Unbetaed, any mistakes are mine because no one else was involved. :) Also, I can't think of a title, so if anyone has ideas, let me know.
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Thank God that debrief was over. Rumlow cracked his neck as he walked down the hall of the Colorado base, on his way out to find something to eat that wasn't goddamn MREs. After a three-week mission that had turned into six, he never wanted to choke down a veggie omelet again. He wanted a burger, and he wanted it two hours ago. It was a ten-mile drive down a twisting mountain road to the nearest town, but he'd make it in five minutes to hit the diner that made the best onion rings that had ever existed. His mouth was watering. A burger, onion rings, a beer or five...
Fuck. He felt in his pockets. He’d left his wallet in his locker before the mission, and now it was eight floors down and halfway across the complex. Rumlow quietly swore again and reversed direction, ignoring the lesser Hydra agents who jumped to attention apprehensively as he strode to the elevator and glared at the tech until she ducked out and let him have it to himself.
It wasn't in his locker. Fuck. Had he brought it on the mission? He must have. Had he put it in the rifle bag? The armory was up on two, and there were few things Rumlow hated more than having to retrace his steps. Fuuuuuck. His fingers itched to punch something as he paced back to the elevator and pushed the button harder than he probably should have.
The armory was at the back end of the building, but the wallet was in the bag, right where he’d left it. Goddamn, if he’d known it was there he could have used it to buy vodka, or something to eat other than goddamn MREs. He put up with the smirk on the agent who'd been stuck putting away everyone else's gear, and made a mental note to have the man reassigned to bathroom duty or something equally revolting. No one looked at the STRIKE team leader like that. Rumlow had run too many ops and kissed way too much ass to get where he was, and the fact that he was still alive and still in charge meant that no one got to judge him.
Rumlow hit the button for the elevator. The garage was in the bottom of the complex, at the base of the mountain. Cars could come and go without raising suspicion, though probably even the most conspiracy-minded wouldn’t suspect there was a secret thirty-level base hollowed out of the mountain.
STRIKE leader or no, it didn’t make the elevator come any faster. He hit the button again, and waited. And again. And again, his ire growing each time until he smashed it so hard it stuck. The button gave out a mournful beep and the light slowly went out.
“Goddammit,” Rumlow ripped out, and ignored whatever looks he was getting. He’d take the motherfucking stairs, Jesus, today was going to kill him.
Going down the stairs three at a time took the edge off his anger. He could almost taste those onion rings. Level nine, level thirteen, level twenty, level what-the-fuck?
The stairwell door on twenty-five was propped open with a shoe. It wouldn’t have been a big deal upstairs; people ran up and down a few flights all the time, just to avoid those fucking elevators. But twenty-five was closed, waiting until they needed to expand further down. Anyone on this floor was doing something they didn’t want HYDRA to know about. And if HYDRA didn’t know, Rumlow needed to find out.
The floors down here were concrete, the walls unpainted cinderblock. Some joker had scrawled a HYDRA octopus in spray paint under a weak emergency light. Hilarious. Rumlow walked carefully down the hall, on high alert for whoever was operating down here.
He was two-thirds to the other side of the complex when he heard grunting. Rumlow froze, ascertained the direction, and crept towards the noise. Around the next corner was an open door, dim light beaming onto the floor. The grunting grew louder, interspersed with groans and words he couldn’t make out. Rumlow rounded the corner and froze.
What. The fuck.
The chair in the center of the room was occupied and humming, a familiar tangle of dark hair visible from behind. On top of the asset was Coburn, grunting at each thrust, his hands clamped tight to the asset’s arms. He looked up in alarm. Rumlow didn’t even have to think; he strode in and pulled his sidearm. “You were warned,” he said, and shot Coburn in the head.
Coburn’s body jerked and crashed to the floor, face obliterated. Rumlow sighed. “Hands off the asset,” he said to the corpse. “You fuck him, it fucks up his programming, and he’s more valuable than you are. I told you that.”
Rumlow had had his eye on Coburn for STRIKE, once upon a time, until he’d caught Coburn about to feed cock to the asset, and realized that anyone that dumb would get half the STRIKE team killed on his first mission. Coburn was stupider than Westfahl, and that was saying something. But at least Westfahl could be trusted to follow orders.
Who had even let Coburn get near the asset, much less take him away? The asset was naked, no clothes to be seen, so Coburn must have snatched him right before he was scheduled to be hosed down, and that was probably Westfahl. If Westfahl wasn’t so good in hand-to-hand, Rumlow would shoot him in the face too.
Fuck. Rumlow rubbed his temples. The first order of business was to get this cleaned up. Pierce might understand, but Rumlow didn’t want to test that. Idiot or not, Coburn had his place in HYDRA, and Rumlow had no idea what projects he might have been involved in. If Rumlow had fucked up something Pierce was running, he’d probably be right beside Coburn with his own brains blown out. No, he needed to deal with this on his own, and quietly. Maybe Coburn had run off. Rumlow could make that story work.
Not without help, though. Fuck. Rumlow tapped the comm at his ear and set it to STRIKE’s private channel. “Rollins. Get down to twenty-five.”
Murphy’s voice came back through the comm. “Need something, sir?”
“Murphy,” said Rumlow, as patiently as he knew how. “If I needed you, I would have said your name. I want Rollins. Now.” He’d deal with Westfahl later.
“On my way,” came Rollins’ terse voice. Rumlow shut off the comm and looked at the asset, who was staring at the ceiling. Blood, brains, and bits of skull were splashed across his face and chest. He didn’t seem to notice. There were times Rumlow envied that detachment, and now was one of them.
“Who else knows you’re here?” he asked. The asset’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the ceiling. “Answer the question, soldier.”
“No one.” It almost sounded like a question. The asset’s voice was lighter than it was in the field.
“You sure about that?” There were only so many people Rumlow could disappear before it started looking suspicious, but the asset gave a tiny nod. Fine. Rollins would clean up the blood, they’d get the asset back to his cell, and once the body was safely disposed of, no one would know.
“Christ, you’re a mess,” Rumlow said to the asset, who didn’t reply. First thing was to get him up and scrubbed down. Rumlow looked around for the controls. This chair was an old one from the seventies, tan vinyl over steel, solid in a way carbon fiber never seemed to be. It didn’t tilt or move like the newer ones; it was a brick of a thing, back inclined at a 135 degree angle and armrests solid blocks to the side. The clamps were thicker too, and there were more of them-- head, neck, upper arms, forearms, chest, waist, thighs, Jesus, where wasn’t he cuffed? They must have needed it back then. His legs were separated, locked to the edges of the chair just far enough that Coburn had managed to worm his way in between them. His dick had left a slime trail across the asset’s thigh when he fell to the side.
There was the computer, state-of-the-art circa 1980 or so. Its green prompt blinked at him from a twelve-inch monitor that must have been huge back in the day. Of course, back in the day was before Rumlow’s balls had dropped, so he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do with this thing.
Coburn had obviously powered the chair up enough to get the clamps to close, but the halo pieces were still separate, one at each corner of the wide headrest. The humming was going to drive Rumlow bugfuck nuts in exactly three-point-seven seconds if he didn’t get this dealt with. He shot a look at the asset, but the soldier kept his eyes straight front as if he didn’t know Rumlow was there.
And then they flicked. Just once, over to the side and back.
“Where are you, chief?” came Rollins’ voice down the echoing hallway.
“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow hissed. “Get in here.”
Rollins came in and took in the whole situation at a glance. “Shit.”
“You’re goddamn right,” Rumlow said. “We gotta get him cleaned up and get this asshole thrown in a ditch before anyone notices. What do you know about this old computer?”
Rollins frowned. “Boss, why would you think I know anything about old computers?”
“Because you’re second in command and it’s your job to know the shit I don’t,” said Rumlow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Don’t tell me that.”
Rollins looked at the screen, poked a few keys, and shrugged. Rumlow ground his teeth. “Then who does know?”
“Maybe Murphy?” Rollins hazarded. “He knows all kinds of worthless shit.”
“Fine. Someone’s got to clean the asset up anyway.” Rumlow sure as hell wasn’t going to scrub him down and wipe his ass for him. He tapped his comm. “Murphy, down on twenty-five.”
“On my way, sir!” Murphy sounded entirely too cheery. Rumlow wanted to curse him on general principles.
“So.” Rollins stood back and surveyed the body. “He was…”
“Sticking his dick where he shouldn’t.”
“You think he was planning on wiping him afterwards?”
“Probably. Coburn was always an idiot.”
“An idiot who at least knew how to work the computer,” Rollins pointed out. Rumlow glared at him, then at the asset. The universe was just fucking with him now.
Re: trash aftercare FILL 1/2
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Thank God that debrief was over. Rumlow cracked his neck as he walked down the hall of the Colorado base, on his way out to find something to eat that wasn't goddamn MREs. After a three-week mission that had turned into six, he never wanted to choke down a veggie omelet again. He wanted a burger, and he wanted it two hours ago. It was a ten-mile drive down a twisting mountain road to the nearest town, but he'd make it in five minutes to hit the diner that made the best onion rings that had ever existed. His mouth was watering. A burger, onion rings, a beer or five...
Fuck. He felt in his pockets. He’d left his wallet in his locker before the mission, and now it was eight floors down and halfway across the complex. Rumlow quietly swore again and reversed direction, ignoring the lesser Hydra agents who jumped to attention apprehensively as he strode to the elevator and glared at the tech until she ducked out and let him have it to himself.
It wasn't in his locker. Fuck. Had he brought it on the mission? He must have. Had he put it in the rifle bag? The armory was up on two, and there were few things Rumlow hated more than having to retrace his steps. Fuuuuuck. His fingers itched to punch something as he paced back to the elevator and pushed the button harder than he probably should have.
The armory was at the back end of the building, but the wallet was in the bag, right where he’d left it. Goddamn, if he’d known it was there he could have used it to buy vodka, or something to eat other than goddamn MREs. He put up with the smirk on the agent who'd been stuck putting away everyone else's gear, and made a mental note to have the man reassigned to bathroom duty or something equally revolting. No one looked at the STRIKE team leader like that. Rumlow had run too many ops and kissed way too much ass to get where he was, and the fact that he was still alive and still in charge meant that no one got to judge him.
Rumlow hit the button for the elevator. The garage was in the bottom of the complex, at the base of the mountain. Cars could come and go without raising suspicion, though probably even the most conspiracy-minded wouldn’t suspect there was a secret thirty-level base hollowed out of the mountain.
STRIKE leader or no, it didn’t make the elevator come any faster. He hit the button again, and waited. And again. And again, his ire growing each time until he smashed it so hard it stuck. The button gave out a mournful beep and the light slowly went out.
“Goddammit,” Rumlow ripped out, and ignored whatever looks he was getting. He’d take the motherfucking stairs, Jesus, today was going to kill him.
Going down the stairs three at a time took the edge off his anger. He could almost taste those onion rings. Level nine, level thirteen, level twenty, level what-the-fuck?
The stairwell door on twenty-five was propped open with a shoe. It wouldn’t have been a big deal upstairs; people ran up and down a few flights all the time, just to avoid those fucking elevators. But twenty-five was closed, waiting until they needed to expand further down. Anyone on this floor was doing something they didn’t want HYDRA to know about. And if HYDRA didn’t know, Rumlow needed to find out.
The floors down here were concrete, the walls unpainted cinderblock. Some joker had scrawled a HYDRA octopus in spray paint under a weak emergency light. Hilarious. Rumlow walked carefully down the hall, on high alert for whoever was operating down here.
He was two-thirds to the other side of the complex when he heard grunting. Rumlow froze, ascertained the direction, and crept towards the noise. Around the next corner was an open door, dim light beaming onto the floor. The grunting grew louder, interspersed with groans and words he couldn’t make out. Rumlow rounded the corner and froze.
What. The fuck.
The chair in the center of the room was occupied and humming, a familiar tangle of dark hair visible from behind. On top of the asset was Coburn, grunting at each thrust, his hands clamped tight to the asset’s arms. He looked up in alarm. Rumlow didn’t even have to think; he strode in and pulled his sidearm. “You were warned,” he said, and shot Coburn in the head.
Coburn’s body jerked and crashed to the floor, face obliterated. Rumlow sighed. “Hands off the asset,” he said to the corpse. “You fuck him, it fucks up his programming, and he’s more valuable than you are. I told you that.”
Rumlow had had his eye on Coburn for STRIKE, once upon a time, until he’d caught Coburn about to feed cock to the asset, and realized that anyone that dumb would get half the STRIKE team killed on his first mission. Coburn was stupider than Westfahl, and that was saying something. But at least Westfahl could be trusted to follow orders.
Who had even let Coburn get near the asset, much less take him away? The asset was naked, no clothes to be seen, so Coburn must have snatched him right before he was scheduled to be hosed down, and that was probably Westfahl. If Westfahl wasn’t so good in hand-to-hand, Rumlow would shoot him in the face too.
Fuck. Rumlow rubbed his temples. The first order of business was to get this cleaned up. Pierce might understand, but Rumlow didn’t want to test that. Idiot or not, Coburn had his place in HYDRA, and Rumlow had no idea what projects he might have been involved in. If Rumlow had fucked up something Pierce was running, he’d probably be right beside Coburn with his own brains blown out. No, he needed to deal with this on his own, and quietly. Maybe Coburn had run off. Rumlow could make that story work.
Not without help, though. Fuck. Rumlow tapped the comm at his ear and set it to STRIKE’s private channel. “Rollins. Get down to twenty-five.”
Murphy’s voice came back through the comm. “Need something, sir?”
“Murphy,” said Rumlow, as patiently as he knew how. “If I needed you, I would have said your name. I want Rollins. Now.” He’d deal with Westfahl later.
“On my way,” came Rollins’ terse voice. Rumlow shut off the comm and looked at the asset, who was staring at the ceiling. Blood, brains, and bits of skull were splashed across his face and chest. He didn’t seem to notice. There were times Rumlow envied that detachment, and now was one of them.
“Who else knows you’re here?” he asked. The asset’s eyes flicked to him, then back to the ceiling. “Answer the question, soldier.”
“No one.” It almost sounded like a question. The asset’s voice was lighter than it was in the field.
“You sure about that?” There were only so many people Rumlow could disappear before it started looking suspicious, but the asset gave a tiny nod. Fine. Rollins would clean up the blood, they’d get the asset back to his cell, and once the body was safely disposed of, no one would know.
“Christ, you’re a mess,” Rumlow said to the asset, who didn’t reply. First thing was to get him up and scrubbed down. Rumlow looked around for the controls. This chair was an old one from the seventies, tan vinyl over steel, solid in a way carbon fiber never seemed to be. It didn’t tilt or move like the newer ones; it was a brick of a thing, back inclined at a 135 degree angle and armrests solid blocks to the side. The clamps were thicker too, and there were more of them-- head, neck, upper arms, forearms, chest, waist, thighs, Jesus, where wasn’t he cuffed? They must have needed it back then. His legs were separated, locked to the edges of the chair just far enough that Coburn had managed to worm his way in between them. His dick had left a slime trail across the asset’s thigh when he fell to the side.
There was the computer, state-of-the-art circa 1980 or so. Its green prompt blinked at him from a twelve-inch monitor that must have been huge back in the day. Of course, back in the day was before Rumlow’s balls had dropped, so he had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do with this thing.
Coburn had obviously powered the chair up enough to get the clamps to close, but the halo pieces were still separate, one at each corner of the wide headrest. The humming was going to drive Rumlow bugfuck nuts in exactly three-point-seven seconds if he didn’t get this dealt with. He shot a look at the asset, but the soldier kept his eyes straight front as if he didn’t know Rumlow was there.
And then they flicked. Just once, over to the side and back.
“Where are you, chief?” came Rollins’ voice down the echoing hallway.
“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow hissed. “Get in here.”
Rollins came in and took in the whole situation at a glance. “Shit.”
“You’re goddamn right,” Rumlow said. “We gotta get him cleaned up and get this asshole thrown in a ditch before anyone notices. What do you know about this old computer?”
Rollins frowned. “Boss, why would you think I know anything about old computers?”
“Because you’re second in command and it’s your job to know the shit I don’t,” said Rumlow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. Don’t tell me that.”
Rollins looked at the screen, poked a few keys, and shrugged. Rumlow ground his teeth. “Then who does know?”
“Maybe Murphy?” Rollins hazarded. “He knows all kinds of worthless shit.”
“Fine. Someone’s got to clean the asset up anyway.” Rumlow sure as hell wasn’t going to scrub him down and wipe his ass for him. He tapped his comm. “Murphy, down on twenty-five.”
“On my way, sir!” Murphy sounded entirely too cheery. Rumlow wanted to curse him on general principles.
“So.” Rollins stood back and surveyed the body. “He was…”
“Sticking his dick where he shouldn’t.”
“You think he was planning on wiping him afterwards?”
“Probably. Coburn was always an idiot.”
“An idiot who at least knew how to work the computer,” Rollins pointed out. Rumlow glared at him, then at the asset. The universe was just fucking with him now.