The question takes the Soldier by surprise. He opens his mouth to say what he's supposed to - that whatever Rumlow decides is best, that any new handler he designates to fuck him must be acceptable because he chose them - but he startles himself by frowning again.

This time it looks like a real person's frown. "...you're the most qualified," he mumbles.

Does it sound sullen? Quietly rebellious? Or is he just pointing out fact?

Exhausted by speaking so much, his fractured mind aching with the headache pulsing against his skull, the Soldier slumps back in his chair, as much as he can with the restraints, gaze dropping to the IV line taped against the back of his wrist. They'll begin feeding him some cocktail of drugs that he has no idea what they'll do this time. Or any time. Maybe he'll slip away in a haze and he won't feel what happens next. Squeezing his eyes shut, the Soldier opens them and stares up at Rumlow, leaning so close he could steal an unsanctioned kiss from his handler (soon to be former handler?) just by surging his head forward.

He doesn't. The guards are on edge: they might point firearms his way even with Rumlow standing there.