Chapter Text
Period of Operation: 2011-2012
December 13, 2011
Rollins lets out a heavy sigh. In the time Brock had been in the convenience store (taking a piss, supposedly) he had filled the tank and squee-geed the windshield and wasted another five minutes in the car waiting for his ass. He adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see the Soldier in the back seat without craning his neck. The Soldier looked up immediately.
“How ya doin' back there?”
The Soldier looked lost. “I'm not doing anything.”
Rollins rolled his eyes. “I swear to God, between the two of you...”
Rumlow came out the front door of the Cum-n-Go and hopped in the backseat.
“What?” Rollins said into the rear-view mirror. “You're riding in the back? What is this – a fuckin' taxi?”
“I can sit wherever I want! Why, are you afraid you'll get lonely?”
“Whatever, Christ...” Rollins started the engine and pulled out onto the highway, listening to the sounds of chip bags crumpling and candy wrappers being torn open. There was definitely more than one mouth chewing food back there.
“Brock – you're not giving him any of that shit, are you?” Commander or not, Rumlow was usually the one that needed to be reminded what the rules were, on any mission.
“The guy's been busting his ass the last two days. Don't you think he deserves some Funions and a Snickers?”
Rollins took a glance in the mirror and sure enough, the Soldier was chewing and staring back with a guilty look on his face. “You know he's not supposed to have that! He hasn't had regular food in him for the last fifty years!”
“Hey,” Brock started, leaning forward, “let's not forget who the alpha-dog in this Lincoln is. And it's not like this is the first Snickers bar the man's ever had. Isn't that right, doll face?”
“It's not the first Snickers bar I've ever had.”
“See, and he even remembers.”
“Look, I don't care who the alpha-dog of this Lincoln Town Car is, if he shits or pukes all over the backseat I'm not the one cleaning it.”
“Relax. I'm surprised you're even able to drive with that giant stick up your ass.”
See, this was the problem. Although the guidelines and restrictions for use of the asset were clear, no one except Brock was stupid enough to venture outside of them. And then Jack had to lie and cover for Brock during debriefing and listen to him pull the “who's the boss” card every time Jack suggested that they think twice about rough-housing with him, taking him to a bar, teaching him dirty words, or sitting him down in front of a horror movie. Now they're adding candy to the bill.
It was twilight and Jack could barely make him out when he took another glance in the mirror to see how well the Soldier was taking the candy thing. Jack wouldn't be surprised if he didn't want the candy (no one loved rules more than that fucker did) but was eating it only because his Commander was telling him to. He watched the Soldier open wide and turn to Brock, who then used two fingers to put something in his mouth, all the way inside his mouth, then use the same hand to close it and give him a loving good-boy pat on the cheek.
Needless to say, Jack absolutely could not believe what he was seeing. He kept glancing in the mirror to see if it would happen again. The Soldier swallowed, and then opened his mouth again, ready to be fed. This time Brock teased him with the bite, forcing him to chase it with his mouth before letting the Soldier grab his wrist and take it. Brock's fingers disappeared inside the Soldier's mouth as he sucked the candy from between them, and apparently this was just fine and dandy because he got a scratch on the head for it.
“Jesus Christ, Brock! What's going on back there? Wha - are you feeding him? Like, by hand?”
“Yeah, so?”
Jack could not believe he was being asked to explain why that was fucking weird. “Can't he feed himself?”
“You're the one having a hissy fit about messes in the car so I thought I would give him a hand.”
“Whatever, bro. Just, maybe you should look into getting a dog or a cat or something...”
“Hey, fuck you, asshole!” That wasn't Brock's fucking-around voice. That was his ready to-to-start-a-fight-even-with-the-person-driving-the-car-he's-sitting-in voice. “Maybe if you keep your eyes on the road instead of the rear-view mirror we might get to the lab without dying in a fucking car crash first!”
Jack knew better than to respond. He did as directed even though every eating/wrapper sound coming from the backseat gave him the heebie-jeebies.
When a steady stream of crunches started issuing from behind his ear, Jack stole another quick glance in the mirror. The Soldier was sitting there, straight as a board, munching slowly on a bag of Funions. Brock was next to him, staring at him, his wrist laying on the asset's shoulder as he ran his fingers through his hair and over his neck and the shell of his ear.
What... the fuck.
Period of Operation: 2012-2013
Jack loved hearing spooky gossip about the Winter Soldier. Romanov claimed he shot her and she was right. Other people claimed to have seen him on deep cover assignments and Jack knew that was all bullshit. No one knew Hydra was still a thing, so people had cooked up theories about him working for everything from the Soviets (true) to the North Koreans (false) to Donald Trump (true) and the Illuminati (that shit didn't even exist). Other hilarious theories were abound as to why he was called the Winter Soldier. Some people with half a brain had already worked out that he must go in and out of cryo, but most people attributed it to his icy, ruthless techniques. These people had never seen him snacking on a bag of Funions or dealt with him pissing himself because he was too scared to ask to go to a bathroom.
The real reason he was called the Winter Soldier was simply and boringly because he was operational during the months of October through January. Sometime in October Jack and Brock would start being called in by Pierce to discuss missions handling the Soldier. Brock volunteered for every god damned one of them.
On Saturday they were setting up a cancer researcher by bloodying his house and tossing a dead rent boy in his bed. Jack could handle political assassinations but this shit made him sick. Pierce only needed one handler and Jack was glad when Brock jumped on it - especially after Pierce informed them that it would be an overnight thing and someone would have to stay in a hotel with the Soldier. Even Pierce seemed alarmed by Brock's enthusiasm.
After the cancer researcher business, the asset had another assignment taking care of some economics professor in Rio de Janeiro. Jack couldn't see why a college teacher would be so important but Pierce wasn't above sending his Soldier to murder someone just because he'd gotten into an argument with them at a cocktail party.
It was going to be about five days on assignment. Brock could barely sit still he was so eager.
“Okay,” Pierce answered, ready to sign Brock up in his terrorism log, then stopped. “Actually that's not going to work. Captain Rogers,” Pierce raised his eyebrows and sighed, “has requested that you instruct a hand-to-hand Strike training on the fourteenth. He's apparently quite impressed with your skill. He especially likes your creative use of the stun baton. I've promised you would be happy to oblige.”
Brock looked like a kid who had been told that Christmas was canceled. “A fucking training? Are you kidding me?”
Pierce gave Brock the look and Brock settled himself. “Yes, Sir.”
“So, Rollins, the assignment goes to you. Don't forget your sunscreen!”
Brock shot him a venomous look and then refused to speak to him for the duration of the Soldier's operational period. Brock and Jack weren't offered any more handling assignments that year since they were all large-scale operations in the Middle East and Pierce liked to send his non-Strike disposable handlers for those.
Jack didn't care. He was just glad to get through the holiday season without having to spend three-and-a-half days in the Lincoln with Chester the Molester and Fifi.