muse-gathering

[muse-gathering]

"Klaus-" Luther repeated, this time a fact not a question, as his brother rambled at him through the receiver, "Klaus, wait-" Was he high? He was probably high. Luther would have to insist louder to get through to him, "Klaus! Slow down, I-"

The line went dead, "Klaus?" A pause. "Great." He should have known better than to answer the phone. Who else would call at four in the morning? Was it four? How had he stayed up until four? Luther frowned, debating his options. Would he take a car? Should he call a taxi? His father would want Klaus to face the consequences of abandoning them, of never really joining them to begin with, on his own.

Maybe he should call a taxi. They would just drive there and back, right? Then again, assuming Klaus would have no where to go, if he intended to take him back here, what difference did it make to drive himself? Besides, this might be dangerous. Better not to put an innocent driver in harm's way.

"Fifth and Magnolia...," read Luther off the nearby street signs not long later as the car slowed to a stop and parked just past the intersection. He turned off the engine, climbing out with caution in case whoever was after Klaus for whatever probably valid reason appeared first. He locked the car to look around, calling out into the chilled early-morning air, "Klaus?!"

Oblivious to his big brother's late night struggles, Klaus broke into a grin. In the reflection of the phone booth, he had blood in his teeth.

"Heeeey buddy, just who I was hoping to pick up!" Klaus cheered drunkenly into the phone. "Can you drive? Doesn't matter, I don't know where we are--hey listen, I need to borrow your muscle, okay? Those guys are still out here!"

"We're on the corner of 5th and Magnolia."

"Shhh," Klaus hissed, waving off his brother's ghost like a backstreet driver. Then he turned back to the phone. "Yeah so, it's 5th and Magnolia. I'm gonna hide behind the bins, and--"

Click!

The line cut, and Klaus sighed. That was his last quarter. He'd better hope Luther showed. Otherwise, he'd be stranded in a bad part of town--a bloody, intoxicated mess in mesh, leather, and heels now carried in his hands. If Luther didn't find him, the ugly DJ's friends certainly would. Time to climb into a trash bin, and hope for the best.

[muse-gathering]

The nights dragged on in the mostly abandoned mansion. Allison left a couple weeks prior, and Luther repeated a motion for the thousandth time that he'd perfected: moving the tonearm of his record player to rest the stylus down precisely at the beginning of one particular song.

My tea's gone cold; I'm wondering why...

His hand lowered to his side slowly, but he didn't move beyond closing his eyes.

...I got out of bed at all...

He should have been able to keep them together.

The morning rain clouds up my window, and I can't see at all...

His father never directly said and honestly didn't even imply the blame rested with Luther. In fact, Reginald openly blamed his siblings. Still, Number 1 blamed himself. One of one. One and only. His mouth motioned the next words silently.

And even if I could, it'd all be gray, but your picture on my wall...

The phone ringing out in the hallway cut through the melody, "Allison..." Why he said her name as if she might be on the line, Luther couldn't explain. She'd made her decision clear. As he picked up the phone and the voice leaking through began slurring a string of nonsense at him, he sunk into a confusing swirl of disappointment and relief. This wasn't who he wanted to talk to, but loneliness struggled to beat annoyance. Suddenly, Luther felt less like he was drowning, "...Klaus?"

...that I might not last the day, but then you call me, and...

A Face for Radio - Open RP Starter 21+

Tapping his foot impatiently, Klaus clung to the payphone like a lifeline. His eyes scanned the streets as he listened to it ring, the high of his last club bathroom experience tempered slightly by adrenaline. At nearly four in the morning, no one seemed to be out. But Klaus had been tricked by that facade before.

As the line finally picked up, Klaus blinked hard, trying to focus.

"Heyyyy, it's me," he slurred into the receiver, leaning heavily against the wall of the phone booth. He was still out of breath from running. "Listen, you remember when I stole that giant inflatable duck from the car dealership for you? Yeaaaah I'm gonna have to call in that favor. I uh--may have told a DJ he had a face for radio, and he didn't take it well. Neither did his friends. So uh--I need a ride. And maybe a new identity."

((could be calling a canon character, or a wrong number to other characters, open to all 21+))

[muse-gathering]

A wave of exhaustion rolled through him, washing from his now-tingling fingertips down to his toes, lingering everywhere along the way, as if punctuating her first sentence. Evidently, his body agreed with her: fucking traitor. Brock squeezed his arms against his chest, hoping the ache would keep his mind alert; it didn't.

He scoffed at her recommendation, but a smile flashed across his face as Rumlow let his gaze fall to the empty whiskey glass on his side of the table. Not only did she not crumble at his objection, but the woman pushed back. The boldness sparked a flicker of annoyance, but as his energy faded, Brock knew she had less and less to fear.

The man blinked a couple times too many, trying not to shift more than necessary to avoid provoking dizziness as he raised his gaze once more to meet her now-blank expression, "Second opinions are expensive."

"And, well. I just quit my job, so... no insurance. Guess you'll have to do." He slowly uncrossed his arms, laying his hands on the table while contemplating the best way to stand. Now that he'd sat a while, every muscle enthusiastically objected to motion. After a pause, he admitted, "I...don't think I'm going to make it to your place."

There was a moment when he spoke again in which she considered leaving him here, in this seat. She may have been a doctor, but her patience was sometimes lacking when it came to adults who asked for her advice about something.

“Well, you either rest when you can, or you rest when your body decides you don’t have a choice,” she said, “one form of recovery takes longer than the other. I’ll let you guess which one.” An eyebrow quirked as if challenging him to disagree while her tone never wavered and possibly held more confidence than before. This was her wheel-house, so to speak; she was used to difficult patients. Admittedly, she wasn’t used to dealing with difficult patients at a bar, but sitting across a table from one? Definitely.

“You asked for an examination, though. There is a chance that the recommendation will be longer depending on the damage.” She paused, either to let that settle into the air or to consider him, before she said, “of course, you could ignore the advice or go to a hospital for a second opinion?”

Her tone said that it was an innocent suggestion, but the sarcastic little smile that could almost seem like a force pleasantry said that she knew that wasn’t an option. He was talking to her because he was presumed dead, so suggesting it was undeniably petty but also a warning to him, a 'play stupid games, win stupid prizes’ towards possible future complaints. Her patience, as previously mentioned, was lacking at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

“If you’re not going to a hospital,” she began, that smile fading into a professionally blank expression as she looked at her drink again, “then we should go somewhere that’s safe and comfortable for you to be examined in.”

[muse-gathering]

The words echoed around him, rough and mean but kind of hot if he didn't think about them too much. Familiar, too. People talked to him like that all his life. Not him, though, not Makoto. Sure, they'd been younger when they knew each other, but not that much younger, right? Had his life really changed so much in ten years?

Still, Klaus hadn't meant to piss him off so much. He'd intended to push just until his ex drunk himself off his ass enough to steal his shit. Reconnecting with Makoto had been intentional but not personal. He'd just thought, of his options, who might not turn him away? Who might have the nicest stuff? Klaus still had pills somewhere in his pockets, but not enough of them. They wouldn't last; they never did.

Now, watching the pain fog over Makoto's eyes, guilt settled in his chest. Would he still steal from him? Yes. Should he let himself get involved in this? No. Would he? The longer he stood here watching, the more feelings swirled around in his stomach. He didn't have time for them, not now. He had a goal to achieve. He needed money.

Yet, his mouth had a mind of its own, doubling down on the comments he'd made with a scoff, "I think I'm right. I don't need to know about you to know you."

open to all muse: Makoto Shigetora, 32, club owner connection: old lover, past friends, old schoolmates ect. tw: alcoholism, familial death

"You know fuck-all about me. About my life. About who I am today compared to back then." Of course he was drunk again, alcohol made him mean, on edge. It should numb the pain but at times it just had it bubbling up even harder. "The fuck do you think you are?"

[muse-gathering]

After putting the last Cobra Kai poster up on the wall in whatever gym this was—he'd lost track of how many places he'd stopped at to hang flyers in today—Johnny turned just in time to watch the stranger stick his landing. Fast, controlled, swift. Still, it would have been more badass if he'd kicked someone or something while doing it.

"Pretty sure no one says that, man."

"Two-hundred pounds of pure badass sticking that landing. Who says only circus brats can fly?"

[muse-gathering]

Their gazes remained locked, Brock unwilling to break eye contact first even as she made her not-so-veiled threat. What were the chances he would run into the only doctor on their side with a little common sense? It unfortunately meant he couldn't manipulate or simply intimidate her however he wanted, but it had its benefits too. For example, she wasn't annoying as fuck. He liked that. Moreover, she already knew not to trust him and presumably, therefore, not to cross him, and yet she threatened him to his face all the same. This made her not only decent company but also a better doctor for him than he originally anticipated.

Her next statement reinforced this to him. She hadn't left much room for negotiation. Brock already knew he shouldn't be on the road long term, driving or otherwise, in this state of health, but he wanted to move. The man never had the patience to heal properly, so direct and unwavering medical guidance suited him best. She seemed able to provide that. Still, a few days felt excessive. The longer they stayed at an off-record safehouse, the greater the chances of an encounter with Winter became. Rumlow decided not to argue this time. He needed help, and she offered him help. He shouldn't complain. However, even with that sentiment, his mouth offered back, "A few days is a long time."

While he already internally agreed with her decision and truthfully wanted to follow the advice and find somewhere to lie down, Brock wanted to see whether she would crumble at the light pushback, unwavering gaze still set on her face. The stop at her apartment—her flat, how quaint—wouldn't make much difference to him. He would do the same if it wouldn't jeopardize his 'presumed deceased' cover. He may have decided to pour out a drink for Jack sometime, but Rumlow would actually miss a couple of his jackets and one of his holsters more.

That little flick of his gaze to her bag was most definitely not appreciated but very much noticed. She only hoped that he hadn’t developed any curiosity about it, because that would only end in disappointment for him; Mattie had a tolerance for sharing but not a gift for it. As if she were trying to tell him both that she’d noticed that little flick and that she wasn’t going to share through nothing but her stare, she didn’t look anywhere except his face.

“If I can be blunt?” she requested, before continuing without waiting for him to say yes or no. “I don’t trust your intentions, so the less reasons I can provide for you to do something you’d regret, the better.” She took a sip of her drink, both to punctuate the sentence and let the words settle in the air, and to collect herself just a little while her heart beat uncomfortably in her chest; she was fully aware of how dangerous it was to take risks with field agents.

“I would quite like for us both to survive this.” There was the hope that the implied threat was enough to ensure a general lack of danger from him, even if she was unlikely to willingly carry out said threat. The goal, generally speaking, was ‘do no harm’.

“I’d need a few days, and it’d do you some good to rest, too.” From what she’d seen so far, anyway; an actual examination would be necessary, but appearances suggested he needed to at least stop moving around, maybe even lie down and sleep. “I can help you, though I’ll need some things from my flat.” She paused. “Apartment.” Americans and their Americanisms could still trip her up, even after all these years.

“It’s all ready to go, I just need to get it,” she added as if to reassure him that it wouldn’t take long; it was a few things that weren’t in the bag she was gripping as tightly as possible and some clothing, an 'exit, persued by employers or Avengers’ bag, for all intent and purpose.

[muse-gathering]

Clint wondered briefly whether he should have warmed it first as the chocolate splintered into shards rather than neat pieces on the cutting board, but he ultimately decided not to worry. It would melt all the same, after all. Probably. With her words, Barton realized he hadn't made it in years. A rarity, to find something they hadn't done together, "If you could dissolve the sugar in?" He gestured vaguely toward the pan on the stove, "I don't think there's a whisk, but a fork might do it..."

Honestly, he wouldn't have thought to grab the ingredients while out in the past. He only recently started consciously filling in any spare time after late afternoon. His therapist thought to consider the Tesseract an addictive substance and the mental obsession he experienced in the aftermath as psychological dependence; he had to admit the related coping methods helped.

Raising a brow at the sight of him starting to cut the chocolate, Nat brushed her thumbs over the newspaper she was holding. Ever since the fight in New York, she had been waiting for something else to happen. There was always going to be a fight, no matter what. It had been what she had trained for or been put through training by the Red Room.

This moment was calming though, enough to take her mind off everything. “Do you want a hand making it? Don’t think I’ve ever seen it made this way before.”

[muse-gathering]

[continued from here]

As much as he normally would have preferred coffee, Clint gathered the fixings for real hot chocolate—or, at least, European hot chocolate—when he shopped for them earlier. They'd be here a few days, after all; they needed supplies. He'd tasted it the first time in Serbia, so whenever he found himself in Belgrade, Barton remembered and found an excuse to either buy or make it. Today, he would make it. They had the time, "Might want to get comfortable."

Clint took out a knife and cutting board before unwrapping the chocolate bars as the milk started heating on the stove, "Probably take twenty minutes if I do it right."

@mindfcllofmadness

[muse-gathering]

Several agents walked by the lab discretely in the last hour just to catch a glimpse of the man, but Brock couldn't stomach tip-toeing by like a pansy-ass coward. The thought of Hulk didn't intimidate him as much as it did many, perhaps because Rumlow worked with Winter in his more clandestine capacity. Having just now stepped into the lab without having exchanged a single word, Rumlow found Banner struck him as much less unpredictable, almost disappointingly so honestly.

"They think you don't notice them walking by, but I bet you do."

@stitchingverses

[muse-gathering]

The cruise never seemed to end. The children of the sea hadn't yet reached children of the corn levels of chaotic, but Clint couldn't help but draw parallels. It'd been six days since they left shore, yet he still couldn't relax. Usually he managed to ease into vacations after a short time, but the man kept distancing himself instead on this one: from his wife, from his kids, from the friend he himself pressured to join them. Still, he pushed himself to attend meals at least and made an honest effort to periodically act like he wanted to be here. Laura saw through him, of course, but he wouldn't expect anything different from her. They already talked about it.

Barton put his fork down despite not having eaten much. After a beat of silence, he turned his gaze to Bruce, "You're coming to ours for Thanksgiving this year, right?"

@stitchingverses

[muse-gathering]

The path humanity chose to tread darkened with each passing day as it had for the last several years. The Brotherhood witnessed their atrocities first hand and showed no mercy in return, even to those whose participation had yet to officially commence. They decorated even emerging labs with blood, amassed incomplete drafts of files, intercepted communications, and infiltrated well into the higher echelons of world governments and organizations. Yet, a fragmented file from a raid only the night before perturbed him enough to alter his plans and trek his way here rather than properly rest. Granted, Magneto rarely managed proper rest regardless.

The exhaustion lately echoed deep inside his bones and ached behind his eyes, but his power felt increasingly unbounded. He never felt more vividly alive than when conducting intense, immense displays of karmic retribution. Yet, here he preferred to avoid creating more than a mild stir. He arrived at a particularly busy teaching hour near the end of sessions just before the day fell into mid-afternoon on purpose. Ripples of increasing uncertainty spread slowly through the mental landscape, but no one stopped him and his helmet shielded his direct presence.

'How do you feel about Frankenstein's creation as a person?'

Magneto waited until most students filed out to step into the doorway, wondering whether Charles would be surprised or already know of his presence after just three minutes since he stepped foot on his property. Honestly, he hoped he knew and let him come, trusting he wasn't a threat here. If not, they would have to have a chat about security. Erik asked, "Do you think it died?" A brief pause, "The monster?" The two students who dawdled in their packing exchanged a glance and hesitated to leave, gazes attempting to both stare at and avoid the attention of Magneto. One of them processed the situation ahead of the other and tensed, entire being becoming alert, mind alight as if preparing to attempt to fight Magneto herself.

[Open X Men RP - Location: Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.]

"And I'm afraid our time is up," Charles grins, glancing over the small group of students and taking one last gauge of their comprehension of the reading.

"For Monday's class, I'd like for you to read the next chapter and think about how the Gothic themes we talked about today play into the story. Remember--Gothic literature is excessive, it's emotional, and it appeals to the 'grotesque'--as the Victorians understood it--in ways which still shape our horror stories today. How does Shelley employ these traits to characterize the Creature, and what effect does it have on you, as the reader? How do you feel about Frankenstein's creation as a person?"

Some of Charles's students are troubled by this question, some intriqued, while some nod knowingly, immediately making a connection to their own lives. Good.

"Alright, you're free to go. Enjoy this beautiful autumn weather, and be sure to check out some of the activities around the grounds this weekend. If you have any questions about the book, I'm always happy to talk Shelley. Or if you have questions about the plausibility of the science, remember that my degree is in Genetics, not Literature," he laughs, waving an affectionate dismissal to his small class.

[muse-gathering]

Brock knew official documents stood as a favorable bargaining chip. Poking around for them without contacts whose work could be trusted could bring someone down mighty quickly. His crossed arms tightened over his chest in an attempt to use pain to keep himself alert, but damn if the ache didn't just make him want to lie down instead. The longer he sat, the more the adrenaline ebbed away.

He needed a fucking nap. Turning that thought over in his head, Rumlow suddenly wondered whether hiding out a couple days before driving would be smarter. They did think he was dead, after all, at least for now. Still, he lifted his gaze again when she finally spoke. At the mention of things she needed to do, his eyes flickered briefly to the bag she'd been grasping tightly enough to drain the color from her knuckles since he'd first sat down. I don't think any of it is related to you.

While Brock found whatever hints of trust he may have convinced himself to harbor for her evaporate, he believed the words. Whatever it was she had wouldn't affect him. Even if she lied and it did relate to him, he was dead. Well, unless she told people otherwise, but why would she risk outing herself for something the powers that be may or may not even believe? His arms uncrossed, hands briefly raising in mock defeat before settling back down. He looked her in the eye, expression serious and words level, "I said no questions asked. I meant that."

Brock decided to level with her: no implications, no uncertainty, no beating around the bush, "Look, I obviously need a doctor. I know you can see that, and I think it's worse than it looks. The gig is to just do an examination and stay with me until there shouldn't be much risk of complications. I want to get on the road now, but if you really need to stick around, I could find us somewhere off record." There weren't many locations kept off both Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files, but having been Winter's handler, Brock could conjure one from memory. The only risk being, of course, that Winter knew about them too. Fucking hell, he needed to stop wanting to cross paths with him because Rumlow usually managed to get what he wanted. He shouldn't want such an obviously dangerous situation, so hopefully she didn't need to stay.

She wanted to make some scathing comment about the supposed humans that they’d worked with–at least the ones that deserved whatever could be coming for them–but she couldn’t. She didn’t think that there existed any combination of words in any language that was strong enough to insult those people instead of accurately describing them. There was no doubt in her mind that he had not had to deal with that side of those people, but she was still glad of the agreement; having to argue that people they’d worked along-side for years were deranged, at best, would have pushed her to violence.

A glance was shot his way when he next spoke, and she had a very distinct feeling that she would not like where this was going. Mattie had never truly enjoyed the company of others, and he seemed to be getting a little too comfortable for her liking, making her momentarily but silently wonder if he’d realised that her lack of concern was towards him, too. That moment of wonder almost made her miss his proposition.

Her hand tried to tighten around the strap of her bag again, though she hadn’t relaxed enough for it to untighten from before, and she considered things. Everything he was suggesting as payment would be useful, but she needed to get the notes and records that she’d been copying and keeping, that were sat in the bag she was clinging to, to the Avengers. She needed to prove–possibly to herself–that there had been at least one person who hadn’t just been happy to follow orders.

“And what would the temporary gig be?” she ended up asking curtly, eyeing him with some amount of suspicion from her. “Not that I’m free to just do anything; I have…” There was a pause as she searched for a word that was vague enough to not risk anything and informative enough to not invite questions. Thinking of none, she settled for just vague. “things, that I need to do. I don’t think any of it is related to you.” Was that too informative? Or was it informative enough for her to avoid backlash? She didn’t truly know if he was even safe to talk to, considering the circumstances.

They were in public. Mistakes could safely be made.

[muse-gathering]

This back and forth paired with the cheap whiskey he continued to sip—Brock preferred the taste to borderline resemble gasoline—made him reconsider previous thoughts as she bantered back about their colleagues. He actually would miss Jack, or, at least, he would miss their style compatibility. Still, he agreed with her, "Most of them." Rollins had been a pain in the ass, but so had Rumlow. He'd pour out a couple shots for him sometime. For now, he gave a vague raise of and sip from his glass.

The next statement made him shake his head, Brock finding another grin on his face. Was his jaw sore from the building coming down or from smiling too much? As her stressed demeanor gave way to an intense, almost unexpected apathy toward their ex-organization's collapse, Rumlow found himself less bothered by the thought of her presence on the upcoming impromptu road trip. A cowering doctor would make a dreadful driving companion, but a sarcastic one would lighten the eight hours minimum of straight roadway. She didn't seem to expect the pending invitation.

Until the pause, anyway. There it was. She understood now, then, why he sat across from her in the first place. He needed a doctor, and with her offhand suggestion to consult one without having seen the extent of the physical trauma made him decide to press forward with his proposition. He took another sip from his glass, voice lowering, "Well, I'm presumed dead already, so-" They may never confirm his body as more than missing, but anyone would assume he didn't make it out.

"-if you were looking for a temporary gig, I could make it worth your while. Set you up somewhere: new name, new license, a new passport-" It occurred to him she probably had dual citizenship, "-or two." Then again, she might not want ties to the country anymore. Who knew? "Green card? Social security number. Bank account. University diplomas." He finished off his whiskey in one fluid motion, crossing his arms as he sat back again, wincing this time as talking decreased his mental focus, "Sex change? I don't give a shit. No questions asked."

“And so can most of our ex-colleagues,” she said with a tight-lipped smile, so tight-lipped that it almost seemed sarcastic. Still, she raised her glass as if in a silent cheers to the lot of them–or maybe a silent 'good riddance to bad rubbish’–and took another sip. If she seemed flippant about their co-workers’ fates, then her nerves were starting to fade, because her lack of concern for them was usually very carefully hidden behind professionalism and a sense that if they didn’t speak quickly, they would be involved in whatever it was they’d interrupt to give her some of the most horrific requests in existence.

That glass raise had definitely been a 'good riddance to bad rubbish’.

Noting the lack of answer to her second and genuine question, she shifted in her seat and raised an eyebrow in his direction. There was an undeniable falter in whatever confidence she had in that moment, but that confidence returned quickly when she remembered that she had in-depth knowledge about human biology and he was injured. She wasn’t a fighter, but even she could wind a man; heel of the palm to the sternum.

“It depends on how many superheroes you run into, I suppose.” That lack of concern was now settled into her tone with those nerves and that tightness in her voice and she nursed her drink with one hand, now watching the liquid in her glass. She was trying to give the air of this being a casual conversation, though knew she was likely missing by a mile.

“If you have broken ribs, I’d recommend a doctor.” She paused, realising that she was a doctor and also that she didn’t want to deal with him; keeping these records and notes secret from him would be far harder if she had to spent an extended period of time with him. “A practicing doctor. My previous job recently disappeared, for some reason…” She trailed off as if she was oblivious as to why Captain Rogers had decided to take down the entire building, and took another sip of drink to punctuate her joking confusion.

[muse-gathering]

//writing again FINALLY, only mildly sick still

//will get back to my umbrella threads soon <3

[muse-gathering]

It felt strange, really, staring into this one's dead eyes after watching life seep back into and shock out of Winter's repeatedly over the last several years. Teasing humanity out of Winter had been explicitly against protocol, but he'd enjoyed doing it between reprogramming. Brock didn't regret it, even if James might beat the shit out of him someday, if he remembered their chats. Rumlow hoped he remembered. Maybe Winter would still see him in the dark when he closed his eyes to sleep.

In this case, looking into Ghost's eyes, Rumlow wondered whether anything even remained in there to find. Honestly, they should have been using this soldier the whole damn time. He scoffed softly to himself, even though he addressed Ghost, "Anyone home in there? Can you even-"

His eyes moved toward an anxious scientist nearby, "Can it even hear me?" After receiving a hesitant nod from the scientist in response, Brock asked again, "You're sure? Does it understand English? I don't speak that much Russian." He turned his attention back to Ghost once reassured, giving a short laugh through his teeth, "They really fucked you up good, huh?" With all the confusion and distortion of leadership, Brock easily slipped into a position of power, but he didn't think it worth the effort to save, all these little people scattering about in fear. Hydra was done, and he sure as hell wouldn't go down with this ship. Time to move on.

His eyes trained on Ghost, "Alright. Test run, then. Ghost? I order you-" Rumlow almost felt like he was turning the key to an old truck, praying to the nothing he believed in for the engine to turn, "-to eliminate everyone else in this room but us." He searched himself for the words in Russian in case Ghost didn´t understand him, but he´d not used any in a while, settling for a direct, "Убей всех, кроме нас."

A heavy silence fell over the few personnel around them as the words sank in.

The Ghost - Open starter

The Ghost stands at ease for now. A tension trap ready to snap when the order is given. The ever ready weapon of war, without hesitation. When they woke him from Cryo he heard the whispers in the halls. Everyone was afraid. The great Captain America had defeated Pierce. Defeated Hydra. If the Ghost could be afraid he would have been.

The Winter soldier escaped, leadership in tatters, anyone would have been afraid for the future. But the Ghost felt nothing. It was beaten and ripped out of him half a century ago. He was just the back up. The emergency asset, as low of a rank as it was even for assets. He wasn't the Winter soldier. But he was damn close. Soviet Russia's second best super soldier. And just as deadly.

Question was, where was this new handler going to send him now?

[muse-gathering]

Oh, she was funny. Somehow, that surprised him. He'd never been fond of their more niche medical people, but maybe he'd been too quick to blanket judge them all. Brock hadn't bothered to learn specialties, but he knew some of them did fucked up shit even by his standards. Impressive, really, to make him feel a little sick. Still, his problem with them didn't connect to that. It centered on the 'intellectual curiosity' bullshit. Why pretend to want to unlock secrets if they really just wanted to watch someone suffer? If they were sadists, they should just own it. Brock did.

A scoff. "Yeah, well. Our bosses can go fuck themselves now, can't they?" He shifted to rest back, immediately regretting the change in position as pain accompanied the pressure on his back. He nevertheless remained in place, letting himself feel the ache. It helped him focus, or at least he thought it did. Instead of answering her second question, which he felt she already knew the answer to, Rumlow grinned into a sip of whiskey to keep the pain off his face, "Doesn't it? It's been a couple hours, and I'm not dead, so..." He trailed off, "I'll probably live, right?" A joke, but also a serious question.

His gaze finally moved to her more directly, scanning for information, considering her tone and movements. Brock still preferred to disappear solo. He didn't trust her. Her voice seemed too tight, her grip on that bag too intense, her demeanor too stressed. Granted, anyone associated with Hydra would be shaken right now. No matter his inclination about her, though, sitting down forced him to really take in how unwell he felt. He didn't have much choice, but he'd assess another minute or two before throwing down his cards. He didn't want to seem desperate because, frankly, he would internally bleed to death before letting anyone have the upper hand on him.

Seeing that familiar face and hearing that familiar voice, Mattie reconsidered her decision not to down her drink as the grip on the strap of her bag tightened until her knuckles were white. She needed to appear calm, collected, and not like she was contemplating assault against her ex-collegue. Queue a deep breath through the nose, a careful sip of her drink to stop herself from just tipping her head back and downing it in one, and a gentle movement to place the glass back down on the table.

“No. It isn’t.” She paused. “When it is with our bosses?” she asked jokingly, her voice just slightly too tight as she fought the urge to grit her teeth and clench her jaw. As if to calm herself down, collect her nerves, she sighed out another breath and took another sip; she just needed to get through this conversation and send these records to the Avengers and then she could disappear. She could go home. She could go to another country. She could go anywhere that wasn’t here.

“How are you?” There was still a curt edge to her tone, but more of a characteristically curt edge than before. She could hear her own nerves, though, and could only wish she was a better actress. Maybe she could’ve gone into theatre instead of medicine and avoided this whole mess entirely, but she had a sneaking suspicion that she would’ve ended up here anyway; her luck was just like that.

“That looks… nasty,” she said while casting her gaze over his face and any visible injuries, now curling the strap of her bag around her hand and gripping it again once she felt secure with the movement.

[muse-gathering]

He would have had that fight if the building hadn't come down. Oddly enough, the unfinished encounter bothered him more than his infiltrating organization's exposure. He wouldn't miss Jack. He wouldn't miss Pierce. Honestly, fuck them. Brock didn't need them, or anyone else, to push forward. For now, though, he planned to disappear for a while. Not only because of the nasty, dark bruising and the nastier, darker reputation he'd been left with, but also, more pressingly, Winter would no longer be contained. As fascinating as it would be to speak with him again, especially if his memories actually came back, Rumlow knew better than to cross paths with damaged equipment. At least, not now. Not yet. He shouldn't risk it at all.

Shit, then why did he want to track him down so badly? Might be fun.

Despite the inclination, he'd stolen himself away to head further south, further west. He'd leave today, ideally within the next hour. He'd heal, recollect himself, and decide from there. By chance, a relatively familiar face caught his eye, and a few minutes after she sat herself down, he bought himself whiskey and slipped into the other side of the booth, "Not exactly a coffee kind of afternoon, is it?"

He might not need anyone, but if a doctor could use a professionally discrete lift and his injuries could use medical advice, he might make an exception.

( open )

America didn’t have the same culture surrounding alcohol that the UK did–Mattie’d once seen a graphic that showed how many pubs were in the UK; there was a lot–but Mattie? Well, you could take Mattie out of the UK, but you couldn’t take the UK out of Mattie. That, and the fact that she’d had a long day, was the reason that she was in a bar at about midday.

One day, someone would probably try to stop her from day drinking. They could certainly try.

It really had been a long day, though. The morning had been… as normal as it could be when Captain America was a fugitive, and had slowly collapsed into chaos when he turned up to announce what Mattie had already known–HYDRA had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D in the same way a smaller sibling ‘infilrated’ the tree house–and had given her ample reason to grab everything she’d been keeping in her office and run.

Her hand was now gripping the strap of the bag that was far too big to be inconspicuous tightly, as if afraid that some stranger might try to walk off with it. It was heavy, which was the only reason the thing wasn’t in her lap. Instead, it was on the seat next to her in the booth she’d slid into with the grace of an 18-wheeler on an ice rink as she determinedly sipped her drink; downing it in one had felt like a little too much, even for her.