A/N: Written for this prompt on the HYDRA trash meme: A Halloween-themed HYDRA trash party. Can be fluffy crack where everyone in HYDRA has a contest to see who comes up with the most creative costume for the Winter Soldier.

All right, so Rumlow's a little drunk when he stops by the twenty-four hour pharmacy for aspirin. But he's not so trashed that he can't tell a good idea from a horrible one, and what flits through his mind when he spies the seasonal aisle packed with cheap costumes is a great idea. Probably. He takes a couple items up to the register, smirking to himself.

Tomorrow might not be completely miserable after all.

Ordinarily, Rumlow looks forward the annual HYDRA Halloween party with all the joyful anticipation of someone scheduling a root canal. It's a miserable experience: a bunch of antisocial scientists and agents milling about and gorging themselves on candy while "Monster Mash" plays on repeat. Every year there's a costume contest, and every year the lab techs win for dressing up as the cast of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The only worse October experience, as Rumlow discovered a few years ago, is the annual SHIELD Halloween party, which is exactly the same except there's a TV set up playing It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown on a loop.

Granted, it was pretty funny last year when they hauled Steve Rogers out of the ice and both SHIELD and HYDRA had scrambled to replace their go-to costumes: Captain America and Defiled Zombie Captain America, respectively.

Usually, it's Rumlow's idea of hell and he avoids it at all costs. But usually, the Winter Soldier isn't awake and about during the festivities.

The Soldier was thawed out earlier in the week for a mission. He has another mission on the second of November. His assignments are often scheduled in blocks that way; it's not cost effective to repeat the freezing and thawing process over and over, and the strain of the procedure takes its toll on even the asset's body. So this week he's conscious, albeit sedated into quiet, harmless compliance. But the STRIKE team has to be there to watch him even with the drugs. And if Rumlow's presence is required while his coworkers are running around dressed like Scooby Doo or sporting plastic vampire fangs, he might as well amuse himself.

He wouldn't dare try dressing up the Soldier if Secretary Pierce were going to be in attendance. But Pierce won't be there tomorrow, busy flying his niece out to California to attend some Iron Man-hosted Halloween charity event. So Rumlow doesn't hesitate when he walks into the facility with a pair of cat ears and a tail on hand.

He hears the Soldier's voice before he enters the lab where the Soldier's been sleeping. "This is…for a mission?"

"A very important mission," Rollins says as Rumlow steps into the room. Rollins is wearing a leather jacket with his hair slicked back, and he's sporting a pair of sunglasses. He's either meant to the Terminator or a greaser. Whatever he is, he's trying to tie a metal funnel to the Soldier's head. There's a big silver sun visor, the kind used in cars, sitting on the cot beside the Soldier. Rollins is probably going to attempt to wrap it around him and pin it in place.

"The hell are you doing?" Rumlow asks.

"Making a Tin Man." Rollins ties the funnel down before he looks up. "That has got to be the laziest costume I've ever seen, sir."

All Rumlow's done to dress up is throw on an eye patch and drop a pirate hat on his head. The accessories came with a clip-on parrot, but like hell was he going toss out all of his dignity in one go. "Brave words coming from the guy making a Tin Man out of the Winter Soldier." At least cats tear other animals' heads off. All Tin Men do is dance and rust themselves crying.

"At least I didn't make him a butt pirate." Rollins adjusts the funnel, mussing the Soldier's hair below it. "And it could be worse. When I got here, Sitwell was trying to pull a bed sheet with eyeholes over him."

"You are injured," the Soldier says softly, scrutinizing Rumlow.

Rumlow flips up the patch to reveal his perfectly functional eye beneath. "I'm fine. And take that thing off your head, you're not wearing that."

The Soldier complies as Rollins makes an indignant sound. "But he's already a cyborg! It suits him."

"Then why didn't you make him the Terminator? No." Rumlow doesn't pity the Soldier; he's not stupid enough to get attached. But the man's already an oft-tortured and brainwashed tool, and having the injustice of being made into the damn Tin Man heaped on top of that is just senseless. "I already got him a costume. A vastly superior one."

"A cat?" Rollins gapes as Rumlow places the fuzzy headband with the ears onto the Soldier's head. "The Tin Man's too undignified, but making him a kitty is fine? Are you drunk?"

"He's a panther," Rumlow corrects. "Panthers are deadly and sleek and completely manly."

"You are drunk."

"Oh, what the hell is this?" Anders demands, storming into the room. She's dressed in an intricate white gown with a faux-ermine cape flowing behind her, and a crown on her head. She has a bicorne hat in one hand and the other clutches a hanger. Draped from the hanger is an equally detailed outfit, which appears to be some form of dated military dress. "No. No, I did not do painstaking research and spend money on nineteenth century sewing patterns so you assholes could turn him into a kitten. No."

"Panther," Rumlow says.

"Calm down, princess," Rollins says.

"I'm not a princess, dick. I'm Empress Joséphine de Beauharnais. And he's Napoleon Bonaparte." Anders points to the Soldier. "So get those ears off him. Sir."

For a second, Rumlow only stares, trying to remember who Empress Joséphine de Beauharnais is. Then he gets it. "Wait, you sewed a costume for the Soldier so he could be your historical boyfriend?"

"You are gonna have to go to so many psych evals," Rollins says.

"No, I sewed it for my actual boyfriend." She carefully lays the costume on the cot before turning to glare at them, hands on her hips. "Who's taking me to a party that doesn't suck when I get off work. But until then, the Soldier's my stand-in. He can hide his creepy robot hand in the waistcoat. It's perfect."

"We're not dressing him as a power-hungry dictator." Rumlow removes the headband because the Soldier's hair is all bunched up beneath it, trying to determine the smoothest method to slide it back on. "That's not behavior we want to encourage."

"Better a dictator than an anal pillager," Anders says. "That has got to be the laziest costume I've ever seen, sir."

"Oh yeah?" Rumlow turns, swiping the crown from her head in one swift motion. "Just for that, I'm pillaging this."

"Hey!"

Things are about to turn violent when Murphy walks in. "Aw, come on, guys." He's in robes with a lightsaber. Murphy's been growing out a beard for the last month, and only now does Rumlow realize he did it to better emulate Obi Wan Kenobi. Damn, his teammates are nerds. "I paid for overnight shipping on an Anakin Skywalker costume just for him!"

"No," the others say simultaneously.

"He's going to be the Tin Man."

"Like hell. He's a panther."

"He's the Emperor of France!"

"But Anakin and his prosthetic arm and—"

The Soldier makes a low and confused sound, silencing everyone.

"Now look what you've done," Anders says, stroking the Soldier's hair back. The man leans into her touch, not unlike a cat. Or a panther. "He's gonna snap and kill us all if we don't pick a costume."

"We'll let him choose," Rumlow says.

They lay each costume out on the floor with a few feet of space between them. The Soldier's so drugged he's having trouble focusing his eyes, and he spends at least half an hour shuffling from costume to costume, running through whatever criteria his addled brain can develop. Eventually, maybe because it was Rumlow's, or maybe because it only has three parts—ears, tail, and collar—the Soldier comes to a stop in front of the cat costume, making another noise they take for assent.

"But that's not fair," Murphy protests as Rumlow clips the tail to the Soldier's pants. "You're the commander. Of course he'd pick yours!"

"Nobody likes a sore loser," Rumlow says.

Anders pulls an eyeliner pencil from her purse. She sketches whiskers on the Soldier's face, then fills in the tip of his nose with black. "He needs white mittens. How did you pick out a cat costume and not get white mittens?"

"He's a panther." He's in black boots and black sweatpants with a one-armed, long-sleeved, black t-shirt. Clearly a panther. White would ruin it.

"Whatever." She sighs. "No one's going to get my costume now."

"Just hang out with me and we'll say you're Padme Amidala," Murphy suggests.

They're heading out to the party, the bell on the Soldier's collar jingling with every step, when the lab technicians show up dressed as the cast of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

"A cat?" one of them whines. The man is wearing a black corset and fishnets and is really in no position to judge anyone else's attire. "But he was going to be our Rocky!"

"Early bird gets the worm," is Rumlow's only response, leading the Soldier away.

He goes to get punch—no one's even bothered to spike it, that's how bad this party is—and he's pretty sure that someone ordered the Soldier to act like an actual cat while he was away. That, or the doctors need to adjust the man's meds. Whatever the reason, the Soldier trails around like he's Rumlow's shadow and when Rumlow takes a seat the Soldier does as well, resting his head on Rumlow's shoulder. Some intern tosses a handful of candy into the commander's lap, and the Soldier's eyes are wide and glazed and almost hopeful.

"No," Rumlow says. "It would make you sick."

Something dangerously close to a pout flickers on the Soldier's face.

Rollins reaches over, stroking the Soldier's hair just behind the cat ears. "Maybe the Great Pumpkin will bring you some tonight."

With considerable effort, the Soldier raises his head and blinks at Rollins.

"Not another word," Rumlow orders. "He'll believe that shit. You want a repeat of the Santa Claus incident?"

"Live a little, sir," Rollins says, tearing open a Pixi Stix.

This year, the best costume award goes to "the Winter Kitten." Rumlow's protests of "Winter panther" are drowned out by the applause. The Soldier gets a jack-o-lantern bucket filled with candy he's not allowed to have, though Rumlow lets him keep the jack-o-lantern. When the commander leaves for the evening, the Soldier's fallen asleep curled up around the cheap plastic.

Things are fine until the Social Committee uploads their photographs to HYDRA's Intranet. As soon as Rumlow returns from his latest mission, he's hauled before an irate Pierce.

"What were you thinking?" the Secretary demands.

"In my defense," Rumlow says, because he's an idiot with a death wish. "Usually those parties are literally hell."

Pierce just stares. Rumlow's been shot before, but somehow this glare is worse. "The asset is a weapon. He's a tool, not a toy. Not a cat."

Panther. Rumlow has the sense not to say it out loud.

By some miracle, he's not executed on the spot. The lecture he receives is brief and to the point. He's in the shithouse. He's going to remain there for a good long while, and if Rumlow has another moment of stunning stupidity, he'll be disposed of immediately. Then he's dismissed.

As Rumlow's stepping out of the office, he swears he can hear Pierce mutter, "And you didn't even give him white mittens."

A/N: The title is taken from the lyrics of "Spooky Scary Skeletons" by Andrew Gold, on the Halloween Howls album.

The lab technicians wanted to dress the Winter as Rocky Horror from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. That is, in the iconic outfit that consists of gold underwear and nothing else. And they probably would have taught him to sing "The Sword of Damocles" as well. "Oh, woe is me, my life is a misery…and left from my dreaming was a feeling of unnamable dread…"

The Great Pumpkin, the mythical figure from It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, is a Santa Claus-esque being that rises from a sincere pumpkin patch to deliver candy to good children.

Anders is a character who's appeared in four of my previous fics: International House of Stockholm, All Mine (You Have to Be), And All The Good You've Done (Will Soon Be Swept Away), and Some Plans Are Stupid. She is the invention of Archive of Our Own author bofurrific, first appearing in her fic Brock Rumlow doesn't need transphobic pieces of shit on his team. She appears here as always with bofurrific's permission.