The first time he saw him, Steve was sat at the edge of a steel bench in some SHIELD safehouse, back bowed like he’d been carrying the weight of something for far too long. His knuckles were white around a ceramic mug of long-cold tea someone had shoved into his hands a half-hour ago. He hadn’t taken a single sip. Captain America. He was smaller, Brock thought, than the stories made him out to be. Not physically, no, the serum saw to that. But in presence, yeah. There was something raw and unfinished that clung to him like frost that hadn’t quite begun to thaw. Caught between wars, between centuries and between grief he hasn’t even begun to recognize. Brock filed that away, along with the way Steve stiffened when someone came up behind him. How his eyes tracked every exit. The way he kept leaning to his left, like he was reaching for someone that wasn’t there anymore. Security detail, they told him. Observation only. But what they really meant was: Get close. Make him trust you. Make him stay. And Brock Rumlow was really, really good at lying.
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