this time, you’d pick a different waiting spot.”
The Asset didn’t understand.
Rumlow let out a quiet, humorless chuckle at that.
“Yeah,” he said. “You planning on jumping down?”
The Asset looked back out over the city.
“Why?” he asked after a moment.
Rumlow shook his head. “You better not. Quinjet’s here.”
A beat.
Then, more quietly-
“Why jump?”
“To piss me off, I dunno,” Rumlow sighed, jerking his hand towards the door and already turning towards it, expecting the Asset to follow. “C’mon, buddy.”
The Asset stood in one smooth motion, standing by the edge. Perfect balance. Perfect control. The movement was precise enough to look effortless. He glanced down softly, eyebrows furrowing just enough to suggest that he was thinking about something.
Rumlow watched him for a second. Then jerked his head toward the door again. “C’mon.”
The Asset didn’t move and only looked back down the edge. Didn’t think about the height. Didn’t think at all.
Which was good.
Rumlow exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that said he was already tired of whatever was about to happen.
“Hey,” he tried again, a little sharper this time. “I wasn’t asking.”
The Asset tilted his head a fraction, like he’d heard something far away and wasn’t sure it mattered. His gaze stayed fixed on the distant street below.
“Oh, don’t-” Rumlow pointed at him, already annoyed. “Don’t even think about it. That’s not- no! We are not doing that today!”
The Asset didn’t look at him. Didn’t blink.
A pause.
“Oh… you’re gonna jump,” Rumlow sighed in suspicion.
At that the Asset finally moved. He leaned back over the edge, facing Rumlow as his toes lifted off the ground under him.
Rumlow’s eyes widened. “Oh, you fucking-”
And then…
The Asset let himself fall.
Back first.
No hesitation.
Silence followed.
Rumlow stared at the now empty spot for a long moment, then he looked up at the sky like it had personally betrayed him.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he groaned loudly. “Always on my fucking shift.”