A/N: I'm fascinated by the character of Brock Rumlow and saddened that all too often discussion of him seems to boil down to "he's pure evil and shouldn't have fans, end of story" vs. attempts to make him into really a mostly good guy all along. I thought to myself "it's possible to be the bad guy and still be charming and nice," and thus this story was born.

"Brock Rumlow," the dark-haired man says. He extends his hand.

The Soldier stares dumbly, shivering on the floor of the shower. He is dripping ice onto the tiles, cowered in the corner farthest from the cold spray of water. There had been technicians trying to shove him under the showerhead but the dark-haired man sent them away.

"We've worked together in the past," the dark-haired man says. "You and me and Rollins." He nods to the tall, scarred man watching from the doorway. "You don't remember, but we're friends, all right? We'll get you cleaned up."

"You can get him cleaned up," the tall man says as the Soldier tries to remember what "friends" means. "I'm not starting the day with hypothermia."

The dark-haired man doesn't answer. He grins when the Soldier slowly extends his left hand—coated with frost and the only part of him that isn't shaking—and though he flinches at the cold metal, he doesn't pull away. His smile seems very warm though the Soldier is still trembling. "Good boy. I'll make this fast, okay?"

The water is unpleasant but the dark-haired man—Rumlow?—splashes some of it at the man in the doorway, and though the Soldier can't say why, that makes it easier to bear.

Rumlow's team remembers things for the Soldier. They lead him to a specific seat in their van that they say is his favorite. Tactically, it is the best position should they be ambushed or made to crash. Rollins gives the Soldier his rifle and, after looking it over, the Soldier concludes the weapon has been properly cared for in his absence. He decides that this team is acceptable, sufficient.

Rumlow talks during the transit, things that make the rest of the team smile and laugh. The Soldier doesn't know how to laugh, doesn't understand what makes things funny, but Rumlow doesn't mind even when the things he says are directed just to the Soldier. He doesn't punish for the Soldier's incomprehension.

The shot that the Soldier makes on the mission is a difficult one, from a poor vantage point and with heavy wind. It is still perfect. The Soldier is always perfect; that is expected and rarely praised.

But Rumlow puts his arm around the Soldier once the target is down, pulling him in and ruffling his hair. "Nice one, big guy."

On the ride back to base, Rumlow takes a protein bar from his pack and offers it to the Soldier. "You like chocolate chip," he says when the Soldier stares.

It is neither a MRE nor any of the other foods the technicians have approved the Soldier to eat. But Rumlow is the commander and the word "chocolate" makes a little spark in his mind.

It tastes so sweet that there are tears in his eyes and down his face, and the tears taste like salt but that only makes the chocolate stronger. Rumlow is smiling again and his hand pats the Soldier's leg.

His body remembers the chair before his mind works out its purpose.

At the sight of it, the Soldier goes tense and while he does not stop walking, his steps slow enough that Rumlow places a hand on the small of the Soldier's back, guiding him forward. The Soldier is not meant to look around, only to obey, but he cannot keep his eyes from darting to Rumlow.

The man's face looks unsettled somehow. Tight. Like he knows what's coming too, and his body doesn't want it any more than the Soldier's.

I'll be good, the Soldier does not say, because talking back was beaten out of him seventy years ago. I'll do what you ask and I'll be better because I'll remember, because you won't have to teach me things over again. I want to remember you.

There are technicians around him now, hands on his body to guide him back into the chair. The Soldier stiffens without meaning to and Rumlow, voice as tight as his posture, says "Wait."

The technicians step back from the Soldier as Rumlow moves toward him. He is smiling. It's stiff but he's smiling and the Soldier doesn't dare to breathe.

"Be good," Rumlow tells him, a hand on his shoulder, but this time it feels more like sinking than an anchor.

He goes to the chair, stomach and muscles already clenched, breath quickening. Rumlow watches as they get him seated—that stretched smile does not leave his features—but when the restraints come down and force his head back, the Soldier can hear footsteps moving away. There is a noise in his throat, low and begging, that he cannot contain.

The buzz of electricity follows almost immediately after the sound but in the second between, the Soldier hears that the footsteps do not stop.

A/N: The title is taken from a lyric of "I Know Things Now," Little Red Riding Hood's song in the musical Into the Woods. Which I suppose makes Rumlow the Big Bad Wolf, an amusing and slightly disturbing mental image considering the Wolf in many productions of the show is naked and exposed from the waist down. But anyway, hope you liked it!