A/N: The prompt for Day Two of Rumlow Week is Crossbones. I intended to write something about comic Crossbones at first, but I don't know enough about him to write him well. So then I wanted to write a serious piece about MCU Rumlow becoming Crossbones, but instead I listened to "You Are A Pirate" from Lazy Town one too many times and this nonsense happened. In conclusion, picking on Rumlow never gets old.

"I want a code name."

Rollins glances into the living room, where Rumlow is sprawled over the couch, flipping through a Captain America biography. "Really? You're still reading that crap?"

"You threw me out of the kitchen." It's Rumlow's apartment but the kitchen only ever sees use if Rollins is over. Which has gotten to be pretty often as of late, after missions. Rumlow could happily live off of microwave dinners and takeout and he doesn't understand why cooking is Rollins's go-to method of unwinding after Fury's cleared them, but hey. He gets decent meals out of it and the company isn't too awful.

"You set fire to a crock pot. You have no business in the kitchen."

"That was once and I was sabotaged." Rumlow tosses the book at Rollins's head before the man can start debating sabotage versus stupidity. "No, but really. Rogers wasn't the only one with a code name, you know."

"So they were all jackasses, is your point?" Having dodged the projectile, Rollins slips back over to the stove. The air is thick with the scents of garlic and oregano.

The book lies open on the countertop, spine bent, but Rumlow can't be bothered to retrieve it. He's still in his tactical gear, collapsed on the couch. If not for the dull but persistent ache of hunger in his stomach, he'd have been out cold as soon as he was lying down. "You had Captain America, obviously—"

"Unfortunately."

"—but there was also Union Jack and Frenchie and Dum Dum and the San Francisco Kid—"

"None of them were from San Fran," Rollins says, stirring.

"See? You've read up on them too, you can't judge me."

"One, I read about them once. Two, it was an order from Pierce. And three, I'm always judging you."

Rumlow had been counting names on his fingers. Now he flips Rollins off and continues. "All of 'em had a code name. I need one."

"Why, so all you have to do is introduce yourself for everyone to know you're a douchebag?"

Shaking his head, Rumlow watches as Rollins returns his attention to the soup. "You don't get it." Once HYDRA has the world, the STRIKE team will be the new Howling Commandos. Kids aren't gonna want to hear about Rogers and Barnes anymore; they'll be begging for stories of Rumlow and Rollins and their dead-eyed cyborg attack dog. It's exhilarating.

It's also exhausting. Rumlow hasn't had a decent sleep since the team shipped out and he begins to nod off, head drooping, before the clang of Rollins's spoon against the side of the pot jolts him back to alertness. His head is tilting down again when his eyes fall on the harness straps crisscrossing over his chest and inspiration strikes.

"Crossbones."

"Soup's ready," Rollins says at the exact same moment.

"Crossbones," Rumlow repeats, hunger forgotten. "It's perfect." And it is, much better than some location turned nickname. It's tough and threatening and mysterious. You'd wonder what the deal behind the name is, but you wouldn't ask for fear of getting your ass kicked. Perfect.

"For a wannabe pirate, maybe." Rollins snorts, rolling his eyes as he sets the steaming bowls down on the coffee table. "You gonna borrow Fury's eye patch?"

It's clear that Rollins has no taste. "What is this shit anyway?" Rumlow asks, stirring through the soup.

"Anything that wasn't expired. I don't know how you live by yourself without sta—wait." Rollins's own spoon is forgotten, eyes sparkling. "Are you—are you actually pouting because I don't like your little pirate name?"

"Who's pouting? I just don't wanna start my weekend with food poisoning."

"You are." Rollins is cackling, one hand clamped over his mouth and the other reaching out to pat Rumlow's knee. "Aw, it's okay, Commander. I'll help you hunt for buried treasure." When his hand is batted away he just doubles in on himself, howling louder.

There is absolutely not a smile tugging at Rumlow's lips. Nope. "Who says you're invited on my ship?"

Rollins is laughing so much he's wiping at his eyes, the prick. "Well good. Then I don't have to call myself First Mate Jolly Rollins."

"The Soldier's the first mate." Rumlow crosses his arms and fine, maybe he's smirking. "You're the parrot."

"All the more reason to stay off your ship. I sit on your shoulder and you'll crash through the damn floor."

Waiting until Rollins has the spoon in his mouth before he responds, Rumlow says, "You could always sit in my lap."

It's not the first time he's seen Rollins choke, but it never gets less amusing. "Oh, so you're that kind of pirate." He wipes at his mouth, shaking his head. "If you have to play superhero, you could at least name yourself after something that makes sense. Like Lightweight."

There's a flush of heat in his face and he considers upending the soup on Rollins's head. A little too much to drink on one mission and nobody will ever let him live it down. "So you'd be Scarface?"

"Better than Lightweight. Or—oh, oh, Two Beers." Rollins doesn't even register the punch to his shoulder through his giggles.

"It was two shots, asshole." And that only makes Rollins laugh harder. Fine, so Rumlow had gotten trashed in Moscow and he'd been a bit of a handsy drunk but the whole "two beers and Brock becomes an octopus" gag the STRIKE team's so fond of isn't just played out, it's inaccurate. "Fuck you."

"Gonna make me walk the plank?" Rollins asks. "Finish your soup."

"It's cold."

"The mighty Crossbones, bested by cold soup." He's not laughing out loud now, but he's shaking trying to hold it in. "I think it's best for the crew if I lead a mutiny."

"You're just jealous," Rumlow says, stalking to the microwave, "that in twenty years the world's gonna know me as Crossbones and you'll be stuck as Jolly Rollins."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged."

Rollins snorts, letting the spoon clatter into his own empty bowl. "Relax, Bones. You're still my favorite captain even if you've got ridiculous taste."

"It's a great name and history's gonna vindicate it."

"Mmhmm."

A/N: Union Jack was James Montgomery Falsworth's code name. Frenchie was a nickname for Jacques Dernier. The San Francisco Kid was a name for Jim Morita in the comics, though in the film he's from Fresno. So really I ought to have just called him Fresno, but there you go.

When Rollins says that kind of a pirate, he means a butt pirate. I really didn't plan for this fic to have HYDRA Husbands leanings, but they're slipping in whether I intended them or not.

Two Beers: the lovely and talented bofurrific on Archive of Our Own has a story entitled "I've found the velvet sun that shines on me and you." consisting of fifty drabbles about Rumlow, Rollins, and the Winter Soldier, all of which were written for me. The eighth drabble, Gift, mentions that Rumlow is a lightweight, touchy-feely drunk, which Rollins and the Winter Soldier proceed to mock him for by giving him a stuffed octopus they named Two Beers. It was beautiful and easily drunk, handsy Rumlow is now my headcanon.

"Over my dead body": Given that we last saw Rollins unconscious on the floor of the Triskelion before the helicarrier hit, it's entirely possible that he is dead by the end of the film. And that's terrible.