Rumlow goes to bed in a sweater, huddled under a thick comforter. When Rollins shakes him awake, early morning sunlight filtering through the thin window shades, both the blanket and sweater are gone. So is the long flannel shirt Rollins had buttoned around himself when the heat failed last night.

It's not like they have to guess as to the identity of the culprit.

Rumlow doesn't know the reason the Winter Soldier came to them rather than seeking out Steve Rogers. He doesn't pretend to understand why the man has taken up residence in their derelict, forgotten HYDRA safe house rather than killing them on sight for all they'd had a hand in. His best guess is that Winter's afraid of confronting all that's been done to him, afraid of failing to be the man he now knows he once was. Stowing away with the familiar is easier.

They hear the dryer running and find Winter huddled on the floor of the laundry room. He's collected every long-sleeved shirt in the house and layered them over his combat gear. There are socks on his hands. All the blankets, save for one, are wrapped tightly around him. Winter hadn't taken the broken heater well at all. Last night he'd tried to set fire to the furniture for warmth before they firmly reminded him of the house rules. "Winter Soldiers can't play with weapons or matches" was right at the top of the list.

"Winter," Rumlow says. His feet twitch against the freezing tile. The scars of his recently healed skin grafts feel like they're going to rip apart; the frigid air makes the new tissue so tight.

"Cold," Winter says. So this is going to be a talking day, rather than a staring blankly into space day. At least there's that.

"Winter, you know you can't take things without asking. That isn't nice."

"Cold isn't nice," Winter says. The dryer buzzes, tumbling to a halt. Winter's hand darts out of his wrappings, tearing open the door. He yanks out a heated blanket, pulling it around himself while simultaneously stripping another blanket off and replacing it in the dryer. That done, he starts the machine back up. "Makes me think of not nice things."

"Winter," Rollins says. Winter is more likely to obey Rumlow, a holdover from the days of commander and asset, but Rollins is better with emotional fragility and delicate phrasing. "We know you're not comfortable. But we're cold too, okay? We're going to get the heat working again, I promise, but in the meantime—"

"Makes me remember not nice things." He raises his head, and there's no Winter in his eyes. There's no Barnes. The stare is pure Soldier and it makes the air even icier. "Makes me remember how HYDRA took everything away. How the people who said they were my friends let them shock me and made me hurt people."

His voice is faint, words stilted. He's still unaccustomed to speaking. But none of that makes the implied threat any less horrifying. Beside him, Rumlow hears Rollins's teeth stop mid-chatter.

"Makes me remember," the Soldier adds, dropping his gaze down at the layers cocooning him, "all the ways to kill people. With a blanket."

A moment of silence.

"Come on, Jack," Rumlow mutters, shuffling back out of the room. "Leave him."

"But—" Rollins protests, though he's out of Winter's line of sight as quickly as possible.

It's still freezing. Rumlow's pretty sure if he looks hard enough, he can see ice crystals forming in the air. "We'll work something out. Start a fire, maybe."

In the laundry room, the dryer buzzes a second time. Rollins just sighs.