AN: This fanfic will center on Jack Rollins and Brock Rumlow. Warnings for language, violence, and maybe gore (not sure yet).

Jack Rollins might as well have been no one. Yeah, he had worked beside Captain America, been part of the STRIKE team, but he'd been low on both HYDRA's and SHEILD's radar. He'd been captured during the fall of SHIELD and HYDRA but escape had been quick and easy.

Almost all of the scientists, from both sides, were taken up by private corporations leaving few to be caught and interrogated by the government. Engineers and tactical officers were of interest as well. The high level officers, ones close to Pierce, were either captured or being tracked by the government as well.

But the soldiers…they were expendable.

Some soldiers remained loyal until the end, others could be bought or sold, and maybe that was why so many were going into hiding or were dying off like flies.

Jack's first thought after getting free wasn't for himself though, but it also wasn't for HYDRA. First and foremost he thought of Brock Rumlow and where the hell he'd gone.

He'd known Brock for a longtime. Twelve years his senior, Brock had been the one to teach him and train him. Though not officially stated in any records, they might as well have been partners for all the times they'd had each others' backs. This time wasn't any different.

For a week, Jack searched, the possibility of Brock being dead only growing.

It wasn't that Jack didn't think Brock could handle himself. It was that Brock was brilliant, not just in hand-to-hand combat and weapons but in an overall knowledge of everything as well, and, yet despite this, he had the world's worst temper. In such times, he would make irrational decisions, put himself and others at risk. He also talked too much.

Combining all of those things together, it seemed likely that either another government organization had him killed, or Brock had gotten himself killed from a bad call.

Another option, one that made just as much sense, didn't come to Jack until he finally found out where Brock was, in a hospital.

The FBI had him in custody. Being injured would explain how Brock had been captured so Jack decided to go check it out. Once again, he was low enough on the food chain that a hat and a dirty jacket would do for a cover. He doubted anyone had taken time to memorize his face though.

The hospital was outside of DC in Arlington, Virginia. It was a normal hospital, made for anyone who needed treatment. Taking a quick look at the information at the front desk while the attending woman was away, Jack found the room number and headed on up.

He wondered if Brock was strapped down or sedated. The man certainly wouldn't have stayed in a hospital bed if he'd simply been handcuffed. However, Jack found out that his assumptions were wrong once more upon arrival to the room.

Two FBI agents stood guard and both gave Jack a suspicious look when he stopped to stare.

Brock had burns and scars over all visual parts of his body along with a cast over his right hand. The wounds were healing and many would probably go away in time, but a select few would most likely leave their ugly marks. A heart monitor kept track of his heart, its beat slower than normal.

He was in a coma, though whether it was medically induced or not, Jack didn't know.

"Something you need?"

The voice brought Jack out of his thoughts and back into reality. "No. He some sort of criminal?" He made his voice gruffer, like he had a sore throat, and slackened his stance, making it seem almost lazy. Hunching over a bit, he made himself seem smaller as well. Being six foot two tended to make some people nervous.

"None of your business pal. Now move along."

Jack gave the room a quick once over. He noticed the lack of windows. "Looks pretty ruffed up but I don't see any restraints. Not afraid he might walk away?" asked Jack, pushing just a little bit more, trying for any more information.

"The man's in a coma and paralyzed from the waist down. I think we got it handled."

Immediately, there were questions Jack wanted to ask but it was clear from the tensing of the agents' muscles that they felt they'd been patient enough. It would do no good if he made a scene so he simply muttered, "Sucks to be him," and moved on.

But the moment he was out of sight he was wired again and any former plans had now been thrown out the window. Jack didn't know Brock's chance of survival but either way, how the hell was he going to get the man out of there if he couldn't walk and wasn't awake?

And what was about the lack of windows?

Before going back down, Jack asked a nurse, "Excuse me, was there a shooting here recently?"

"You must be asking about that man they have in custody," the man said, his friendly smile suddenly dropping. "There wasn't a shooting here but there was in DC. That's why he had to be moved I hear. Don't know why he had to come to this place though. The less trouble the better. I say—"

"Thank you. That's all I needed to know," Jack interrupted, pushing past. He'd never been able to charm his way out of things, not like Brock.

Now he had another problem, trying to figure out who wanted Brock dead. It couldn't be the FBI or else there wouldn't have been a near public execution. Any other US agency seemed unlikely and Brock wasn't big enough news for another country to want him dead. That left the remnants of HYDRA and SHIELD and as much as Jack would like to disregard HYDRA, there was no evidence to do so.

Despite his predicament, Jack still couldn't bring himself to leave Brock so he decided to wait. Even if Brock didn't wake up from his coma, Jack couldn't risk moving him until he'd healed more. There was the threat of another assassin coming in of course but the lack of a window and fact that Jack scoped out the hospital daily made him less worried on that matter.

However, there was another assassin planned to take out Brock.

Jack found that out on the fifth day. He didn't know how, but some way they had known where he was. A pay phone rang, just as he passed it, and Jack picked it up, unsure if it was just an accident of if the call meant something.

"Agent Rollins, you're mission is to assassinate Brock Rumlow. Upon completion, further instructions will be given."

Click.

So it was HYDRA after all.

Jack felt a sudden sense of betrayal at the agency. He'd never trusted governments of any kind, all of it political bullshit, but he had put faith in HYDRA. Brock even more so and now they were tying up loose ends. Brock was no longer an asset to them. Jack was positive they could have just as easily asked him to get Brock out of the hospital which meant they probably knew of his paralysis. He was a weakness that had to be taken care of.

It appeared that Jack wouldn't be able to wait for Brock to heal. It did take him two days to make sure everything was in place though.

A fire alarm was the simplest way.

Fake nurses outfit. Check.

Stolen van around back. Check.

Loaded gun. Check.

Jack went in, helping the two FBI agents to get Brock out of the hospital. The hospital bed and IV drip meant that it took longer to get out than the people on foot. The fact that FBI agents were around also meant that most people wanted to stay as far away as possible. No other nurse or doctor came to help, Jack doing fine on his own, and when the agents spoke up about him going the wrong way he finally took out his gun.

Two dead FBI agents. Check.

Jack wheeled Brock to where the trash bins were kept. No one was there, all work forces being used to help clear the hospital now. The hospital bed would have to go but Jack did take the IV drip into the van, not knowing how long Brock could go without it. He lastly grabbed the clipboard with all Brock's medical information on it.

It was so easy Jack almost felt like laughing if it wasn't for the fact that HYDRA could be on his tail at any minute.

They had been watching Brock. They had probably started watching Jack the moment he'd gone into that hospital. Staying in America no long felt like an option.

Getting out by plane with a paraplegic comatose patient seemed completely impossible, especially when taking into account that Jack wanted to go over the ocean. A boat was a bit more realistic.

Jack drove from Arlington to Baltimore, Maryland, the trip taking just a little less than an hour. Before trying to find a boat, Jack went over the medical information.

The coma wasn't medically induced and the IV drip was for sending nutrients to the body. The SCI (spinal cord injury) was incomplete but that didn't mean much until-if-Brock woke up. Not much else was given that could be of use so Jack left it when leaving the van and the IV drip.

As much as he hated doing it, Jack found a crate first, large enough for a grown man, and then put Brock in it. He hoped to god that the man didn't decide to wake from his coma anytime soon because he'd probably kill him if he did.

Using money he stole from the man he'd killed to get the van, Jack got a trip to New York, his crate getting put on the ship as well. The trip took about a day and then they were in New York City. Jack was thankful upon getting his luggage back that Brock hadn't awoken yet.

Once again, stealing the money needed, Jack bought a room for a trip to England. The trip would be much longer, nearly a week, so after most of the people were asleep, Jack went to the cargo area and took Brock out taking him to his room in case the man woke up. Despite being all muscle, the nearly four inch difference in height and hospitalization made him fairly easy to carry.

Jack found himself sleeping little, worried over when Brock would awake. As the hours passed and dawn approached, Jack thought he saw him twitch at least once, react to the movement of the ship, but it was probably just sleep deprivation that caused it.

The next few days, Jack found himself looking over Brock's wounds. Only three still needed the stitches and to be regularly cleaned. Some of the burns needed taking care of but beside that, Brock's body was mending itself back together. Jack couldn't do anything for the broken ribs and the cast on Brock's arm still need to stay on. It was honestly a miracle more hadn't been broken.

The day before arrival, Jack was forced to put Brock back in the cargo area and upon docking; the man still hadn't woken up.

Now it was time for the next step.

Staying still in any one place for long could be dangerous but even more so in places that SHIELD and HYDRA had frequented in, namely most of North America and Europe. It appeared that a third world country was what Jack needed if he had any hope of keeping him and Brock alive.

After stealing another car, it took nearly three days to drive to Turkey where he finally rested, Brock still not having awoken. A day of rest and then almost five more days until they reached Ethiopia where Jack finally stopped. He didn't think for a second that they were safe. If HYDRA really wanted them dead, they would be eventually, but with all the chaos such an occurrence would take time, time which HYDRA did not have.

On the outskirts of Dessie, Amhara, Jack finally found an apartment to rent. Paying for it with stolen money and labor, four more days passed.

Twenty-nine days, nearly a month since Jack had first arrived at that hospital was when Brock opened his eyes for the first time. Jack had been hoping for just one day of peace, even an hour would've been nice, but not even minutes passed before something was thrown.

Even in his weakened state and his dominant hand in a cast, Brock somehow succeeded in shattering the lamp that had sat beside his bed by throwing it against the opposite wall.

Jack sighed; just grateful his head hadn't been the target. "That was our only form of light at night."

"What the hell should I care?! Get out! Just get the fuck out!"

Jack shouldn't have expected much of anything else. Nevertheless, he left the room and was just thankful he had more self control than Brock. He was already tempted to shoot the man.

The last thing Brock remembered was the Helicarrier crashing into SHIELD headquarters. Maybe a few moments in between then and now but more than likely the vague memories had just been made up by his addled brain.

He'd been shocked at seeing Jack Rollins of all people, honestly expecting to be dead himself. Nevertheless, a familiar face was no longer welcomed when he realized what condition he was in. Jack had tried talking to him but instead, Brock had just blown up in the man's face.

Already he felt guilty after the room was empty but at the same time he wished there was something else to throw. Whatever Jack had wanted to tell him he hadn't needed words to know that something was wrong with his legs. He couldn't move them what so ever though he could feel a few parts of his upper thigh.

He felt like utter shit though that wasn't surprising.

The other injuries would heal though it was the legs that bothered him. He was a field agent. He fought, killed and brought down men and women if necessary. How could he do any of that now? What would HYDRA do with him and—

Why the hell wasn't he in a hospital?

Brock really began to regret throwing Jack out now but didn't call out in the chance that the man actually heard him due to pride. Instead, he assessed the room as best he could.

Jack had been right about the lamp being the only source of light. There was a fan currently on in the ceiling but no light bulb connected with it. The room was an entire apartment, a makeshift table and two chairs not far from the bed along with a kitchen. There was a refrigerator but it looked ancient.

At first, Brock thought Jack had gotten a different room for himself but he soon spotted the pile of blankets beside the bed where the man must have been sleeping, the bed itself not being very big. A backpack was sitting in the corner but it was the only form of luggage that Brock could see.

There was a small bathroom to his left without a door, the mirror cracked. He really hoped there was a shower in there.

There was only one window with no glass and Brock could feel the heat rolling in. It was a good thing he hadn't thrown the lamp at the fan. From the trees outside and the content of the room, Africa seemed like a pretty good choice. The Middle East didn't quite fit.

He looked back at his body, trying to concentrate on the any other damage and wishing there was some way to get to the mirror in the bathroom. However, he kept going back to his legs. God he was worthless. So fucking worthless.

For a while, all he could do was wait and worry about food and needing to go to the bathroom when he finally realized he had a catheter in. Such a thing was for the disabled the weak.

But then he remembered he was disabled and any calm he'd developed had disappeared.

"Fuck! Fuck!"

"Are you planning to throw anything else at my head?" The voice was muffled but Brock could tell it was Jack.

"Nothing else to throw except a blanket and a pillow," growled Brock.

The door opened and Brock watched him come in much like a cautious cat. "Hungry?" asked Jack.

"Yeah."

"Here," Jack threw a small bag with what looked like pretzels in it.

"What the hell is this?"

"Dabo kolo."

"What?"

"The landlord gave it to me after working his fields. We're in Ethiopia which you would know if you'd listened to me in the first place."

Brock ate the food; he'd certainly had worse. "Why Ethiopia?"

"No particular reason," Jack replied, sitting in one of the two chairs by the table. "It's simply far away and HYDRA doesn't have a base anywhere near here."

"Why would we be running from HYDRA? How did I even get here? What—"

"Brock, I swear you say one more question word and I'll shoot you! Just shut up and listen," Jack spat out.

Brock glared at him but kept quit as Jack talked. The story he threaded through the air did nothing to improve his mood. Once done, it took all his concentration not to just explode. "We're dead then. Everything I've worked for, everything I've done, it doesn't even matter anymore."

"I suppose it doesn't," Jack agreed. "But HYDRA's not going to come after us, not anytime soon. They're almost certainly still reeling from the attack, same as SHIELD."

"I don't care if that gives us a few extra days to live. I don't care if it gives us a year! My life is worthless now! You should have shot me! At least you would've gained something then!"

"I gained more by doing this."

"Which was…?"

"Saving you."

Brock sucked in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Get out! Just…get out."

"Fine, I understand, you need some time alone. But just know that I am coming back before it gets dark because I sure as hell won't be sleeping in the hallway," Jack replied as he got up and left.

Watching him go, guilt and confusion crashed into Brock. Why the hell would Jack feel like saving him? If their positions had been reversed, Brock was almost positive that he would have taken the offer. But then again, Jack had experienced a different past before he got to HYDRA.

For Brock, HYDRA had been his only family. Anything before that, well, he just didn't think about it.

But he had nothing now. Nothing except Jack Rollins and this fucking room. He wouldn't-couldn't- stay here for the rest of his life. Maybe if he wasn't paralyzed he would have been thankful for having his life, but that meant little to him now.

Sighing, Brock moved himself from the bed and onto the floor. The entire experience was a painful reminder of his weakness. It only made this entire idea so much easier. The act of dragging himself across the floor took longer than he thought it would, every few inches having to stop and rest.

Finally, he made it to the backpack. He rummaged through it and then finally found what he was looking for. It was at the bottom of the bag and in perfect condition as well. He checked, full.

The key to his freedom, and Jack's freedom really, now lay in the palm of his hand.

He placed the barrel of the gun into his mouth. The shape was familiar and Brock closed his eyes, imagining the bullet ripping through the back of his skull. A sweet release, one that would allow him to escape his disabilities and free Jack from whatever the reason he was helping him.

Brock pulled the gun out and placed it back in his lap.

The gun found its way back to his mouth then to his lap again. The cycle repeated several times before Brock finally stopped.

He couldn't do it. Dying for a cause, a purpose, made death worth wild. This was cowardly though and Brock was already ashamed that he'd even thought of the idea. Maybe freedom would be harder to grasp now but as far as he was concerned, he wouldn't have any say in the afterlife no matter what was there.

Just then, the sound of the door opening wove into Brock's ears.