The Badger
Brock quickly became a favorite in the camp. He was better, by sheer force of will. And if he wasn’t better, he got better. But he was erratic, emotional. He’d lash out or keep to himself out of spite. People got hurt when he got frustrated.
Rollins was in the cot next to his and he was nice, he was. In a ‘make you a drink and then poison it’, kinda way. Brock liked him. He was strong and steady, powerful and in control. Brock liked to watch him sometimes, liked to watch him walk or fight or even shower, as creepy as that was. He was a solid man. He started to mimic his stride.
Brock was at the end of the line of showers, Rollins three up from him. The others had left, but Brock was still trying to get the blood out from under his nails from crawling at Jackson’s neck earlier. He barely heard the man walked over, and didn’t look up until he was being grabbed by the throat and slammed up against the tile, about a foot off the ground. He grabbed at Rollins’ strong hands, trying to claw his way free, but the taller man was having none of it.
“Stop staring at me,” he growled. Brock hadn’t been staring at him prior to this, but Rollins had probably been thinking about it. “I’m not interested.”
“Why?” Brock gasped. “Queer?” Rollins’ eyes narrowed and he squeezed once.
“Something like that. Tell anyone and I’ll tear your lungs out.” He dropped Brock, who slid down the wall and fell on his ass. He coughed and reached up to turn the water off.
“If it helps,” he rasped, coughing as he looked at the closed glass door. “M’not a girl.” Rollins snorted.
“Yeah?” But he didn’t seem to be judging him too much. “We’ll see.”
When they were alone, Rollins often had more questions. They stopped clashing the more they understood each other. Rollins became Jack and Rumlow became Brock. They were a seamless unit and no one seemed to want to separate that. Their superiors didn’t care as long as they did their shit. They started fucking at some point- sort of. Jack wasn’t into sex, but he didn’t mind fingering Brock. He’d climb into Jack’s bed after most were asleep and Jack would get his huge hands down there and it was great.
“Fuck, Jack,” he panted, grinding down against his fingers, groaning until Jack clamped his mouth shut with his other hand
“God, you’re so loud. Shh. Relax,” he murmured back
Then the lights were on and Jack pulled his fingers out so fast it hurt, but little else could be done for their situation. Brock slipped out of bed, although not subtle enough, but it didn’t matter. Someone clamped their hand over his mouth and grabbed him from behind and he saw the same was being done to Jack. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it wasn’t just them. Well, that was probably good. He was gagged and a bag put over his head, wrists ziptied. He kicked wildly as he was dragged outside and thrown in the back off a van. Another body was pressed next to his. More people were loaded up.
They drove for two uncomfortable hours. It was warm in van and some dick was resting a gun right on his thigh. Classy. When they got there- wherever there was -everyone got hustled up as they were led from an outside to an inside. He wanted to fight. He wished he could see. He felt them be lined up and the bags were pulled off their heads. It was bright in the room. Alexander Pierce was standing there, leaning on a desk across from them, smiling faintly. Jack was right next to him, managing to pull off the kidnapped-in-boxer-briefs look.
“Gentlemen.” He looked right at Brock. Fuck. “You are the group of individuals selected to be the commanders and seconds of the six most elite teams in Hydra, and therefor SHIELD. Congratulations."