Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

[trashmod]

Okay, kids, you know the drill. Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because hydratrashmeme is about as far from a safe space as you can get. Garbage we like: noncon, whump, aftermath, violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves. Garbage you should find a different trashcan for: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, OOC evil!good guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves, rotting leftovers dressed up as a romantic gourmet meal. Nothing wrong with 'em, but this isn't the crowd you should be pitching to if you're trying to sell Brock Rumlow as anything but a human dumpster fire.

Link your fills on the fill post, post unprompted fills as replies to a header comment so the wall o' text is collapsible, and let me know if you're interested in helping out with the Pinboard archive.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by greenkirtle)] [Round 4 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

All prompts or fills that contain Infinity War spoilers must go on the Infinity War spoiler post until May 26th. Spoilers in the main dumpsters will be deleted.

Round 4 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 5.

Comments

Fill: Lake of Fire [1/4]

[(Anonymous)]

Workplaces would be a lot more peaceful if there was some kind of social manual.

On their first day, every new hire would be handed a booklet titled How We Do Things Here, and written inside would be something like, Do not try to talk to Jenkins unless she’s had her third coffee, or, Smith doesn’t like being interrupted while he’s on the phone, but apart from that he’ll be really angry if you pass by his office without saying ‘good morning’, or, Marcus from IT is 2000 % more likely to solve your problem if you motivate him with a packet of that disgusting bubble gum from the vending machine in the basement (the green one, the red one will also do if green’s out, but never the blue one). Or, most importantly, Whatever Rumlow and Rollins do, don’t comment on it. I don’t care how funny it is that Rumlow drinks hot chocolate instead of coffee, or that Rollins has a cute little stuffed bunny on his desk, or that they act like love-struck teenage boys around each other – You. Do Not. Mention it. Because if you do, congrats, you just turned the two most sadistic assholes in this hellfire of a secret government agency against you, and all you can do right now is pray for a quick death.

If a manual like this existed, poor Jones wouldn’t be stuck in his current situation, which was sedated and gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. He wasn’t scared though. Or, at least not really. It was still his first month on the STRIKE team, and who knew what kind of weird greeting ritual new members had to go through. He hadn’t put two and two together yet, hadn’t drawn the line from his current situation back to the incident in the elevator a few days ago, where Rollins had pressed a quick kiss to Rumlow’s cheek (Jones had noticed this kind of childish, flirty behavior before, sometimes the commander and his second-in-command were holding hands or calling each other darling and shit), and Jones had casually said, “So, when’s the wedding?”. He’d just wanted to be funny, really, to make a quick joke for team bonding and stuff, these two wouldn’t show affection so openly if they didn’t want anyone to comment on it – but no one had laughed. The other agents had held their breath (or at least it had seemed like that), and Rumlow and Rollins had exchanged looks he couldn’t read. Well, that was awkward, he’d thought, being The New Guy On The Team and telling a joke no one finds funny, but shit happens, and by the next day, he’d already forgotten about it.

Jones was relieved when Rumlow showed up in full tactical gear. So this was some kind of weird STRIKE team greeting ritual or a test, not just some random psychopath kidnapping him in the middle of the --- day? Night? He wasn’t able to figure out what he’d last done before he’d been sedated. He didn’t remember going to sleep, and the light that came through dirty warehouse windows as well as the temperature and humidity indicated that it was probably late afternoon. So it might have happened at work. He hoped that this at least counted as overtime.

Rumlow walked up to him, removed the gag from his mouth and asked, “They still teach torture resistance at the Academy?”

Jones gasped for air, and it took him a while to process the question. Pull yourself together, Aaron, he said to himself. Answer your commander.

“Yes, Sir, they do, but it’s not mandatory.”

“And did you attend?”

“No, Sir, I chose advanced camouflage training instead, but I already applied for further traini---“

“Shut up.”

Rumlow slapped him so hard that he almost tipped over with his chair, more affected by the surprise than by the pain. Okay, his commander had slapped him in the face. Worse things had happened.

“Yeah, I know all that bullshit these days. Today it’s all about breaking people without leaving traces. Just put them in isolation for a few days, shine some flashlights into their perfectly unharmed faces, and they’ll talk. Sure, it works, less legal trouble because you can’t prove that shit – but where’s the fun in that?”

Rumlow grinned, and Jones changed his mind – maybe being kidnapped by some random psychopath was better.

“There are people who believe that they were born in the wrong time period”, Rumlow continued. “Like, some hippie chicks think they’d have the time of their lives if it was the 1960s. And some people wish they’d been working when the old-school methods were still the way to go. Like Jack.”

Cue Jack Rollins entering the warehouse, also in tactical gear, a giant box in his hands. Without saying a word, he emptied it on the only table in the room, and Jones could see guns, knives, pliers, ropes, cable ties, a saw and many other things he would prefer not to be linked to the words torture resistance training.

Rumlow walked over to Rollins and kissed him, hands on his hips, like in the cheesiest romance movie Jones had ever seen. It surely was kind of weird to see the commander and his second making out in front of him – Jones didn’t know if he could ever take these two seriously again, especially in the field –, but hey, maybe that was part of the test. Or maybe they just liked having an audience when they got busy, who knew. Jones would keep his mouth shut as long as he wasn’t asked, because he was a good aspiring agent, and he would prove it, whatever that meant under those weird circumstances.

Suddenly Rollins pulled back and looked at Jones like he was ready to kill him. Uh-oh. Jones looked away.

“Hey, babe”, Rumlow said softly, stroking Rollins’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s staring.”

“Then gouge his eyes out.” Rumlow’s voice sounded so sweet as if he’d just confessed his undying love.

Rollins looked at him for a moment, then he grabbed a pocket knife from the table, flipped it open and walked over to Jones. Jones tensed up, but he told himself to remain calm. This was still an elaborate prank or something. A test. Later they’d untie him, pat him on the back and say something like, Congrats kid, now you’re one of us.

Rollins and his knife were dangerously close to his eyeball though, and that made him fucking nervous. Finally, Rollins put down the knife, and Jones took a deep breath. See? Not that bad.

“If he has no eyes, where am I supposed to see all the dread and agony?”, Rollins said.

Jones knew that this was just a morbid joke, but Rollins made it sound so serious that he felt a sudden lump in his throat.

Meanwhile, Rumlow had been shoving a worn-out armchair from a corner to the middle of the warehouse, so he would face Jones if he sat down, and then he went over to the table while Rollins was still staring at him with a knife in his hand.

“Ever listened to K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the 70’s?”, he asked while he put a mixtape into an old cassette player that was almost hidden behind the pile of things Rollins had brought along.

Jones swallowed thickly. There was something like malicious anticipation in their eyes – and he suddenly had a very bad feeling about all this.

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