Chapter Text
“He took something from the job site, apparently,” Rollins says, deadpan, leaning against the wall even as the other agent smacks her hands against it in mindless rage.
“He says he didn’t!” Crabbe spits, “But he’s lying! This is what happens when you’re not here!”
“So fucking sue me,” Rumlow snaps back. He would have been there - wanted to be there - but they’re still living two lives. “I can’t be in two places at once.”
“You mean you can’t be here and have your tongue up Rogers’ ass!” Crabbe almost shouts, but catches it halfway and splutters on the words. She snorts, steadies herself, tucks a strand of hair back into her bun. Her meaty fists unclench, slowly, deliberately. Rumlow waits her out. “I’m sorry, Commander.”
“Apology accepted,” Rumlow says; he expects nothing less. “Now, what did he take?”
“Some scrap of paper,” Crabbe tells him, and Rollins nods. “Maybe a drawing, a photograph… I’m not sure. He’s hiding it in his gear somewhere. I wanna find out where, but….”
“But with takeoff in an hour, the techs say that’s too short notice to get him stripped down,” Rumlow finishes. “I got you. They’re all fucking cowards here.”
That, at least, seems to cheer her up a little. “We can’t send in the cowards. So what do we do?”
“Go and get yourself prepped for flying. Leave it to me.”
There aren’t holding cells here; out in the sticks, they have to make do with an ageing and empty conference room. Brock almost prefers the missile bunkers to this. The fluorescent lighting gets on his nerves and the thin carpet tiles are curled into trip hazards. He pulls a chair off one of the stacks at the side of the room, the abused plastic groaning. It’s something to do while he checks out the Asset. There doesn’t seem to be anything amiss.
He thumps the chair down on the floor and barks out “On your knees! Hands on your head.”
Compliance is instant. “So,” Brock says, hands on the back of the chair, leaning over it. He isn’t planning to sit. “I hear you managed to waste a nice Level 3 in his own apartment.”
“Yessir. Target eliminated, sir.”
“Good. But you know what’s not so good?” His charms won’t work here, but neither will straightforward bullying: he’ll have to feel his way, using what he knows. He lets the question hang there, until it’s abundantly clear that it is, in fact, a question.
“No sir?” There’s something in his eyes that gives it away; he knows Brock might be angry, and that the source of it might be him.
“Retaining evidence. Removing something from an otherwise-uncompromised job site that should’ve stayed right where it was. You understand?”
“Yessir.” He doesn’t volunteer information, but he also doesn’t meet Brock’s gaze. He can’t do it and lie at the same time. The fear always shows through. So he gives himself away in other, less painful ways.
“I’m gonna ask you. Is that something you’ve done?”
“No.” The word is bitten off. Too quick.
Brock rounds the chair and smacks him across the face. He sags a little from his kneeling position, head to the side for a second.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I promise I’ll be good,” he says automatically - some previous handler, maybe Bates, could be placated with that, no matter the infraction - but it’s not good enough for Brock.
“I don’t give a fuck about that. Let’s be real here - I know you took something from that apartment. Someone saw you do it,” doubtful that he remembers who Agent Crabbe is, but Brock won’t give him a reason to bear a dangerous grudge, “and you know you shouldn’t have done it. So give it up.”
He shakes his head, minutely. This is why they called Brock down; simply asking, or ordering, or threatening, doesn’t seem to be enough.
“Why? You wanna know what’ll happen if you don’t?”
Brock can think of a whole host of things to do to him. Beat him and shock him, until he gives in to make the pain stop. Take him onto the plane, open the doors a couple miles up, threaten to throw him out. Force him to strip in front of the rest of the team and let them search him as roughly as they want. But none of it would be a surprise to him. That much is clear - he expects it, endures it, forgets it, only to expect it all over again.
“No, I guess not. So why are you lying to me? You know you don’t need to do that.” Brock reaches out slowly and takes hold of his chin, the mask smooth and warm. “I just wanna see it, ok. Is that too much to ask? Huh?”
He rocks back on his feet, takes his hands away; makes it clear that he’s not intending to touch. The Asset waits for a while, watching him closely - then, in a move that has Brock internally rejoicing, reaches into his boot and carefully prises out a folded scrap of thick, glossy paper.
“It’s a photograph, huh? What’s it of?” He still doesn’t approach, doesn’t touch, folds his hands behind his back.
The picture is duly unfolded. The target smiles out from the surface, face scarred by a fold line, his partner similarly creased. The only one left flat is his son. The boy must be a teenager here; slim and blond and smiling with his parents. He might still be smiling now. He’s the one that ordered the hit on them, after all.
“Ok, that’s what it is. So why did you take it?”
“I don’t know.”
Not the answer Brock was expecting. It doesn’t seem like a lie, either. “You don’t know?”
“No sir.”
Brock stares at the picture, and then hears Rogers in his head laughing and no, really! I’m that little punk right there! He nods, and says “Well, ain’t that a mystery.”
The Asset agrees. He kneels on the carpet, settles himself better on his folded legs. His shoulders come down a little - Brock hasn’t told him to maintain position, so that’s fair - and he gazes off to the side.
“You don’t know who this is,” Brock reminds him, “and you don’t know why you took it. Probably seemed like a good idea, right? In the moment. So can I have it?”
He slowly extends a hand (the flesh one). Brock doesn’t snatch, just takes the photo carefully. “Thank you.”
That makes him frown slightly, his eyes growing wary. Being asked, and being thanked, are still new.
“I’m glad you’re listening to me.” Brock pushes the point a little. “Makes it a lot easier for everybody. Now, I’m gonna have to take this and get rid of it - but we’ll keep that between us, right? Nobody has to know.” He’ll talk to Agent Crabbe; she’ll understand. He looks at his watch. “Forty-five minutes to prep for takeoff. Anything else you wanna tell me about?”
“No sir.” The Asset looks so relieved, it’s almost enough to make him laugh out loud.