There are aspects of a person's physicality that make an impact on us in ways words never could. In the way they stand or in the small mannerisms they make with their hands while conversing. It is these small actions, these characteristics of a person that we pick up on and they tell us more about this person than simply listening could ever show us. Through observation, we can gleam the subtle nature of their character. Although, in some, the messages are smaller or perhaps, even more subtly conveyed. And it takes the more perceptive, skilled individuals to ascertain.
So, for any Strike member, it was Sergeant Rumlow's shoulders that told them everything. Despite the layers of cotton, leather, and Kevlar; it was the tensed, rigidity of his shoulders that conveyed a warning that a dialogue with him could never articulate quite as succinctly. He was dangerous. Like a caged animal, he seemed always coiled and ready to strike, perhaps that's what made him such a irreplaceable Leader of the Strike team. It wasn't just danger he exuded in those shoulders but power. Raw and threatening; begging to be challenged. His subordinates never questioned him and his word was law. And if anyone attempted to argue otherwise, a dangerous flick of those dark brown eyes was usually enough to silence even the most boisterous of recruits. But his blood would rush and hum in his ears, excitement coursing through him, for the thrill of a fight. He was born of conflict and thrived in it. And it was due to this aspect of his nature, that perhaps, at times, he was unaware he exuded, but it kept people at a distance. Sure, for work it was ideal. He thrived on the superior surge of adrenaline he felt at the fear he saw in the face of his enemies. But Agent Rumlow is human and as such, on occasion, rarely, but at times….Agent Brock Rumlow was lonely.
Xxx.
He tapped the glass on the bar light enough to not be rude but loud enough to get the bartender's attention. "Another." A polite nod of his head, casual eye contact towards the man behind the bar, and his eyes where focused back on his hands. The soft sloshing of warm, brown liquid as the glass was placed in front of him was calming. Sighing, Rumlow ran a tanned, scared hand threw his mess of black hair, as the other encircled the glass of whiskey slowly. Absently, he swirled the alcohol around in the glass as the hand in his hair stopped to rest against his forehead. His dark eyes narrowed as he felt the telltale scaring of his partly disfigured face beneath his palm.
Rumlow thought he'd been right, hail Hydra, he'd really been all in. But then the shit hit the fan, he grimaced at the memory. Shield won and he'd almost been sent to jail. For a moment, in that hospital he'd considered escape and revenge. Dedicating his life to destroying Captain America and the fucking asset that had got away, his fucking Bucky. His grip tightened on the glass reflexively. There was no doubt that the bad blood between him and the Captain was there. At the thought of Rogers, Rumlow immediately pulled the glass whiskey to his mouth and downed it all in one gulp. Smirking despite the pain at the burning sensation trickling down his throat.
"Another." He murmured again.
Although, despite his hatred of Rogers, his self preservation had won out. He turned on Hydra. Gave 'the not so dead' Nick Fury all the locations of Hydra bases he knew of in exchange for keeping his job on the Strike team. Which, Fury had, in a way agreed to. With the exception that he was now on a classified, special ops Strike team that worked officially unaffiliated with the U.S and S.H.I.E.L.D when on missions.
It was Fury's way of keeping Rumlow, a useful asset, around but also simultaneously having the option to kill him should it become necessary.
Xxx.
'Look, I'm going to be frank with you, Agent Rumlow. I don't like you. I think you're a motherfucker who needs to be shot in the head, twice. But you can be useful to Shield. So here's the deal, you stay in line, follow orders, and stay the fuck away from Captain America then you don't get shot in the head. Is that mother fucking clear, shithead?'
'Wow, you're a real poet, Commander.'
'Shut up, get out my sight, Rumlow, before I change my mind.'
Xxx.
So here he was. In a bar, in the middle of Los Angeles at 11am awaiting a shit assignment, that would probably get him killed, from an asshole boss, because officially, he doesn't work for Shield. And officially, he's dead too.
'Fuck, with a face like this I might as well be.' He thought bitterly as he downed, his fifth glass of whiskey today. And he was about to order another when his phone buzzed.
"Rumlow."
"Report to base at 1300 hours."
"Yes, sir."
"Bring your tac gear and-"
Brock snapped the phone shut. When did he ever not need full tac gear and Kevlar? They were sending him and his team somewhere, were they didn't expect them to come back, he was expendable.
"Another." He tapped the glass on the bar one last time. One for the road. Tossing the last glass back he left cash on the bar and grabbed the tac bag that had been sitting at his feet and slung it over his shoulder as he stepped outside. Wincing painfully, Rumlow grappled for his aviators in his tac pants, the sun making his head throb painfully.
"Fuck me."
He grumbled harshly, all traces of his lovely buzz disappearing in the cruel Californian heat, as he shoved the shades over his nose.
"Now, where the fuck did I park?" He asked himself out loud, letting his voice run over the explicative slowly, a mother walked by with her son, glaring reproachfully at him. He laughed.
Xxx.
The thick, humid air flicked viciously at his face, the doors to the helicopter hung open as they descended a few clicks from target. Rumlow gave his team a cursory glance as the helicopter touched down. The men with him, haggard, casting disdainful glances at one another as the grips on their weapons tightened. There was no preamble among his men, they were here for a job, the sooner it was over, the sooner they could say 'fuck off' and head their separate ways till shield called upon them again.
Momentarily, his gaze landed on the newest member of his expendable misfits, a woman. The only female on the entire squad who belonged here as much as much as a fox belongs in a hen house. She was of fairly average height for a woman almost tall for her gender. She had long blonde hair and from what Rumlow could see, she was athletic, so she was no stranger to hard work. But there was a difference between doing laps at a gym and dropping into enemy territory armed to the teeth with lead intent on killing.
He'd fought Fury on her placement with his team before deployment.
XXX.
"She doesn't fucking belong here, I want her off my sqaud." Rumlow commanded, roughly jabbing his finger in the girl's direction, his dark eyes surprisingly focused despite his inebriation.
"Do I look like someone who cares what you want, Sergeant Rumlow?"
Rumlow was about to respond, but Fury cut him off, "No. Now given that what you want and like are about as relevant as the temperature of hell, you can shut the hell up."
Brock clenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed behind his sun glasses, his hands rested casually on his hips, despite the rage induced clenching of his biceps and his tense hands, he looked perfectly at ease. But perhaps that was the facade of killers, being able to appear in control, even as that tenuous control was slipping away.
"So, what? I just go into enemy territory with this kid and get her killed? Is that how sheild operates now? This is fucking reckless. She doesn't belong out here." he stated roughly, ignoring the fact that the 'kid' was now intently staring at Rumlow from across the air field. Fury raised an eyebrow at Rumlow's outburst.
"Are you serious? You are questioning the ethics of Shield? You? Hydra's lap dog?"
Brock stared him down, silent, tensed, and using every shred of self control to not just lock his fist to Fury's jaw at that moment. Fury wasn't hiding his contempt for him, Rumlow knew very well how he felt about him and his team.
"Beta squad is deployed for the really dirty, fucked up shit that you can't have the Avengers be involved with. And you want to send me out into the field with a fucking Barbie doll? Fine, but when I come back with only an arm to return to her family, that's on you, Fury." Brock snapped, huffing slightly he removed his glasses to wipe his forearm across his face, it was too fucking hot out here.
"Every person on this Squad is here because their a criminal, Rumlow, you should know that better than anyone, nothing has changed." Fury stated calmly, Brock's face twisted into thoughtful contemplation despite himself, and unconsciously he turned back to look at the young woman. She sat on some cargo boxes, elbows on her knees, her long blonde hair loosely braided, and a pair of flat black sunglasses perched lazily on her nose. She was staring right at him, wearing head to toe black and kevlar, and she was staring, of course he couldn't be certain since she was wearing sun glasses. But he could feel the intensity of her gaze and it wasn't warm.
After moments passed in tense silence, Fury sighed in annoyance, realizing Rumlow wasn't going to back down, despite the very valid point he'd just made, and ran a weathered hand across his temples, clearly tired of this conversation.
"Washington says she's a killer. She's on the team. That's it. End of discussion, got that?"
Rumlow laughed, smirking as he looked down at his boot, kicking up dirt in abject aggravation, "Of course." he quipped, looking back up, he slid his sunglasses back on, smirking darkly. He though, what do I care, if the bitch dies that won't be on my conscious...
XXX.
"Move, Move, Move!" He yelled, as one by one his team jumped from the helicopter and ran into the jungle in front of them. The girl was the last to exit and as she was about to jump, Rumlow grabbed her forearm. She paused, her blue eyes narrowed and she waited patiently, despite the sounds of gun shots and screaming in the jungle just yards from them.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her blue grey eyes scanned his face, Sergeant Rumlow was older, probably close to fifty. The right half of his face was disfigured by intense scarring and his ear almost looked to melt into the side of his head. His bottom lip was cut by a deep scar and for all intents and purposes he looked like a monster. His black hair was an unnaturally dark shade of black, it was like he dipped his hair into a vat of oil. His dark brown eyes were not warm nor were they friendly. They were cold, calculating , and cruel. She had always been a good judge of character, before they'd deployed she had seen all these characteristics in him from across an air field. But what shocked her into momentary silence at his question was the briefest flicker of something else in his eyes.
He shook her arm.
"Hey? You listening? I said, what's your name?" he viciously yelled.
There you are, Rumlow.
She thought, there was the heartless traitor of their country that she had been sent to kill.
She effortlessly broke his hold on her arm and then leaned in, his eye twitched at her proximity, her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders as the loose braid she'd had earler that day finally gave way.
"Charlie," she said, she turned to jump off the helicopter, but paused, and turned back to him. "It's good to finally meet you, Sergeant Rumlow."
XXX.
Then she was gone, into the jungle, jamming a magazine into the automated weapon in right hand and unclipping the holster for her knife on her left thigh.
Rumlow stared for a long time. The screams of his men or perhaps their victims was becoming more prolific, along with sound of guns.
"Rumlow? You stayin or going?" the pilot asked.
"Yeah." He jumped off the helicopter, the wind from its blades kicking up his jet black hair into a frenzied mess, as the loose jungle foliage blew around and past him. He unlatched the knife at his thigh and flipped it around his hand, grabbing the grip tightly.
He smirked.
Charlie...
He thought.
XXX.