Brock paces. It's all he can do. Rollins is sitting on the couch in the dingy safe house they're stuck at for this mission and Brock paces the floor like a goddamn caged animal, because he's scared. He hadn't been this scared in years, but right now he's fucking terrified.
"You're not gonna make things better wearin' a hole in the floor, Rum," Rollins mutters, leaning back and draping his arm over the back of the couch. He looks calm, but Brock can see the nerves in the lines of his body. Rollins' foot bounces where he's got it crossed over his other knee. His eyes keep darting to the door. They're both trying not to panic.
Rollins is just better at keeping it inside.
"I can't just sit there and do shitall, Jackie," Brock growls, running his hand down his face. He's sweating. He's so freaked out and worried that he can't regulate. He hasn't felt this physically wrecked over his emotional state since he was in basic. Before they beat the soft outta him.
Though, there are times, when he looks into a certain pair of empty, trusting, storm-ridden eyes, that he realizes he's still soft. Deep down, Brock Rumlow's heart still beats with the desire to do good. To help. To heal.
He glances to the door at the sound of a heavy gust of wind that whips through the trees around the house, slapping against the eaves and rattling the timber. He and Rollins both hold their breath as a flash of lightning lights the sky, thunder rolling behind it in a wave big enough to topple mountains.
"How long's it been, Jack?" Brock asks quietly as the rumbling quiets.
"Four hours, seventeen minutes," Rollins says softly, all manner of sarcasm or humor gone from his tone.
They both look down. As time continues to tick away, they get closer and closer to the cut-off. Hydra has never been very thoughtful of its agents. Usually, the rule is to leave missing and injured men behind no matter what. The Asset is a different story. He gets six hours.
Six hours before his disappearance has to be reported and the team has to move on.
Brock doesn't want to move on, though. He's grown attached to the fucking guy, and he hates that. He hates how much those stupid blue eyes finding him every time they thaw him makes Brock's nerves calm down instantly. He hates that seeing the Asset step in after a perimeter check sends a sense of pride through him. He hates how soft the fucking Fist of Hydra's hair is, even matted with blood and dirt and grime from a mission.
He hates that he's actually… falling for whatever or whoever might be behind those eyes.
He hates that he would give up his own life to get that man back to the surface, if only he could find a way. He hates that he gave up escaping Hydra over two years ago to stay by the Soldier's side. That he won't leave until they all can leave. Together.
He hates that Jack seems to have made that same vow.
"You're thinkin' too loud," Rollins whispers, and his tone is soft, shattered. He's worried. Just like Brock is.
It's only in these quiet moments, when it's just the two of them, or just them and the Asset, that Rollins lets this side of himself show. He's a trained killer, a hardened mercenary. He doesn't have emotions. Except for Brock.
Brock and the Asset get to see this side of Rollins. Jack. The man with a heart. The man who hurts to see his Commander and friend aching so badly. The man who worries just as much as Brock does about the Asset's safety.
It's been the three of them against them all since the beginning. Since Brock got assigned to the Winter Soldier.
"He's gonna come back," Brock says after a moment, and he sounds more confident than he feels.
"Don't bullshit me, Rum," Rollins snaps, looking up at him and leaning forward over his knees. "Just admit you're fuckin' scared, alright? The guy could be fuckin' dead for all we know and all we can do is sit here and wait!"
Brock's breath catches in his chest and he hesitates. He licks his lips and looks to the door, then back to Rollins, blinking back… tears?
"He always comes back, Jack."
"There's a first goddamn time for everything," Rollins mutters, and he deflates, sinking back against the couch. Defeated.
Brock sighs and moves to the couch, sitting next to Rollins. They're quiet, and they don't need to be anything but in this moment. They know where their minds are. Brock reaches over and puts his hand on the back of Rollins' neck and the other man takes a shaking breath in.
"Fuck."
Brock lets a breath out through his nose in a stilted facsimile of a laugh. "Yeah. You said it."
Rollins pulls out his phone, checks the time, then opens up his alarms app. He sets one for exactly six hours after they lost contact with the Asset and sets his phone on the arm of the couch. Then, with a sigh, he puts his arm around Brock's shoulders and pulls him to his chest. Brock sinks against him and closes his eyes.
They sit there in silence as time slowly slips away from them, neither man moving or speaking until Rollins' alarm goes off and they both jump.
The storm still rages outside and the Asset is still gone. Rollins turns off his alarm and the two look at each other as Brock sits up.
"I guess… time to make a call," Brock whispers, pulling out the mission phone. His finger hesitates over the button to connect, his breath caught in his chest. A tear slips down his cheek and he shakes his head.
Why did he let himself get attached to a machine? A weapon? A brainwashed soldier that was replaceable in the long run. Brock should have known better. What was it about those damn eyes that caught him that first day and held him so firmly for all these years?
As he goes to make the call, there's a sharp crack of thunder outside, then the door swings in and bangs off the wall. Both men turn, going for their weapons.
The Asset steps into the house, metal arm wrapped around his midsection and head hung low. His steps are slow, pained. His breathing is labored. But he's alive.
Both men jump up from the couch and rush to his sides, Rollins shutting the door and Brock pulling the Asset along to help him sit. There's a flurry of motion as they pull out the first aid kit and Brock works to bandage the oozing wound at the Asset's side. They're all quiet, but for the Asset's heavy breathing, but the relief is tangible in the air between Brock and Rollins as they share a look over the Soldier's head. He's back. He's alive. He's safe with them.
—
It's three hours later and the storm hasn't stopped outside, but it's calmed in Brock's chest. He watches the Asset's chest rise and fall as the Soldier rests on the couch, his metal arm gently resting over his injuries and his head turned toward the room, eyes closed but no doubt still listening to everything.
"It was… so close," Rollins whispers. "We almost lost him."
Brock nods. "I don't care what the protocol is, Jack. From now on, I'm always goin' back for him."
Rollins nods and curls his hand around the back of Brock's neck. "Me too, Boss. I can't do this again. He- I don't know what it is about this fucking guy, but I can't lose him. We can't lose him."
"I know," Brock murmurs. "It's hell, ain't it?"
Rollins looks at him, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
"Having a goddamn heart," Brock says softly, watching the Asset with a soft smile. "Worst illness I ever had."