A/N: TW: burning alive. Just a little mention about it. This is what you guys get out of me when my job consists of folding laundry for eight hours straight; LOTS OF TIME TO THINK. Also there's lots of swearing in this chapter, like, a ridiculous amount. ALSO a ridiculous amount of italics. I also think this will be the last chapter with flashbacks, just because we're pretty much caught up now. Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter Seven

April 2016

This whole situation was amusing Natasha to no end, but they were on a tight schedule. She glanced down at her watch and smirked, glancing back up at the men all grumbling and watching each other warily. "Well, I guess if we're leaving, especially with him in tow, we might want to get going. The next guard shift should be down in about twenty minutes, and if they notice the others lying unconscious in the hall, it won't be pretty." She batted her lashes at the men who just continued to stare at her incredulously. "Unless you want to be seen breaking a Hydra agent out of a secure facility?"

Winter stared hard at her for a long moment before he nodded and tore himself away from her side in order to hover at Brock's instead. He took one of the man's scarred up hands in his own and squeezed reassuringly. Disconnecting all of the wires and tubes connected to him only took a moment, and a quick fist to the machine that had been monitoring his vitals quieted it down once it started shrieking at them. He spoke as he worked, words soft and soothing, like Brock was five years old again. "It's going to be alright, Brock. We're going to take you somewhere safe." Once he was done with the wires, Winter took an indulgent moment to run a hand through Brock's short hair, then cupped his stubbled cheek before looking toward Rogers for help.

"He can't move quickly like this; I can carry him for now, but I need someone to watch our six. Natalia will take point." The Widow smirked smugly in agreement from beside the door, loading her gun casually as she waited for them. As if she wouldn't have been in the lead, anyway. She scanned the room for anything else they might need while Winter tried to position Brock comfortably in his arms. She snatched up Brock's medical file from the foot of the bed and snuck as many bags of painkillers into her pockets as she could fit. She glanced up to check on the others and saw Rogers staring at Barnes and Rumlow with a look of pure determination on his face. Once Barnes started moving toward the door, Rogers fell into step behind him, keeping a wary eye out on every doorway they passed.

The small group stalked deeper into the hospital together, pausing every now and then in order to allow Natasha to scout ahead. Brock felt like a child, wrapped up in Winter's arms like he was a little boy, but a tiny part of him felt relieved. They were going to take him with them. This hadn't just been just a visit or a goodbye. When the Triskelion had fallen on top of him, he had been ready to die, especially if it meant that Winter had the chance to be free once and for all. Now he got to live, and Winter got to live, and they got to do both of those things together.

He might have thought he was in heaven, if not for the constant ache in his bones and the pain that jolted up his limbs every time Winter took a step. Brock considered himself a tough son of a bitch and he kept telling himself that he had had worse before, as he tried to breathe through the pain like a pregnant woman at a Lamaze class. Realistically, he had to admit that full body burns and recently healing skin grafts were in a whole 'nother league than bullet wounds or cuts and scrapes.

Winter had his Mission-Face on, focused on getting them out and nothing else, and didn't that just bring back about a million and one memories of missions they had run together. Peeking around Winter's shoulder, Brock saw a scarily similar look on Rogers' face.

It was weird, knowing that Captain America was on his side in this moment, even knowing everything that he did now about the agent that had been on his team and lied straight to his face day in, day out. Brock's American History class had been boring as all hell and he had barely paid any attention during it, but he had listened to Rogers' stories about the good ol' days; about his friends and family when he was feeling nostalgic but couldn't get drunk enough to wallow in it, instead choosing to just sit in a sad pile of misery and tell stories to anyone who would stick around long enough to listen to them.

He knew on a visceral level that Rogers wasn't doing this for him, but for Winter. Because Bucky Barnes was asking him for help, and no way was Cap ever going to deny his best friend anything ever again. And, you know, Brock could live with that, as long as that determination to his best friend lasted long enough to get him out of that hospital and safely ensconced in a safe house far away from prying eyes and maximum security prisons.

Romanoff stalked down the hallway, gun at the ready in case any agents or guards showed up unexpectedly. She peeked around corners, taking her job as point seriously, before moving on until they were standing outside of a stairwell that led to the roof. Brock hooked his fingers through the straps on Winter's tac vest, just like he had a thousand times before since he was just a little kid, and then they started climbing the stairs. Up and up and up, until the door was shoved open and they filed through into the warm Spring night. Apparently they were going roof hopping tonight, and wouldn't that just be a blast with all those healing skin grafts.

Once Brock's eyes adjusted to the dark, it seemed he needn't have worried. There was a sleek helicopter waiting for them on the helipad, the blades starting up the moment they stormed through the door. Romanoff was the first to hop in the back, reaching out to hold the door open for the others. Winter situated Brock on the floor as carefully as he could before climbing in after him. Rogers was the last to hop in, slamming the door shut behind himself before settling down on the other side of the redheaded spy.

"Go, Clint!" she shouted once everyone was situated, slamming a hand against the roof in case he hadn't heard her. The chopper shuddered beneath them and Brock groaned, Winter instantly hovering in his line of vision and looking deadly worried.

"Are you alright?" he asked, shouting over the sound of the helicopter blades as they started to gain altitude. Brock just turned to glare at the Widow, who was smirking nonchalantly as she examined her nails. Her green cat's eyes flickered to him for a moment, looking cheeky and amused at the situation, before she drawled out, "What, Rumlow?"

"You brought Barton? What am I saying, of course you brought fucking Barton. Should have just assumed. You two are a package deal more often than not."

"Guilty as charged!" Barton shouted back from the front, the grin evident in his voice. Brock just groaned again and leaned into the floor beneath him, his eyes fluttering closed in annoyance.

"Please tell me someone pocketed some pain meds before we left?" he grumbled, not even bothering to open his eyes.

And, because his eyes were squeezed shut, he couldn't react before a heavy bag landed on his stomach. He heaved in pain, arching up from the floor in order to shove the bag off of himself. God, but that had hurt!

"Fuck you, Romanoff!" he complained, curling up on his side. He did reach out to unzip the bag though, finding a healthy supply of morphine and oral pain meds. "Alright, I take it back. You're a goddamn angel. Where the hell did you get this bag?" he veered off wearily, poking the backpack full of painkillers like it might disappear.

She didn't answer, just winked and went right back to playing on her phone instead. Brock rolled his eyes at her; fucking sneaky Russian assassins. Not that he was complaining, really; the contents of the bag held enough pain medication to last him at least a month. He rolled back over and glanced up at his sneaky Russian assassin, which was actually his father, which was fucking mind blowing and not something to be thinking too hard about while they were running for their lives. Well, he was running for his life, and Winter probably was too. The others were just vaguely breaking the law by breaking out one fugitive and harboring two.

Brock felt the exhaustion crashing into him like he had just run head first into a wall, and let his eyes shutter closed once more. After a few moments, something cool and metal settled over his forehead. He leaned into the touch, knowing that it was just Winter being his overprotective self. The assassin had always been a tactile man, for as long as Brock could remember. He had had to hide it in front of the handlers and any higher ups, but when they had been alone, Winter had taken every opportunity to show him he cared. He hugged Brock, held him, ran his fingers through his hair all the time. In truth, Brock had missed that closeness whenever they had sent the Soldier out on missions without him, or when they had stowed him away in cryo for years at a time. It was painful to live without those touches for so long, so he was going to be selfish for once and enjoy every bit of affection that the man was willing to give. The metal hand started stroking through his hair, then down his cheek, and Brock let himself relax again. Winter was here and he wouldn't let anyone hurt him. Of that, he was sure.

He dozed for a while, slipping in and out of consciousness, until he felt the chopper hovering and then slowly descending. He cracked his eyes open and rolled on over, peeking out of the window. They were in the middle of a field, so they couldn't be in the city anymore.

Romanoff was the first one out of the cabin, waiting for Winter to curl Brock into his arms once more before taking off toward the garage. Rogers followed right behind Brock and Winter, hefting the bag of medication over his shoulder. Brock looked around curiously; they were just in an empty field, surrounded by tress so that the helicopter would have some sort of cover. About a hundred feet from their landing spot was an old rundown garage, and he watched as Romanoff shoved the sliding door up to reveal three vehicles. She made straight for the modest sized SUV in the center and slid behind the driver's seat. Barton hopped up to the shotgun seat, still smirking, and Winter and Rogers followed suit. They shuffled into the back seats, Winter laying Brock down gently in the furthest row of seats so he could stretch out. Winter and Rogers scrunched themselves up into the middle row.

"All ready?" Romanoff asked, cranking the key to get the SUV started. There were affirmative grumbles from the back and then she was tearing out of the garage and down a bumpy dirt road. Brock groaned about his lot in life from the back seat as he was thrown around; Romanoff really seemed to be getting unbelievable joy from throwing them all around with her fast driving and tight turns.

It was, frankly, a bit ridiculous.

Barton settled down comfortably in the front seat like it was all no big deal, taking the time to kick his feet up on the dashboard and lean back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. "So," he called back to the others in the back seats, "is anybody going to explain why Rumlow's here and why the Winter Soldier was carrying him all princess-style?" He twisted at an unbelievable angle to meet Rogers' eyes. "I mean, whatever and all, but Nat just said that we were ghosting you and your icy buddy away in case things turned nasty. However, I see things did not turn nasty and we also have an extra body tagging along now. So. Spill the beans, Cap."

"Brock's my son," Winter snarled protectively, his voice no less threatening for how soft he spoke. He glared at Barton as if he might refute his claim, but the archer was just watching him with wide eyes, looking shocked and surprised. "Hydra's taken him away from me for long enough, and I won't let anyone else have him ever again."

Barton gaped at him in shock for all of .2 seconds before he was grinning and laughing again, reaching out to pat Winter's shoulder amicably. "No worries, buddy. I'm not going to touch him, promise. I was just curious, is all." Then he craned his neck, trying to meet Brock's gaze in the back seat. "But da-yum, Brock! Winter Soldier's your old man, did you hear that?"

"Yeah, it's news to me too. Just found out like two hours ago. Still processing back here." He waved a negligent hand at Barton, then closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep. Knowing Barton, though, no one would be getting any sleep until he was, too. That man never shut his mouth if he didn't have to.

"Sweet, man." Then he turned back to Romanoff and started talking her ear off instead. Rogers settled back into his seat, apparently happy to just relax and stare out the window until they reached their next destination. Winter watched the others for a long moment before he settled himself sideways in his seat to lean his chin on the back of the bench, content to just watch Brock breathe in and out for a while. Brock felt his skin prickling beneath Winter's gaze and cracked his eyes open minimally, meeting Winter's look for a second before smiling lopsidedly.

"Hey, Winter," he grumbled out, tilting his head sideways so he could look up at the man clearly. Winter's lips ticked up, more of a smile than Brock had ever seen on him before, he was sure. The man reached out and slowly stroked a finger across Brock's brow.

"Hello, zaichik." There was abrupt amused spluttering from the front seat, and then Barton was crowing with loud, obnoxious laughter, slapping his knee and leaning back to grin at them all. Winter glared at the archer, confusion clouding his mind, his hand now resting protectively over Brock's chest.

"Did you just call him 'bunny'? Oh, God. Rumlow, I'm really sorry. But I will never take you seriously ever again. Bunny! Oh, fuck. Nat, did you hear that?"

Winter gritted his teeth while he glared at Barton. "I have called him that since he was just a little boy. You will not ruin it," the Soldier growled out stiffly, his fingers tightening their grip on Brock's shirt. If looks could kill, Barton would have dropped dead the moment he opened his mouth.

In the tense silence that followed, Rogers perked his head up and turned to look at Winter. "What's the story behind that?" He kept his voice calm and inquisitive, trying to de-escalate the situation before it came to punches and swearing.

Rogers' honest curiosity seemed to catch Winter off guard. He blinked owlishly at Rogers for a long time before the tiniest of smiles brightened his face. "I met him for the first time when he was five years old. I had just returned from a mission, and they left me alone with a child that was just wandering around. I didn't remember that they had told me I had a child, but I recognized something in him. He followed me to the training mats and I showed him a few exercises, started teaching him Russian, too." Winter chuckled, the sound coming from deep within his chest, his smile widening as he glanced down at Brock's mortified face in the back seat. "He gave me a name, so I gave him one in return. He was hopping around so much, it just slipped out. The name stuck." He shrugged like it was a perfectly normal occurrence for someone who looked as gruff and threatening as Brock Rumlow to be called 'Bunny' for most of his life.

Brock was grumbling in the back seat, but it was halfhearted at most. Winter flicked his nose playfully when the grumbling got louder, then turned to face Rogers with a cocky smirk, an air of pride radiating off of him. "Everyone's parents have embarrassing stories about them," he declared smugly, and Brock just groaned louder.

"Sorry to cut story time short, but we're here," the Widow stated dully, pulling to a stop in front of a deserted house in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Now that they weren't in a rush to get away, Brock decided that he was going to get inside that safe house on his own two feet, no matter what. He still had to lean heavily against Winter's side, but at least he stepped over the threshold more or less under his own power. Winter dropped him down on the sofa and then disappeared, probably to secure the perimeter a few dozen times and set some traps for anyone stupid enough to try to sneak up on them.

Rogers watched Winter disappear further into the house with a sad, longing look on his face. Brock shifted uncomfortably on the sofa for a moment, drawing all the attention back to himself. Romanoff was cleaning a gun in the seat across from him, eyeing him with thinly veiled distrust. Barton had discovered the kitchen and was banging around in there, probably trying to find something to fill the bottomless pit that was his stomach. Rogers slumped down on the other end of the sofa and rubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted. Brock wasn't sure he had ever seen the man anything other than totally put together before, even with his uniform in scraps and covered in dirt.

Brock hadn't said one word, but suddenly Romanoff and Rogers were both staring at him, eyes scrutinizing and intense. He wasn't sure what had brought it on, but suddenly the look seemed to bleed out of Rogers' eyes until he was simply smiling sadly down at Brock instead.

"What the hell was that for?" he wondered out loud, feeling emotional whiplash.

"Was just trying to see any of Buck's family in you," Rogers admitted, rubbing a hand against his neck, his cheeks faintly red. "I'm actually really surprised I never noticed before." Rogers leaned closer to him and smirked. "He's right, you know? You do have his nose. His eyes, too. And God, the way you act sometimes is just like his little sister, Becca. She was a spitfire when she was little, sassy and smart-mouthed." He reached out to tug on a lock of Brock's hair, product free for once in his life. Brock mourned the lack of his hair gel, because he was a vain motherfucker and wasn't afraid to admit to it, but he guessed that the hospital staff hadn't much cared what he liked to do with his hair while he was unconscious. "Now that you don't have all that goop in your hair, I can tell it's the same texture as Bucky's Da's. Seriously, I don't know how I missed all of this."

"You weren't looking for it," Winter said from behind the sofa, making Brock jump half out of his skin at his sudden appearance. Winter was smirking down at him, reaching down to slide his flesh fingers through Brock's floppy hair consolingly. "I thought the same thing about Becca, though. Even when I couldn't remember who 'Becca' was."

"Finished your safe-house inspection, you control freak?" Brock sniped, swatting Winter's hand away from his hair while simultaneously shifting closer to the edge of the sofa, making room for Winter to perch. He took the open spot happily and sprawled out between Brock and Steve, legs stretched out in front of him. He looked so content as he grinned up at Brock that the man had to look away; he had never, in all these years, seen Winter so happy or content.

A hand wrapped around his own and he looked down to see Winter's metal fingers threaded through his own. He squeezed tightly, closing his eyes shut before he was overcome by emotion.

They had finally done what he had always asked, for all those years; Winter had finally gotten them both away from Hydra. Sure, they were now fugitives, but that was way better than being under the control of secret Nazi bastards. Looking around at the little group of misfits that had helped them out, Brock had the overwhelming feeling that perhaps, maybe, they might get out of this all together, in one piece, after all.

August 2014

Brock hadn't seen the Soldier in almost two years; the man had been on ice for quite a while, shoved back into the freezer almost immediately after they had returned from their last mission together. The Commander was hoping that, what with the fast approaching launch of Project Insight, they would finally thaw him out to help. He knew deep in his bones that Rogers was going to be a problem; the higher ups all thought they could sweet talk him to their side, but Brock had actually spent more than five minutes with the man.

And after all that time with the Captain, Brock had learned that Rogers was one of the most stubborn, strong-willed, hard headed assholes he had ever worked with. Management couldn't seem to understand that, no matter how many times he tried to explain Captain Rogers to them, examples and video and first-hand accounts included.

Pierce had called Brock to his office for his standing orders and Brock was dreading the oncoming shitstorm sure to follow. God, but all he wanted was to grab Winter and make a run for it, but he knew that they wouldn't get very far at all by themselves.

The Secretary stood behind his desk, leaning on his fists as he hung his head, staring down at a file spread open in front of him. It was quickly discarded the moment Brock stepped over the threshold, shoved closed and hidden away in his desk. Brock didn't even give the motion a second glance; he had seen Pierce more frazzled in the past, and he knew not to say anything out loud.

The Secretary was frazzled, though, and angry too if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. He stood tall and shoved his hands into his pockets, staring at Brock like it was the first time he had laid eyes on him. Pierce grimaced, a motion so quick and fleeting that Brock almost questioned seeing it.

"Rumlow," he said, nodding his head at the younger man. Brock hovered in the doorway, feeling unsure but knowing he couldn't show Pierce anything but his swagger and his smirk. "Get in here." When he waved Brock further into his office, Brock did as he was told and settled at parade rest in front of his desk, staring at Pierce's left ear, just like Winter always did in order to avoid eye contact. "I know you've been working with Rogers for some time, now. I already pitched the offer to him, but he refused. He doesn't know me, doesn't trust me further than he can throw me. You, though. He might trust you. At least enough to let you get close enough to take him down if he isn't expecting it." Pierce scowled down at the file he had hidden away in his desk before continuing. "Take as many men as you need. Bring him in as quietly as you can." Brock was shocked, and it took a huge amount of strength to not show it on his face. By the look on Pierce's face, there was going to be no arguing these orders, but that didn't mean that Brock had to happy about it.

So, instead of reacting, Brock clicked his heels together and straightened his shoulders out before nodding to the Secretary. "Understood, sir." And then he was stomping his way out of the office and towards the elevators, instead. He had his men moving within seconds, but he already knew how this was all going to end. Why did he always get stuck with the worst jobs?

And, sure enough, after being electrocuted with his own stun batons and slammed into the roof of the elevator, Brock woke up to find the floor covered in his own men, no Captain Rogers, and a gaping hole in the glass where one of the walls was supposed to be.

With a sigh, he glared at the hole, already putting together the pieces of what had happened after the Captain had knocked them all out. The blank emptiness where the wall should have been was answer enough to where the hell Rogers had disappeared to after their little scuffle.

The bridge had been a goddamn disaster.

The Asset was supposed to be a damn secret for a reason. Instead, there was now (albeit, shaky) video footage of the Soldier in action against not only the Black Widow, but Captain America, too.

Fucking news stations and their stupid, nosy helicopters.

It had all started out okay enough. On the overpass, the Soldier had stalked across the concrete with purpose, using and discarding his weapons as needed. Brock hadn't met up with him before they had been sent out together, but just by listening to him, Brock knew he had only just been thawed out. He was barking at the other agents in Russian, his eyes solely focused on his mission even though they were covered with the tactical goggles. Brock sighed with a heavy heart while he watched his mentor; the man had been recently wiped, he could tell, which would only help them with this mission, even if it hurt Brock to think about it. A wipe always left Winter feeling achy and confused, but when they presented him with a mission while his mind was still reeling in chaos, it seemed to distract him from his own body's aches and pains. Silver lining, Brock supposed.

Brock had to remind himself multiple times that he was supposed to be in charge here, even as he watched the Soldier stomp off after Romanoff, leaving Rogers to the rest of them. Commander Rumlow knew from his experience on the Captain's team that that big, blond fucker definitely wouldn't be going down without a fight. He also knew that the damn idiot had no sense of self-preservation, which always led to him doing stupid shit like jumping out of airplanes without parachutes like it was no big deal. Obviously, the stakes were way higher now so he would doubtlessly be about a million times worse.

Rumlow followed Winter down to the street where his Soldier was facing off against Rogers, Romanoff apparently down for the count or just in the wind. Rogers looked devastated, his face contorting in pain like someone had just torn his heart from his chest, as he stared at the Soldier. Winter had his gun up and cocked seconds later, and then there was the Widow, pouncing onto his shoulders and trying to garrote him across the throat. They struggled, Rumlow breaking into a sprint to try and get to him in time before he was hurt. The Commander wasn't needed, though; Winter threw her off easily, using his metal hand to protect his throat from the wire. The Widow went careening through the air, slamming into a car across the street. Rogers was still standing there frozen, and it only took a moment for Brock to pounce on them while they were distracted, getting the Captain on his knees and into the reinforced cuffs they usually used on the Asset. The Soldier had disappeared, like the careful man he was, the moment Rogers had fallen to his knees.

When they stopped to unload the prisoners, Rumlow had to admit that he wasn't all that surprised to find the van empty. It was just his fucking luck.

Everything that had gone wrong ever in the history of this operation was apparently all Brock's fault, at least according to Alexander Pierce. The man hadn't stopped shouting at him for more than two hours and seemed to be taking great pleasure in pointing out every mistake Rumlow had made all day while turning alternately purple and sickly white.

Winter was positioned right behind Rumlow, still shaking ever so slightly from the vicious wipe the Secretary had brought Brock to witness. Winter had apparently known Rogers somehow, or at least recognized him. Brock felt bad for the man at his back; he knew Winter craved his memories, hoarding them for as long as he could, and fought tooth and nail inside whenever Pierce took them away. There was nothing Brock could do to help him, though, but be there for him when and where he could without getting them both in trouble.

Pierce paused to take a breath and Rumlow raised his head, sensing an opportunity to break the rant. He stared Pierce down once he had his attention. "I'm sorry, sir, but don't we have more important things to be dealing with right now? Rogers got away and he's had a few hours to go to ground and start planning his next move; probably already picked up some allies, too." He raised his eyebrows at his boss, while also simultaneously shaking in his boots. He had never talked to Pierce like that before, but he was tired and upset and done with all of this man's shit.

If he thought he could have done a better job, then he was more than welcome to get his ass on the ground and figure it out. Brock had never wanted this goddamn life, anyway, he fumed to himself. The solid, comforting presence of Winter at his back was the only thing holding him back from screaming at the Secretary.

Pierce's face shut down immediately, his eyes cooling to ice while his mouth stretched out into a thin, tight line across his face. "I'm giving you one more chance, Rumlow. Don't screw this up." He waved them away and Brock gladly slunk from the room, Winter hiding in his shadow, a step behind.

After Cap's soul-rousing speech over the intercom, more than half of the agents in the room were looking unsure, determined, or frightened; it pissed him off to no end to notice that some of those agents were supposed to be true-blue Hydra. If only he could turn turncoat, too; but no, he had Winter to think about, not to mention himself, and he knew for a fact that you never truly left Hydra. Not for long, at least.

Rumlow was an introspective man, and he was well aware that he had a lot of faults. One of those faults was that he was an impatient bastard even on his best days, and this was definitely not one of his best days. In fact, this day was so far from good that he was nearly drowning in the shit. So, naturally, since the techie kid was taking his sweet time figuring out which side he wanted to be on, he drew his gun and pressed it against his head to speed things along a bit faster.

The moment his finger was on the trigger, he heard the distinct click of another gun not three feet away from him. Fucking Carter. She had hated him from day one, and now she was probably patting herself on the back for having such good character-reading skills.

He could practically hear her inner monologue as she pointed her gun at him; knew it knew it fucking KNEW IT.

And then shit hit the fan again, bullets flying everywhere, and when the kid ducked beneath his desk to get out of the line of fire, Brock took his chance and jumped forward, initiating the Helicarrier launch with a few punches of the keys. He could hear them starting up from the control room; his job was done.

Winter had to be on one of the Helicarriers; it had been the Asset's last mission, to protect Insight and eliminate Captain America. But Brock knew where this would all end the moment he realized that Winter had known Rogers, somehow. Winter would break, remember Rogers or whatever past they had together, and he would let the good Captain live. Winter would probably disappear then, ghost away into the resulting chaos that would no doubt follow this massive cluster fuck of a bad idea.

He would leave Brock behind.

Rumlow was on his way to the top floor to meet up with Pierce but instead ran into the man with the wings that had been following Rogers around for the last two days like a loyal little puppy that could also fly and sometimes shoot guns at you.

Rumlow felt he was taking the title 'Wingman' a bit too seriously.

Brock spouted off some Hydra bullshit about pain and order that he had heard at every stupid meeting he had attended for the last twenty-five years. In fact, he had probably heard one variation or another of that stupid speech since he was just a little baby. With a grimace of determination, Brock threw himself into the fight. He didn't even know this guy's name, didn't really care, but Brock was having a really shitty day and he just really needed to punch someone in the face. Repeatedly. It was therapeutic.

When he saw the guy's eyes widen at something happening behind him before turning tail and sprinting across the room, Brock just knew that his day was about to go from bad to terrible. With a sense of growing dread, he sighed and turned to see what was so bad, and saw a Helicarrier heading straight for them, already beginning to tear into the side of the building.

"Fu-," he breathed in exasperation.

He tried to outrun the debris sent flying from the crashing Helicarrier, even if he didn't really know where the hell he was supposed to go once he crossed the room. There was nowhere to really hide but he knew he had to try. Brock was not going to die laying down. Winter would be so disappointed in him.

The cloud of dust and debris surrounded him before he could get too far, anyway. Something slammed into the back of his head, knocking him to his knees. He couldn't see anything but the dancing black spots in his vision and he was having a hard time breathing through the dust.

And, as if that wasn't bad enough, then all he could feel was a wall of heat at his back before he blacked out for the last time. The smell of frying meat hit his nose (not the most reassuring smell when you find yourself caught in a fire), and he realized, distantly, that he was roasting alive.

He cringed at the pain until it became just too much, before he finally blacked out on the floor. The cool presence of unconsciousness was a welcome escape from the pain, and he just really hoped that even if he didn't make it, Winter would.

Maybe Winter would remember his past, maybe he would find Rogers and start recovering from all his years with Hydra and whoever he had been with before that. He could recover from the conditioning and the torture and the mind wipes and have an actual, real life. Something worth living and everything. The thought of Winter finally breaking free, even if it wasn't with him like they had planned for so many years, filled him with a cool sense of calm, making his last moments light and freeing.

It would be okay to die, he supposed, if it all meant that Winter had finally broken his chains.