Rumlow pulls him closer, hand tangled in his filthy hair as he makes shushing noises next to his ear, and the soldier even dares to lean forward a little, letting the broken piece of sink drop out of his hand to hit the floor with a clunk. He wants—maybe his friend will keep touching him, keep petting his head like that. Rumlow doesn’t, but he does take the soldier’s human arm again and lead him toward the shower, which is even better.
Rumlow had gotten his own clothes off at some point—the soldier doesn’t remember when—so he is able to get right into the shower with him, positioning the soldier under the flow of water from the silver showerhead. The space is tiny once the clear glass door closes behind them, and the water on his back and neck is so hot it hurts, but it’s so nice that he doesn’t even try to shrink away from it.
His friend is so close to him, smiling, and his teeth are very white and his fingers are pressed strong against the back of the soldier’s head, and this is too nice. Nothing this nice should exist. He didn’t know anything like this could exist, not for someone like him. He is trembling, the hot water against his back cutting into him like it will overload his nerves. He feels like he will melt into a puddle.
“There,” Rumlow says. “Don’t you feel better now?”
He nods. He is safe now, so he lets his eyes close. The heat and the warm air are taking up so much of his head that he doesn’t even remember why he hadn't felt better before. He doesn’t want to remember. There is only the two of them and this tiny warm space.
Rumlow is still looking at him when he opens his eyes again. He pats the side of the soldier's head, then gives a strange little smile, his eyes distant. “Every time,” he murmurs, quietly, like he's talking to himself.
The soldier doesn’t know what he means, but it doesn’t really matter, because now his friend is touching him, hands on his wet skin. One hand cupping the soldier's chin while the other runs over a bruise on his thigh, strokes up over his hip. He even leans in and kisses the soldier on his left shoulder, on the worst part of it, brushes his lips along his scars there next to where the water is hitting them. The soldier does not know the look on his own face when Rumlow does that, but whatever is there must make his friend happy, because when he pulls back to look at him he’s grinning even more. His face is wet now: the soldier watches through the steam as little droplets of it run down his jaw.
He keeps touching, and the soldier lets himself drift again. Rumlow has a washcloth, covered with that liquid soap people use now, and he starts washing the last of the blood and muck off the soldier’s face, his neck, running the washcloth down the rest of his body, and it’s so nice he wants to cry. The cold that’s always there, always down to his bones no matter how long he has been out of cryo, has receded to a faint background numbness. When Rumlow reaches past him and shuts off the water, he can’t help the little hiss that comes out of his mouth at the sudden lack of warmth.
Luckily, his friend ignores it. He steps out of the shower and then hands the soldier a towel, allows him to dry himself down and to wrap the towel around himself, and then they’re back out in the cooler air of the bedroom. Rumlow puts on some of his own clothes, and then leads the soldier back out down the hallway, this time with an arm around his shoulder. His fingertips where they touch the scars on the soldier's shoulder are rough, and colder now than the hot skin there.
The leading him doesn’t seem so strange now. Rumlow doesn’t believe that the soldier is hurt—he is just helping him. The soldier doesn’t know what he’d been so upset about before. His friend is extremely nice to him.
The other man is still there, sitting on one of the high stools that are set behind the very clean countertop in the kitchen. There’s an open bottle of brownish alcohol in front of him, and a mostly empty glass. He looks up, glances between them, and then rolls his eyes.
“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow says, even though the other man hadn’t said anything.
The man takes a gulp from his glass and raises his eyebrows. “Got your usual plans, then?”
“None of your fucking business,” Rumlow says. He reaches across the shiny countertop to grab the bottle.
“I’m in your fucking house, it’s my business.”
Rumlow doesn’t answer. He holds up the bottle and looks at the soldier, who nods, and Rumlow gets two more glasses from one of the cupboards.
The drink has no effect on him, of course, but the taste is familiar in a way he doesn’t understand, a way that’s completely unconnected to any memories—it feels like the kind of thing he would drink if he had not killed anybody, although of course the men here with him are also drinking it, and they have killed people. The surface of the glass is cold against his human fingers, but the drink feels warm going down his throat, in his belly. He swallows all of it, and his friend pours him another. The other man reaches over to grab the bottle back, refills his own glass again.
“Hey,” Rumlow says. “That shit’s expensive.”
“Then why the fuck are you wasting it on him? ‘Sides, it’s my fucking compensation for tonight.” The man’s voice is a little louder than it should be. Despite his size, despite the fact that they could not have spent that long in the shower away from him, he seems to be slightly drunk already.
Rumlow doesn’t answer him. He takes the bottle back and pours the soldier a third drink.
The other man looks up at the soldier then, eyes running over him, staying for a long moment on his metal arm. The soldier doesn’t flinch, and the man puts his glass down, and pauses a second, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and burping softly. Then he looks back at Rumlow. “It’s fucking sick, man, what you make him do.”
The soldier feels his hand grip down on his own glass. He is not sure why. But he is feeling better now, and the glass doesn’t break. Nothing breaks.
Next to him, Rumlow smiles, even though the other man is not smiling, and doesn’t seem to be joking at all. “I’m not gonna make him do anything,” he says.
The other man looks at him, then looks at the soldier, and then reaches for the bottle again.
FILL: "not that bad" gaslighting (4/?)
Rumlow had gotten his own clothes off at some point—the soldier doesn’t remember when—so he is able to get right into the shower with him, positioning the soldier under the flow of water from the silver showerhead. The space is tiny once the clear glass door closes behind them, and the water on his back and neck is so hot it hurts, but it’s so nice that he doesn’t even try to shrink away from it.
His friend is so close to him, smiling, and his teeth are very white and his fingers are pressed strong against the back of the soldier’s head, and this is too nice. Nothing this nice should exist. He didn’t know anything like this could exist, not for someone like him. He is trembling, the hot water against his back cutting into him like it will overload his nerves. He feels like he will melt into a puddle.
“There,” Rumlow says. “Don’t you feel better now?”
He nods. He is safe now, so he lets his eyes close. The heat and the warm air are taking up so much of his head that he doesn’t even remember why he hadn't felt better before. He doesn’t want to remember. There is only the two of them and this tiny warm space.
Rumlow is still looking at him when he opens his eyes again. He pats the side of the soldier's head, then gives a strange little smile, his eyes distant. “Every time,” he murmurs, quietly, like he's talking to himself.
The soldier doesn’t know what he means, but it doesn’t really matter, because now his friend is touching him, hands on his wet skin. One hand cupping the soldier's chin while the other runs over a bruise on his thigh, strokes up over his hip. He even leans in and kisses the soldier on his left shoulder, on the worst part of it, brushes his lips along his scars there next to where the water is hitting them. The soldier does not know the look on his own face when Rumlow does that, but whatever is there must make his friend happy, because when he pulls back to look at him he’s grinning even more. His face is wet now: the soldier watches through the steam as little droplets of it run down his jaw.
He keeps touching, and the soldier lets himself drift again. Rumlow has a washcloth, covered with that liquid soap people use now, and he starts washing the last of the blood and muck off the soldier’s face, his neck, running the washcloth down the rest of his body, and it’s so nice he wants to cry. The cold that’s always there, always down to his bones no matter how long he has been out of cryo, has receded to a faint background numbness. When Rumlow reaches past him and shuts off the water, he can’t help the little hiss that comes out of his mouth at the sudden lack of warmth.
Luckily, his friend ignores it. He steps out of the shower and then hands the soldier a towel, allows him to dry himself down and to wrap the towel around himself, and then they’re back out in the cooler air of the bedroom. Rumlow puts on some of his own clothes, and then leads the soldier back out down the hallway, this time with an arm around his shoulder. His fingertips where they touch the scars on the soldier's shoulder are rough, and colder now than the hot skin there.
The leading him doesn’t seem so strange now. Rumlow doesn’t believe that the soldier is hurt—he is just helping him. The soldier doesn’t know what he’d been so upset about before. His friend is extremely nice to him.
The other man is still there, sitting on one of the high stools that are set behind the very clean countertop in the kitchen. There’s an open bottle of brownish alcohol in front of him, and a mostly empty glass. He looks up, glances between them, and then rolls his eyes.
“Shut the fuck up,” Rumlow says, even though the other man hadn’t said anything.
The man takes a gulp from his glass and raises his eyebrows. “Got your usual plans, then?”
“None of your fucking business,” Rumlow says. He reaches across the shiny countertop to grab the bottle.
“I’m in your fucking house, it’s my business.”
Rumlow doesn’t answer. He holds up the bottle and looks at the soldier, who nods, and Rumlow gets two more glasses from one of the cupboards.
The drink has no effect on him, of course, but the taste is familiar in a way he doesn’t understand, a way that’s completely unconnected to any memories—it feels like the kind of thing he would drink if he had not killed anybody, although of course the men here with him are also drinking it, and they have killed people. The surface of the glass is cold against his human fingers, but the drink feels warm going down his throat, in his belly. He swallows all of it, and his friend pours him another. The other man reaches over to grab the bottle back, refills his own glass again.
“Hey,” Rumlow says. “That shit’s expensive.”
“Then why the fuck are you wasting it on him? ‘Sides, it’s my fucking compensation for tonight.” The man’s voice is a little louder than it should be. Despite his size, despite the fact that they could not have spent that long in the shower away from him, he seems to be slightly drunk already.
Rumlow doesn’t answer him. He takes the bottle back and pours the soldier a third drink.
The other man looks up at the soldier then, eyes running over him, staying for a long moment on his metal arm. The soldier doesn’t flinch, and the man puts his glass down, and pauses a second, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and burping softly. Then he looks back at Rumlow. “It’s fucking sick, man, what you make him do.”
The soldier feels his hand grip down on his own glass. He is not sure why. But he is feeling better now, and the glass doesn’t break. Nothing breaks.
Next to him, Rumlow smiles, even though the other man is not smiling, and doesn’t seem to be joking at all. “I’m not gonna make him do anything,” he says.
The other man looks at him, then looks at the soldier, and then reaches for the bottle again.