#no horror references here no-sir-ee

[polyamorouspunk]

Anyway save the bees and all that 🤚🐝🍯💛

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 3

Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, eventually Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents:  Angst, paranoia, mental challenges, hatred, revenge-wishing, denial, swearing (?). And ofc a tiny bit of spoilers for Captain America: Winter Soldier. A/N: Queued this. If you like, please reblog or comment or anything really. If you want a tag, just send me an ask and I’ll gladly add you.

3 - Fox Hunt

…   Rumlow’s PoV   …

Don’t wannit. Don’t want morphine. Vaguely aware of familiar voices, Brock tries to tell them, but they are too busy moving the world around him to listen to the slurry mumblings he manages to produce. He knows they gave him more of the damn painkillers straight into the vein through a drip as soon as they arrived. They didn’t even ask him which they should know is the wrong way to go about things because he is the team leader, the one who has to stay clear minded and make decision. But things are happening around Brock without him having a say in it. He knows he’s in good hands, Hydra cares for its own people. Own people…ownpeople…people own…people. The thought is plucked out and warped by the strong painkillers without losing the sense of urgency. People. Person. He knows he was talking to someone earlier. When? Time’s fuzzy and noncooperative. Shouldn’t’ve said…anything.

A male voice, strong and authoritative in its familiarity, reaches him through the haze of the drugs. Too much…don’t wannit. “Who knows?”

Brock must have spoken out loud. Fuck. “Grl-giiiirl…” a pleasant heat on one side of the face distracts him.

“Focus, agent!”

Focus…foscu…foxes…sneaky foxes. “Girlfwiend…go’ meh to…to…’ee knowth.”

“Your girlfriend knows you allegiance?”

Even the world has stopped as a shadow looms over the injured agent. Keep moving. Get up. Adrenalin begins to course through his veins, clearing his head a tiny bit although it’s an uphill battle against the potency of the chemicals they’ve introduced to his bloodstream.

“Yeth,” the growl is unmistakable, “bith ith done for…loothe end.”

 …   Reader’s PoV   …

Personally, you think you’ve been pretty damn smart about the way of running because not only had you discarded any electronics right away, you also only used cash to buy the bus ticket to Cincinatti, but got off in Columbus only to hitchhike back to Pittsburg (long live the group of university girls who took pity on you) where you found a new bus to New York.

Sure, the stunt took about nine extra hours, but hopefully it’ll throw any followers off your trail.

Maybe I’m being paranoid. Resting your head against the window by your seat, you can see the skyline of New York against the morning light. So what if you know that Brock’s Hydra…according to the news there are no secrets about that organisation anymore. They won’t come for me…I’m just being silly. But a throbbing headache begs to differ. It feels like someone’s digging your brain out through the skull with a teaspoon as the only tool - and that’s without considering any of the skull-splitting pain flashes. Just the thought of those episodes has you looking around nervously. I’m going insane.

Paranoia and some sort of hallucinations, yeah, things aren’t looking great even if you bought that explanation yourself. You don’t. I saw them fall from the sky. The memory and the meaning it now has keeps you from sleeping, real and imagined carnage blending seamlessly in your mind. I saw before it happened. With what Brock had said at the hospital and who he works for. If ever he or they find out that there’s the slightest chance that you saw the failed “project” before it happened? You’d be hunted down and either used as a tool with no regards for human rights. Or they’ll kill me.

…

From the bus stop, it’s the longest 15 minutes walking in your entire life.

When you finally walk up to the enormous glass doors, the knees are about to give out from under you and your palms are sweaty. Somehow, a larger group (maybe employees) is entering the lobby and you manage to join the chattering people rather inconspicuously according to yourself, but the sensation of victory is short lived, though. A long desk is off on one side perfectly across from the elevators, with security stationed at each their own passage. Not that it would help you if they weren’t there, as all doors in sight are equipped with card readers. Keep going or tell someone? Both options are bound to have drawbacks.

“Can I help you?”

The speaker’s right behind you, making you twitch out of surprise. At least he sounds tired rather than condescending, so you turn with a tiny smile on your lips, hoping to look friendly rather than threatening. Short curls are receding above the temples of a round man who looks like he smiles a lot. Just not now where suspicion gleams in the small eyes instead.

“I uhmm…I need to speak with –“

“No, that’s not how it works.” The interruption hardly comes as a shock, but it’s still disheartening. “There are no walk-ins, all visits have to be booked in advance.” He’s already ushering you towards the doors you came in through.

Gotta say something. You dig your heels in. “Sir, I understand the formalities, but this is urgent.”

“Should’ve called ahead, then.” Clearly, it’s bothering the man that you aren’t cooperating.

All too aware of the scene you’re causing, the part of your mind that is in control keeps an eye on the remaining security personnel. None have moved yet, probably just waiting for a sign which will signal the end of you attempt to talk to Tony Stark.

“Please, sir, I beg of you,” your voice is lowered, “this is important…it’s about what happened in…in…” you reduce the sound to a dramatic whisper, “in Washington.”

…   Rumlow’s PoV   …

Hydra has a lot of facilities off the books and Brock knows that he’s at one of them. Judging by the lack of windows, this one’s most likely underground even if the room he’s in still is equipped like a state-of-the-art hospital. They’ve taken the morphine away when they reached the place, not bothering to question his wish, and in return Brock’s gotten a functioning mind. Sure, there’s pain now, but he’s had worse…although that might have something to do with damaged nerves, according to a doctor. Pain won’t stop me. And he has a lot to catch up on including a girlfriend who might know too much.

How?

[Y/N] shouldn’t have known where he was. The hospital never called her. The woman just showed up all on her own, asking for him and even describing the injuries.

How?

“Lucky guesses” doesn’t explain it so there’s got to be another explanation, and Brock’s narrowing the options rapidly as he takes everything into consideration. Lack of surprise at major catastrophes (horror, alright, but not actual shock) is one of the big clues.

How?

Some sort of sixth sense or worse. Like one of those mutant freaks or genetic experiments running around pretending to be more than anyone else. Rogers is only the tip of the iceberg and the Soldat is nothing but a mimic of that. Even Romanoff. Then there are freaks like Banner and on and on the list goes so perhaps it isn’t too far fetched that [Y/N] should be some sort of monster too. Freaks can be useful. But where is this specimen now?

…   Reader’s PoV   …

The world longest elevator ride has brought you to a part of the tower that looks suspiciously like a holding cell. Except stylish. Sitting at a concrete table in the middle of a tastefully naked room, you’re staring at the round face of the security guy (Hogan) while he studies all sort of information on a tablet, sometimes conferring with a bodyless voice referred to as Jarvis. Whoever Jarvis is, he seems to know all there is about you with the exception of the migraine inducing visions.

“Please, if you could just get mister Sta–“

“Not unless you talk to me first.” The man barely glances up at you, already used to this exchange by now.

Perhaps I should just give in and tell him all? It’s tempting and you’d like to trust anyone working for Iron Man himself, but trust is hard to come by after the events of the last few days. Compromise. You’re just about to say something when a beeping precedes the door opening to let in none other than the famous Pepper Potts. Thin and impeccably dressed, she looks like she owns the place even with the lunch tray in her hands.

“Happy, why don’t you take a break, mm?” The gentle voice isn’t actually giving him a suggestion and Hogan swallows any protests he might have had and leaves you alone with the woman. “Miss [Y/L/N], I thought it was time you got some food.”

The tray is pushed towards you, showing off the delicious looking pasta-dish and making your stomach growl as a reminder that you’ve not eaten for almost 24 hours. Getting here had been more important. Pulling the food a bit closer, it’s all you can do to restrain yourself from gobbling down the food within seconds as if you’ve been starving for weeks. Fuck it’s good.

“Thank you.” You even remember to swallow before talking.

Her smile makes the freckles on her cheeks dance prettily. “Why do you need to speak with Tony so badly?”

“I don’t,” the answer obviously surprises the whatever she is to Stark, “I need to talk with Romanova but don’t know how to get a hold of her…then I remembered what happened here in New York and I thought…well…I gotta try, right?”

Now that you’ve told that much, the pasta doesn’t taste right anymore because your stomach tightens with worry. It’s a madman’s plan! No way will Romanova or even Stark see little, unimportant you. This is as far as you’ll ever get and soon, you’ll be back out on the street with no place to hide from Brock. Rumlow. And when he and the hydra-goons find you. Paranoia. You’ve got to believe they won’t come looking. You still can’t convince yourself, of course.

“Miss [Y/L/N]…[Y/N],” Potts  implores gently, “why do you need to talk to any of them at all?”

Where do I start? Rubbing your skull, you feel the stress starting to take its toll on you. “Washington…it’s not over…”

Did they turn the lights up?

The LED’s are glaring overhead and you have to squint in the harsh light even when looking down onto the plate where the white porcelain reflects each diode, only blocked by the Penne al’Arrabiata which is making me sweat thanks to the spices. It’s when the world starts spinning you realize what’s about to happen just a second before pain slashes through your head.