Chapter Text
Rumlow catches up with him outdoors, in a trash-strewn patch of woods near a railroad line. The soldier has obtained clothes from somewhere, and shoes, and a bag, and possibly he was planning on going somewhere on one of the trains that roll past regularly at onboardable speeds, but now he is slumped under a tree with his bag next to him. He smells like vomit. There are pieces of dead leaves caught in his hair.
He’s focused, though, staring up at Rumlow from the ground. His eyes narrow in a way that seems to show recognition, but he makes no attempt to move.
Rumlow would like to get down to his level and get in his personal space, but the movement would be too painful on his not-quite-healed wounds and his fucked-up scars, so he just stands over him, boots crunching on the cold ground. “You gotta learn to do better, buddy,” he says.
The soldier stares up at him, steadily. His human hand is shaking, and he covers it with his left, gloved one as if that can hide it. Does he recognize Rumlow? The soldier is good with faces, despite the obvious memory problems, but on the other hand Rumlow is half-covered in gauze bandages that haven’t been changed since he quit the hospital, and hasn’t had time to wash properly since he started tracking the soldier, and probably looks like he stumbled out of an old shitty movie about explorers and curses and mummies.
That part is not so bad, actually. He likes the idea of being a curse.
“If you’d let me get to you sooner, this wouldn’t have happened,” he says, half to himself, because he isn’t sure the soldier is really listening. The words are a lie, anyway. The slow-release drugs the scientists put in the soldier’s arm are clearly wearing off—it’s happened before, on missions that lasted longer than expected, and then as now Rumlow cannot do shit about it. He isn’t even sure what exactly the drugs are—just that they probably contain a lot of painkillers, because Hydra was always far more inclined to dose the soldier up than to try to fix any of his physical problems or give him time to heal properly.
And Rumlow couldn’t have helped the soldier with that even if he did have any painkillers to spare. If he had any painkillers to spare he would already have taken them himself.
The soldier looks up at him. It’s already starting to get dark, and the air is cold and the ground must be colder, but his face is wet with sweat. He looks angry, but more than that he just looks miserable. Rumlow had expected more of a reaction, considering how long he'd spent running. This is not bad, though.
“Stand up,” Rumlow says, and if the soldier hadn’t obeyed, Rumlow probably just would have shot him right there, and maybe himself as well, because scary appearance aside, Rumlow is fucked if he doesn’t get help, and his immediate future survival relies on this idiot’s obedience.
The soldier stands, though. It takes him a second or two to get himself together enough to do it, and he looks like he has no idea why he’s doing it, but he pulls himself to his feet and stands, looking only a little unsteady.
God, he smells bad.
“You know who I am?” Rumlow says.
“Commander,” the soldier says and looks confused again. Then the expression changes to something close to relief, face softening like he is happy about the memory.
That’s a trip. Most people don’t look relieved when they remember Rumlow. Then again, their relationship had always been kind of special.
“You’re coming with me,” Rumlow says firmly.
The soldier simply looks at him, looking sullen and rather stuck-up for someone who smells like they have forgotten showering exists. He doesn’t move, unless you count the slight swaying he is doing on his feet. Apparently he’s happy to sit out here in the cold and throw up on himself until he freezes or starves or wanders onto a train track.
And it’s not like Rumlow can drag him. Can’t physically do anything unless the soldier lets him. Rumlow is tired and sore, but he still has it together enough to know he needs to change tactics.
He softens his tone in turn, steps closer. “I was always nice to you. Wasn’t I. You remember that part, yeah.”
No answer. The woods around them are quiet, just wind and the very faint sound of traffic from far away. A fast-food wrapper is caught in a bare branch not far from the soldier’s head, shuddering in the breeze.
It’s true, as well. Rumlow had always been extraordinarily nice.
“You remember a lot of stuff, don’t you,” he goes on. “You remember a little bit about everything, and you’ve been trying to work things out. Figure out good and evil and all that shit, after it’s all been messed up in your head for so long.”
The soldier doesn’t answer, just stares. Rumlow is close enough now to smell the old sweat and the vomit and the strange chemical smell that might be coming from his arm or from his skin. He reaches out to touch him, and the soldier flinches.
Rumlow keeps the flicker of annoyance off his face. Reaching his arm up like that had hurt, and that’s how he reacts?
Still, he forces a little smile onto his face. “I’m gonna help you out with part of what you’re trying to learn,” he says. “Lesson one: If someone’s nice to you, you do nice things in return.”
“You were Hydra,” the soldier says, almost cutting him off, like he’s just remembered it and needs to tell him immediately.
Rumlow shrugs, despite the pain it causes. “So were you.”
That’s enough, apparently, to short-circuit him. The soldier stares at him blankly. Finally he gives an almost-imperceptible nod.
“You’re going to help me,” Rumlow says, firm again now.
The soldier looks confused, like the moment of clarity has already dissipated. But then an odd expression of relief appears again. Maybe in this state, an order is actually a comfort.
“I have transport,” Rumlow says, and the soldier is already relaxing a little, body language changing like he's prepared to follow. “You don’t actually have to do much at all.”
This is, obviously, another lie.