The Winter Soldier is property.
He is not human. He has no name, no face, no identity, no memory. He is a soldier; just that, no more. He's a "once upon a time" and belongs to HYDRA.
All the same, Brock never did appreciate people touching his stuff whether it be a shirt or a soldier, and the gaping wound along his spine implied that somebody had done just that. The rising well, simmering like magma within the concave of his gut felt suspiciously like rage, though Rumlow knew there was no reason to be quite so protective over a replaceable item of possession- replaceable in the way that the arm was undamaged, as it was always undamaged- and yet he permitted himself not to think about the sheer aggravation welling to overflow.
"Shirt off."
Winter complied.
"Lay down."
He lay.
"Now don't move. This hurt?" Rumlow's fingers, calloused and dull from years of use, invaded the black, blue, purple, green that cascaded down the soldier's flesh like a vine. Given there was no response, he pressed harshly, and received a delicate hiss in return.
"Alright. How about this?" They travelled - his fingers, that is- to a crimson crevice at least an inch deep at its worst, painting his own flesh with a sanguine acerbity that smelled specifically of his 'not human no name no face no identity no memory' asset. Winter's back curved, arching away, and Rumlow took great pride in the way that his fingers curled into the table, metal against metal and snapping its corner with such force that its screech equalled Winter's own. His fingers slipped away, palm harsh against his upper back, crushing him to the table and painting red prints onto his shoulder blades, protruding so gracefully that he thought they'd sprout paper wings.
They didn't.
Rumlow, gloveless fingers of an opposite hand grasping, curling, clasping through strands of bedraggled sienna hair in desperate need of washing (Brock's checklist included shower tonight, anyway), yanked upwards the gasping face of Winter's own 'not human no name no face no identity no memory' child, hissing into the aching shell of the Asset's ear, relishing in the rough gasps and grunts that escaped the soldier beneath his palms. Rumlow's voice was a twisted growl, predatory and alert.
"Nobody hurts you. Nobody hurts you except me."