Chapter Text
It’s seven in the morning. A full hour after the time Bucky’s therapists have designated that he should wake up. His breakfast has been sitting on a plate for the past hour, the grease solidified on the bacon and the eggs gone rubbery. He’s not in his own bedroom. He’s certainly not in Steve’s.
And Steve doesn’t bother to ask Jarvis where he is because he knows damn well where Bucky is. The same place he’s spent the majority of every day since Steve lost control of his life and agreed to let a HYDRA agent move into the tower.
Steve grits his teeth, dumping the plates, food and all, into the sink. He can deal with those later. But Bucky can’t skip his pills, especially not after the fiasco of his attempt to protect Rumlow from angry drug dealers.
To protect Rumlow. Steve’s stomach churns at the thought as he walks toward the elevator. It’s not as though he ever forgets the damage HYDRA’s done to Bucky--how could he, when Bucky himself is a reminder every time he cuddles up to Steve and asks for a bedtime story?--but it’s never quite so clear as when he’s standing up for one of his captors.
Steve wonders if Rumlow read the kid a bedtime story last night. He shakes the thought off. It’s not important, no matter how pervasive the curiosity.
--
It is, for the most part, way too early to be awake. At least, for Brock. But he’s been adjusting, lately, since the kid has demanded sleepovers several times in the past week alone, and the kid doesn’t seem to know how to sleep in later than eight o’clock in the morning, and that’s if Brock forces him to stay the fuck still and sleep.
So he’s blearily nursing a cup of coffee while the kid watches some TV show- Brock made him promise not to play some stupid Disney Channel show, so it’s actually something that could be mildly enjoyable for Brock if he actually cared to pay attention to the screen. Kid clearly loves it, how much energy he’s got, and the way he keeps dancing his bear around in time to whatever music plays.
It’s cute. Nauseatingly cute and more than a little unsettling, but Brock’s been able to ignore the latter, more and more. The personality is still weird as all hell, but he’s getting used to it.
Brock’s pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to just give up on the breakfast he tried to make earlier and tell the AI to bring them a box of donuts, but that’s what happened, and he’s pretty sure the kid ate four of them. Which is probably more sugar than he’s used to, which might actually explain the dancing and bouncing.
At least, if Brock’s internal clock is correct, and Rogers’ doesn’t disappoint, he’ll come to collect his kid soon in a giant, angry huff of wild blond hair gone straight up from constantly running worried fingers through it. Brock sort of lives for the giant glare and frown that’s etched into Rogers’ face whenever he comes to grab Bucky; he finds it hilarious and it stirs something in him.
Brock takes another giant drink of his coffee then leans forward, passing the cup to the kid. “You wanna try? It’s sweet.” Because he might be annoyingly masculine, sometimes, but Brock doesn’t deny himself good tasting coffee, and that just doesn’t happen unless there’s copious amounts of sugar and cream in it.
--
Steve runs his fingers through his hair as he watches the numbers slide by in the elevator display. Sometimes, when Bucky’s little, he likes pressing every floor option just to watch the buttons light up. It’s never an issue; Jarvis knows to take them to just one floor without stopping at the others. Bucky hasn’t done that in a week. Hell, probably more than a week, but if Steve can’t blame the murders on Rumlow--and for all he hates the man, he has to admit that information given while drugged senseless on morphine isn’t Rumlow’s fault--then he can and will pin every other frustration in his life on the double agent. He’s a bad influence. Sure, he’s not whispering ‘Hail HYDRA’ into Bucky’s ear, Jarvis would alert Steve, but that doesn’t mean he’s good for Bucky.
He doesn’t know Bucky, only the Soldier. And the Soldier’s gone now, except for the rare occasions when the stress becomes too great and he snaps back to the protective shell he thinks he needs to wear to survive.
But that’s not Bucky. That’s what was left when they tried to hollow Bucky out. Bucky is the kid who takes Steve’s coat and waltzes around the living room, humming “Once Upon a Dream.” He’s the one who was introduced to most Disney cartoons as an adult and still hasn’t outgrown them. How is Rumlow’s fragile masculinity going to handle it when the kid wants to play princesses? How will he take it when Bucky inevitably ends up napping there and wetting the couch or the bed?
Rumlow doesn’t know a thing about Bucky Barnes. Not his favorite foods, not the novels he read until the spines broke before HYDRA took the memories of those stories from his head. Not his terrible attempts at life drawing in their college class, and not that beautiful, self-assured smile that Steve hasn’t seen on his face since the forties. And God, what Steve would give to see it again.
The elevator opens and Steve pulls his hand from his hair, stepping out. He’s not stomping. He wouldn’t give Rumlow that satisfaction. And there’s Rumlow, holding out his cup to Bucky, who’s drinking, wide-eyed and practically vibrating with energy. Rumlow looks like he’s smirking, but he always looks that way. Even the burns couldn’t change that.
“Daddy!” Bucky calls out. It’s a wonder he doesn’t spill the cup as he bolts up, passing it back to Rumlow and nearly tackling Steve, arms tight around his waist. “Morning!”
“Good morning,” Steve says. He can smell caffeine on Bucky’s breath, and that should annoy him--Bucky has a metabolism just as fast as Steve’s, but somehow the effects of sugar and caffeine seem to linger in his blood for hours--but as long as Bucky’s eating and drinking, he can’t muster the anger.
“Glad you’re having fun.”
“Want a doughnut?” Bucky asks. “You can have one, they’re really good.”
That explains the powdered sugar on Bucky’s lips. “I’m all right,” Steve assures him. “Thanks.”
--
Brock nearly drops the cup himself, it’s thrust back in his arms so fast. But he manages not to let it drop, with just a slight tinge of discomfort in a couple of his muscles from having to move so fast. He takes another drink before he faces Rogers, raising an eyebrow. “Morning to you, too. You know, you could let me know when you’re coming. It’s kind of rude to just barge in here when me and Bucky are watching TV.”
He glances at the kid, who’s practically hanging off of Steve and vibrating, a wide grin on his face that makes Brock’s face split into a small smile, just for a moment. And then he’s looking at Steve again and wiping the soft smile away from his lips in favor of a smirk.
--
“Sorry about that,” Steve says, lightly and calmly and only because Bucky’s in the room. But Bucky’s glancing back at Rumlow now, not watching Steve’s face, and Steve doesn’t miss the opportunity to glare daggers at the man. He almost feels heat in his eyes from the stare. “Of course, I’ve come down at the same time every morning after he’s slept here, so I guess I assumed you’d realized when he needs to take his meds. I forgot, you must have fallen out of routines when the STRIKE team collapsed.”
He ruffles Bucky’s hair--the kid is shaking with excess energy--giving him a smile that stays fixed on his face as he turns back to Rumlow. “If it’d be more convenient for you, I could just bring his pills down here if he’s spending the nights, but he can’t work out childproof lids when he’s five and your hands probably aren’t the best with pill bottles anymore, huh? Or have you had enough practice?”
“Daddy!” says Bucky, completely oblivious to the tension in the air. His child side does have its benefits. “Daddy, the Commander led Bucky Bear on a mission and we rescued a buncha hostages and then he told me about the time he saved you from pirates and it was so cool!”
“Did he?” Steve asks. “I’m sure that was quite a story.”
--
Brock’s carefully constructed facial expression threaten to collapse into either a sneer or nothingness, but he refuses to show Rogers even that much. He could argue back, could be cold and cruel and snap at him the way Rogers expects him to, so long as it’s friendly enough around the kid’s ears. But that wouldn’t actually make Rogers mad. Just happy in a way that means he’s right.
So, no. He just shrugs and says as pleasantly as he can, “Just a knock would be nice.”
He actually would rather Bucky’s pill bottles never be in his floor. Because as much as it would hurt to admit to anyone, even the five year old, he’s weak and not good enough to not want to stare at the pills and dream, wonder and wish for some of his own. He can’t do anymore than the very basics of pain control now that he’s got an all-knowing AI watching his every move and making sure he’s not hoarding pills like a fucking junkie.
The one time he tried, Jarvis figured it out immediately, to the point that Brock wondered if maybe the AI has dealt with someone’s drug addictions before.
--
“I’ll be sure and let you know,” Steve replies, and even on propaganda tours, his voice hadn’t been this syrupy.
He feels a twinge inside at the unfaltering, clearly forced smile on Rumlow’s face. Maybe it was wrong of him to mention both the collapse of STRIKE and Rumlow’s addiction in the span of under a minute. Hell, of course it was. Rumlow’s got nothing left now. A roof over his head, sure, a really nice one, and his every need attended to, but Steve knows what they say about gilded cages. Rumlow’s a prisoner. All his friends are dead or locked up. And all he has left is Bucky’s Stockholm syndrome to provide him with company.
But Steve can’t bring himself to feel more than that twinge. Rumlow would have happily seen him and twenty million others dead and buried.
“Bucky,” he says, and whatever rambling explanation Bucky was giving of the show they’ve been watching fails silent. “Why don’t we go up to my room so you can take your medicine on the next commercial break, okay? Then you can finish watching it upstairs, and after that, you can decide what you want to do today.”
He already knows what Bucky wants to do. What he’s wanted to do all week: spend his time with Rumlow. Like a real child with a shiny new toy. But maybe Steve can coax him into the gym today, burn off some of that energy.
“‘Kay,” Bucky says, and just like that he’s squirming out of Steve’s embrace, settling back down before the TV. He makes the Bucky Bear dance along with the show’s audio track.
--
Brock watches after Bucky for a few moments, and then focuses back on Steve. Oh, oh but he’d love to continue this lovely conversation they’re having ‘till the death, but, no, not really. He’d prefer to shove his face into the pot of coffee in his kitchen and let it burn the rest of his fucking face off. He almost says as much, too, but the last time he actually tried to respond, he and Steve argued for hours and eventually Brock’s limbs grew weary of standing and his voice became raspy. Not fun.
And it’s not like Steve doesn’t have a right to-
No. Not going there. He’s not going to think about guilt and consequences when Rogers is standing right in front of him, staring at him and looking for weaknesses like some All-American wolf.
He’s caught up in his thinking for a couple minutes, but he eventually blinks and waves a hand towards the couch. “You wanna sit? Coffee? I mean, you pretty much own the floor anyways, make yourself at home.”
--
“Wouldn’t want to do that,” Steve says softly, but he does take a seat. This is stupid, he knows, but he’s never claimed to be smart. Whether Bucky’s five or ninety-five, he’s not an idiot. Children can pick up on tense atmospheres far better than they’re given credit for. Bucky’s going to notice their anger sooner or later--probably once his sugar rush wears off--and then there’s going to be pouting and sniffling. And an ocean’s worth of self-blame.
Much as it can hurt to see Bucky clinging to a teddy bear like’s it a living, breathing friend, he’d prefer it if the kid keep dancing with his bear instead of finding new reasons to hate himself.
But Steve’s always been stubborn. It’s in the Irish blood, his mother would say. So he can’t bring himself to smile, to relax as he settles down.
--
Brock just grunts and leaves the room, goes to the kitchen to refill his mug with more coffee. Between the morning coffee and whatever energy drinks he can get his hands on, it’s basically the only reason he’s awake these days, especially on the days he’d rather sleep for four days straight.
He drinks and leans against the counter softly and tries to pretend that Rogers isn’t in his living room acting, as usual, morally high and mighty and judgmental on his every facet of life. It doesn’t hurt as much as it should, the shit he says to Brock, but the tension and the atmosphere that Steve brings with him is enough to exhaust him in minutes, make him want to lay down.
Brock can deal with the words, and he can return them, but it’s the looks that are a little harder to escape from. He deserves it, he knows he does, he knows, but there’s his pride to think about, who screams that he deserves nothing of the sort, he doesn’t deserve to be treated like the scum of the earth when he’s already been through so much shit.
But he hasn’t. Not as much as he should have gone through. He sighs into his cup and glances at the living room, and feels the involuntary tug on his lips, humorless as it is, as the kid waves his bear around again.
If Rogers is going to act like a dick, Brock’ll just have to act dismissive and ignore it as much as he can. Might piss Rogers off even more, it might turn into Brock exploding one day, but. Oh well.
--
The show goes to commercial, and the way Bucky keeps moving his bear, trying to block the screen with its body, is painfully obvious. Steve pointedly does not think about Bucky as a sniper in the war, so quick, so well-concealed, and dangerous. Instead, he gets to his feet. “Come on, Bucky.”
“But Daddy,” Bucky says. That’s one thing the kid has in common with the man he used to know. They both have the same puppy dog eyes.
“You know the medicine works best if you take it at the same time every day,” Steve says gently. And how it kills him that Bucky needs to take a small pharmacy’s worth of drugs every morning to function. To keep from believing that HYDRA’s snaking through the walls along with Jarvis, to convince him that there’s still blood flowing in his body. Steve hates that Bucky has the strongest medications and the best therapists and he’s still prisoner to Pierce’s sick orders.
But he can’t let that show, not for a second, or it’ll make Bucky even worse.
“Kay,” Bucky mumbles, shuffling toward him. He’s still gently rocking the bear from side to side, but the heart’s gone out of his movements.
“Thanks for watching him,” Steve says, not bothering to face Rumlow as he leads Bucky to the elevator. Bucky’s going to want to come right back, he knows, but in the meantime Rumlow can do...whatever it is that Rumlow does. It’s no concern of his.
--
Brock gives a grunt in response to Steve and says, “Thanks for hanging out, kid,” as they leave. He might be trying to not cause a small nuclear explosion with Rogers, but he’s gotta be nice to the kid at least. He. He kinda likes the kid, and enjoys when he comes knocking on his door wanting to play.
One thing that he doesn’t like is that it is nearly impossible to sleep when the kid comes over, and so as soon as they leave, he finishes his coffee and lays the fuck down, even if it’ll be a while until he can sleep, because of the caffeine flowing through his body.
--
It’s like clockwork. Bucky swallows the last of the pills, and the first words out of his mouth are “Can we go see the Commander again, Daddy, can we please?”
“Didn’t you want to finish your show?” Steve asks. “Bucky Bear looked like he was having fun.”
Bucky seems to consider this. “But the Commander might wanna finish it too.”
“He can do that if he wants to.” He wonders if that’s the whole of Rumlow’s life now: pain, television, and sleep. It sounds like hell. A hell that Rumlow brought upon himself, but even so…
“But he might have other things to do, Bucky,” Steve continues. “Like how Tony does science and Pepper runs a company. So maybe we should give him some time to get things done, okay?”
“Okay,” Bucky says, but he’s pouting.
“We could play in the gym?” Sparring Bucky has become one of his favorite pastimes, and he should feel shame for that, should feel sick and wrong, but he can’t help himself. It’s a chance to be near Bucky without frightening him, without speaking, all their worries gone for those fevered moments on the mats. Steve can never indulge the desires he’s felt since before he even knew the names for his feelings, but this isn’t that. It’s just a way to be close, as close as they’ll ever be.
And if Bucky pushes himself hard enough in sparring, he’ll sometimes fall asleep afterward. In his sleep, if there are no nightmares, Bucky smiles. Safe and content, far from the lifetime of traumas he’s suffered. Steve wishes he could smile that way all the time.
“Okay, Daddy.”
--
Sleeping is precious these days, and lately, naps are the only time he can actually get any sleep. It’s too difficult to sleep well when the kid is around, even if he knows, logically, that the kid is out like a light. It’s not the kid he’s afraid of- Brock’s not afraid of anything.
But sleeping next to a ninety year old man with the mental facilities of a five year old, Brock almost always feels the slow vine creepers of guilt unfurling in his mind, reaching to even the most distant places of his mind. It’s more than enough to not cry when his head gets like that, let alone actually sleep well. So naps. But he can’t spend the rest of his life napping, even if it’s just to catch up on the sleep his body and mind denied him before. He used to keep an extremely active lifestyle, and even now, it makes him feel unused and worthless if he can’t do something with his day.
He sits up in bed and asks the AI what there is to doaround this godforsaken Tower, that’s actually allowed to do. The majority of the floors here are restricted to him, and he has to fucking ask to be allowed outside. Like he’s some fucking kid.
The AI suggest reading, or watching television or the gym or helping Mister Stark in his lab. And, yeah, the gym. That’s nice. That’s fine. That’s. That’s doing something purposeful with his body. Besides, he bets the Tower has the best fucking gym in the country.
He pulls on some proper clothes and gets ready to go. Maybe he can take out his life’s frustrations with a punching bag.
--
Sparring Bucky used to be asking for broken bones.
He couldn’t differentiate between a friendly match and an assessment of his skills. There weren’t relaxed games in HYDRA, not for the Winter Soldier. Everything was a test. Any failure would bring pain. And Bucky had, in the early days, regarded Steve as a handler. He could not underperform for him, even if it meant hurting him.
Steve might have died during that first sparring match if he hadn’t thought to explain the concept of tapping out before they began. Even then, Bucky had managed to dislocate Steve’s elbow before he had the chance to do that.
The worst thing wasn’t the way Bucky would snap wrists or break knuckles--his own, sometimes, if he felt it would do more damage to his opponent--as easily as he’d pull his hair back. The worst was the aftermath, when he’d stare blankly and ask if he had performed within parameters. Or worse, when he’d survey Steve’s bruises and calmly kneel down, awaiting punishment.
And then there was the day Steve had hauled himself up from the mats to find the kid staring back at him, trembling. “Daddy, did I hurt you?”
Natasha put a stop to it all. She dragged Bucky to the gym with her one day, and whatever happened, she promised Steve she’d convinced Bucky to dial it back to ninety percent.
It’s amazing, how much of a handful even ninety percent can be.
But Steve manages, knocking Bucky to his feet. Bucky’s giggling as he falls, and Steve knows that means he can pin him down without causing a panic. So he does, hands clamped onto Bucky’s wrists, weight on his shoulders. “You surrender?”
Bucky smiles, wide and mischievous and so familiar. “Never,” he says, and then there’s a blur of motion and Steve’s pinned beneath him.
He laughs, totally content. And that’s when the elevator opens.
--
Brock steps out and immediately feels like turning around and going back upstairs to his room. Maybe lay down a bit. Maybe sleep a few more hours. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with this- Bucky isn’t even the kid.
He understands the Soldier, he sort of understands the kid. But the man? Bucky Barnes? Is a cruel enigma, someone that Brock isn’t supposed to know. Someone that hates his guts for good reason, since Brock contributed to keeping the man pushed down underneath orders and pain.
He sighs and glances around, going to one of the benches to start strapping on his shoes. Leaving would make them laugh, snigger behind his back, and Brock’s pride is still big enough to shudder away from that thought. But neither does he want to actually. Actually talk to them, especially Bucky.
--
Steve can feel Bucky tensing up above him, and just like that, his friend is rolling off. The smile remains on his face, but guarded now. Almost mocking.
He sighs internally. Now that Bucky’s seen Rumlow, Steve won’t get him to relax that way again. How can he, around the man who used to judge his performance and likely inflicted pain if it wasn’t up to par? Steve knows already that Bucky isn’t leaving; he’d consider it a display of weakness, one he can’t afford. But he isn’t going to really smile again, and the knowledge of all that HYDRA’s done will be hanging over their heads the entire time they’re here, and probably all day.
And if it was just wary hatefulness that Bucky eyed Rumlow with, Steve could accept that. But that’s not the only thing he can read in his friend’s movements.
Bucky’s always been a showoff, particularly in front of girls. This is similar, though the end goal is different. It’s like he wants to impress Brock even though he’s not the asset. He wants him to know he’s still worthy, craves--what, his acceptance? His fear?
“Hey, old timer,” Bucky says casually.
--
Brock glances up and finishes lacing up his shoes. “I’m pretty sure I’m only ten years older than you. Max.” He shrugs as he stands, his movements tense and painful- It’s going to be hard to loosen his limbs up naturally, but with how tense he is now? Nearly impossible.
For the thousandth time, he curses his tight and burned body for being a piece of fucking shit.
He looks around the gym, assessing what there is and what his body can still do. It’s been a while, more than a year, since he’s been to a proper gym, not since he got his injuries. He’s not sure what machines are too much for his body anymore.
--
“Technically, we’ve both got, what, fifty years on you?” Bucky shrugs. “Whippersnapper.”
“Bucky,” Steve says. He won’t grit his teeth. His wish of going from chronically sickly and small to near super-human came true. Why can’t his wish for Brock Rumlow to disappear? That has to be easier for the universe to accommodate. “What do you want to do now? Want me to spot you?”
“Nah.” Bucky hasn’t looked at him, gazing in Rumlow’s direction without quite staring. “I’m fine here.”
Steve braces himself. He knows what that means. They won’t be at ninety percent anymore, not with Bucky in a mood like this. Look what I can do, Commander. This is going to hurt.
“All right,” he says, standing up.
--
He tries to ignore them. Both of them, even if it’s hard. Tries to ignore them, tries to go over to the machinery and away from the sparring mats and tries to focus on himself. That’s what this is for, after all, this visit. To work on his own body and try and ignore the shit and scum of his life, of his mind and thoughts.
But look. It’s pretty damn hard to focus on just himself when Steve fucking Rogers is sweaty and wrestling like a well-oiled machine twenty feet away from him. Holding his own against the Winter Soldier, and Brock knows how well he works fucking intimately. So. Forgive him if he looks over at them occasionally.
--
Bucky comes at him, a flurry of punches and kicks, with such ferocity that for a second, Steve feels transported back to that godforsaken street in DC.
He just defends at first, assessing Bucky’s form, letting him prove whatever it is that he wants to prove. But he knows it’ll hurt Bucky if he won’t fight back, make him think that Steve doesn’t trust him to know his own mind and stop the fight before it gets fatal. He can’t hurt Bucky, even if it means opening himself to more pain. Besides, if he blocks many more hits with his forearm, he’s going to risk fractures.
So he strikes back. It’s brutal. There’s no fun to be had in it, no good-natured grappling. Steve tries to give as good as he gets, but he’s hampered by his reluctance to hurt Bucky, even in sport. It’s the smallest hesitation, but Bucky grabs hold of it, sniffing it out as he’s been trained, and finally Steve ends up pinned to the mat, bruised and battered, Bucky’s metal arm shoving down on his throat.
Bucky sits back. He smiles, but it’s not at Steve. “Like what you see, Rumlow?”
--
“Congratulations.” Brock says dryly, turning to face the two of them fully, eyeing down Bucky’s metal arm. It’s easy, almost. Easy to move back into a proud, tall disposition. Like he isn’t some broken, burned old man with nothing left in his life. Easy to go back to a sharp serpent's tongue, because clearly being nice to Bucky isn’t going to work.
“You know how to do what you were trained for. Have you ever almost killed him? Have you ever thought he was your mission? You used to get confused, sometimes, you know.” The low, mean tones feel good, feel wonderful, even if it’s wrong, rude, what he’s been trying not to do.
--
Bucky’s not smiling now.
Steve knows exactly what he’s remembering; at least, he prays he does. He doesn’t want to consider the possibility that Bucky’s confused him for a target more than once since he’s come here. Not right now. That damn night when Bucky had forgotten the knives he’d been stockpiling, when he’d thought he was HYDRA’s again, that was bad enough. And Steve had stood there, calmly as he could, while the Winter Soldier stared at him with blank, wild eyes and pressed a knife to his throat.
It pains him to think about it. Judging by the way Bucky’s face falls, it’s almost killing him to remember now.
And serum or not, if Rumlow weren’t so injured, if the kid wouldn’t cry for weeks, Steve would tear him limb from limb for making Bucky look that way.
“Bucky,” he says softly. “Why don’t you grab a shower while I talk to Rumlow?”
“I’m fine,” Bucky insists, looking anything but.
--
“Oh, we need to have a talk now, is that so? Can’t say it in front of him?” Brock snorts and looks away and tries to pretend like he hasn’t shut away all his emotions to be this again. Wishes he had a bottle of Jack right now, or maybe a bottle of pills, to wash away the tumultuous ocean that’s sitting just under his breast, waiting to explode outwards.
--
Steve doesn’t say I can, I just don’t want to expose him to any more violence if I can avoid it. He doesn’t say, If he sees me with my hands around your throat, he’d attack you as a threat. It might make Rumlow’s face go as pale as the scarring will allow, or at least make him stress over the possibility that he isn’t the only one here who can command the Winter Soldier, but he won’t say those things in front of Bucky. Won’t let him think Steve views him as broken. As a thing.
So he doesn’t rise to the bait. He just says “Please, Bucky,” and hopes that will be enough.
It isn’t. “No,” Bucky insists. “I’m fine. You always said you could stand up for yourself--well, so can I.”
“Fine. We’ll go, then.” And Rumlow’s going to come with him, even if Steve has to drag him into that elevator. It’s not like the man can fight him off.
“You’re leaving? What happened to our talk?” Rumlow asks, his smirk brightening for just a moment.
Steve knows he must walk over to Rumlow to grab him by the arm, but he has no memory of that. He’s just there, barely cognizant of making sure his hold isn’t tight enough to snap Rumlow’s bones. “We’re having it,” he says, as pleasantly as he can through clenched teeth, starting for the elevator. Rumlow can follow or his arm can be wrenched from the socket. “Right now. We’re leaving.”
“Fuck you both,” Bucky mutters.