Kilroy

It’s just after dinner on a Monday evening in late April when Brock gets the call.  His phone buzzes repeatedly with the dit-dah of a Morse Code A, and he’s scrambling up from the couch to answer it before Jack even realizes it’s not a normal phone call.

“Rumlow,” he says gruffly as soon as he gets the phone to his ear, then his shoulders stiffen.  “You’re sure?”  Turning to look over his shoulder, he grimaces at Jack.  “Yeah, you want me to head to the airstrip or- okay.  Copy.  I’m on my way.”

Brock slowly pulls his phone away, then takes a breath.

“Must be serious if they’re activating you this soon.”  Closing the lid on his laptop, Jack sets it on the coffee table and stands up.

“They found Loki’s scepter.  A jet’s already on its way to pick me up.”

A chill runs through Jack; after handing it off to Dr. List three years ago, his team was no longer in the loop on its whereabouts.  The one piece of intel they both wished they could give to the Avengers, and neither of them knew.  “Well, then, Crossbones, time to go suit up.”

“I’ll be back the day after tomorrow at the latest.  Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jack murmurs, stepping closer and putting his hands on either side of Brock’s jaw.  The scarring is starting to fade, now that Brock’s getting enough calories, and there’s finally some color in his skin again.  Leaning in, Jack kisses Brock slowly, then rests their foreheads together.  “Be safe.  And if you can’t be safe-”

“Be deadly.”  Brock tilts his head back up for one more kiss, then turns for the door.  “I’ll check in when I can.”

“Love you.”

He gets a hand sign flashed over a shoulder: thumb, index finger, and pinkie extended.  It’s as close as Brock normally gets to saying it back, but even if he can’t hear the words themselves, it still makes Jack smile.

The smile fades as the door closes and he hears the truck’s engine roar to life, then fade off into the evening.  Jack chews his lip, then looks over at where his own phone sits silently on the coffee table.

At least it lines up well enough with the thirty days of ‘post-deployment leave’ that they’d used as a cover story for Brock’s sudden reappearance last month.

Jack sits down, picks up his phone, and stares at it.  He’s starting to remember why he hates being benched on high-stakes missions.  The thought makes him scoff, though; is he even benched if he never wanted to be on the team in the first place?

Closing his eyes, he focuses in on the tether firmly anchored someplace behind his sternum, the one that flickers in time with Brock’s heartbeat.  The steady, rhythmic pulse is soothing, as familiar to Jack as his own, and soon the tension drops from his shoulders.

A few more breaths help with the rest of the anxiety, then he picks up his laptop and opens it back up.

Jack’s just rounding the corner into their cul-de-sac the next evening when Brock drives by in the truck and pulls into the driveway.  He doesn’t get out immediately, though, and Jack’s worry increases the closer he gets until the door pops open.

The first thing Jack sees is a sleek white splint around Brock’s arm from his knuckles to his elbow, and the second is the gash on his cheekbone still pulled shut by steri-strips.

“You should see the other guy,” Brock grimaces as he gets out, wincing.

Sighing, Jack gets his arm under Brock’s shoulders and pushes the truck door closed.  “At least they patched you up before sending you home.”

“I’ll be fine in a few days.”  Brock’s not limping, at least not where their neighbors can see, but Jack doesn’t know if that’ll change once the front door closes.  “Didn’t feel like stickin’ around for Stark’s party, so I had them fly me south again.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to be just as entertaining as copious amounts of alcohol and useless small talk.”

Brock laughs, then winces and presses a hand to his ribs.

Once they’re inside and Jack has Brock laying on the couch, he leans over him and raises an eyebrow.  “Now, are you going to stay put while you’re healing, or do I need to call in a favor with Thor and have him put Mjölnir on your chest?”

He gets a wordless, grudging grumble in return, and pats Brock’s cheek.  “I’ll get you something to eat.”

By the time Jack gets back to the couch with some reheated leftovers and a protein drink, Brock’s fallen asleep.  The leftovers end up becoming Jack’s dinner and he puts the drink back in the fridge.

He ends up waking Brock up enough to help him shuffle into the bedroom and change into some pajamas, then spends the rest of the night curled around him as Brock sleeps like the dead.

Brock does heal quickly, with his serum; not as quickly as Rogers, but still significantly faster than baseline.  He also inhales nearly everything that’s edible in the house, and Jack has to go grocery shopping again before Brock starts chewing on their boots.

“Holy toledo,” the clerk says when Jack unloads his shopping cart.  “You feeding the five thousand or somethin’, Seanny boy?”

Jack laughs and hands over his credit card.  “Something like that.”

Within a day of Brock getting home, Jack ends up buying them an Xbox because holy shit Brock is damn near unbearable when he’s bored, and Jack doesn’t want his phone buzzing like a hornet all day while he’s at work and in class.

Somehow, they manage to get through the week without murdering each other, and Brock’s mood steadily improves as his injuries fade.  By the time Friday evening rolls around, Brock’s beaten all four Halo games and started in on Skyrim; he’s beating the stuffing out of a dragon when Jack gets back from work.

“I brought pizza,” Jack calls as he takes his shoes off, balancing the three boxes in one hand.  They end up leaving his hand fairly quickly as Brock, lured by the smell, takes them into the kitchen.  Standing up, Jack pulls off his backpack and follows.  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were more excited about spicy pepperoni than you are about me getting home.”

“Oh, I am.  I definitely am.”  Brock grins at Jack over his shoulder, then opens a box, grabs a piece, and takes a big bite before he’s even sitting down.

Rolling his eyes fondly, Jack gets plates for them and pointedly sets one in front of Brock, then grabs a few slices for himself.  They won’t get through all three pizzas in one sitting, but at least it’ll provide some quick and easy food for Brock for the next day or so.

Brock gets two thirds of the way through a pizza when he finally slows down to take a breath, leaning back in his chair and wiping his hands clean on a napkin.  He rolls his head to the side to look at Jack, and sighs.  “One of our neighbors popped by to check in when I was gettin the paper this morning.  Asked how my business trip went.”

Jack makes an interested noise as he takes another bite of pizza.

“We need to dial in my cover story before we have to make something up on the fly.”

“What’s in your identity packet?” Jack asks once he’s chewed and swallowed.

“Romanoff’s idea of a joke.  I had to keep the name because it’s on the IDs, but like hell am I gonna use the backstory she wrote up for me.”

And, well, it makes sense that she’d troll Brock like that.  At least they hadn’t spelled the last name Krueger, otherwise Jack would have to seriously reevaluate Brock’s fixation on fancy knives.

Cleaning off his own hands, Jack shrugs.  “Cassie already knows we were in the same unit.  Might as well just stick with that.  Say you’re in the Army, stationed at McNair.  It’s close enough that the commute wouldn’t be crazy.”

Brock nods slowly.  “Could work.  I’d have to get my hands on some uniforms.”

“Easy enough to do.  Should be able to buy almost everything you need directly from the base exchange.”

Lips pursed and arms crossed, Brock frowns thoughtfully at the table.  “I’ll have to be seen in uniform during commute hours to help sell it.  And I’ll need to keep wearing the nano-mask until all of this goes away.”  He gestures to the burns on his face and huffs.  “This is why I never did long-term undercover for SHIELD, before.”

“Too complicated?”

“Too annoying.”

Jack snorts and pulls out his pocket knife to get the grease out from under his nails.  “And yet, you agreed to be their inside man once you’re back on the active roster.”

“Romanoff’s little spy tech care package means I don’t have to fuck around with makeup and latex anymore.  You know how much I hate that shit.”

“You’re just too vain to cover up that pretty face of yours.”

“Shut up, you like my pretty face.”  Brock’s grin is toothy but relaxed, and he nudges Jack under the table with his foot.  “I’ll call her up tomorrow, see if she can source a DOD card for me.”

Cleaning up after dinner is relatively easy, even if Brock gives him grief about the two plates they have to wash when they could have gotten away without it.

Jack settles down on the couch after that and reaches for his laptop to spend some time working on his latest project for class, but his hands get batted away from it.

“Pay attention to me,” Brock says as he perches on the couch with his knees on either side of Jack’s hips.  “I’m much more interesting.”

“You’re also the reason I’m up late the night before my assignments are due, trying to finish them on time.”  Jack’s hands find their way to his waist, though, thumbs stroking over the thin line of skin between his belt and shirt.

Brock’s shoulders drop as he sighs, resting his arms on the back of the couch.  “It’s a Friday night, sweetheart, you can work on it in the morning.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jack tilts his head.  “Is this because I told you no fooling around until your knee and wrist heal up?”

“Maybe.”  Brock pulls Jack’s glasses off and folds them, then reaches back to set them on top of the laptop.  “Probably.  Does it matter?”

“Kinda matters, yeah.  If you’re in pain-”  He’s not able to finish the sentence before Brock leans in to kiss him.  After a moment, Jack pulls away and sighs.  “If you’re in pain, you need to take it easy.”

Brock rests his forehead against Jack’s and closes his eyes.  “Okay, my wrist’s still a little sore.  Knee’s fine, though.”

Jack brushes his thumb gently over the thin red line on Brock’s cheek, all that’s left of the deep cut he came home with.  He slides his fingers up to card through Brock’s hair, and Brock presses his head toward the motion like a cat.  Chuckling, Jack gently scratches blunt fingernails over that one spot that he knows always itches, and Brock lets out a low groan.

“Go close the curtains, love,” Jack murmurs, then kisses at the corner of Brock’s jaw.  “I’ll be here.”

He’s not expecting Brock to strip down as he’s walking over to the window, but he definitely doesn’t mind the view.

Brock does actually let him finish his homework the next day, but as soon as Jack closes his laptop and sets it aside, Brock’s feet end up in his lap instead.

“It’s a good thing no one at SHIELD ever saw you like this,” Jack says, amused, as he starts kneading his fingers into the soles of Brock’s feet.  “Your badass reputation would have evaporated overnight.”

“You’re one to talk.  Your resting bitch face sent the baby agents diving for cover, but god forbid they find out you sing in the shower.”  A walrus-like thing flops to the ground after Brock’s Skyrim character stabs it with a knife.  Brock twitches reflexively and then relaxes when Jack gets a knot of tension to release.

“How d’you think you got a team so well trained that you never even had to give orders half the time?”

Brock glances up at Jack and smiles briefly before looking back at the TV.  “Allegiances aside, those were capable soldiers we had.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Pff.  Hell no.”  Brock swears under his breath and mashes buttons on the game controller.  “I can respect their abilities and value the work they did for me while still being thankful those bastards are dead.”

“We’re two of ‘those bastards,’ you know.”  Mercer’s hand around Jack’s throat and the harsh hiss of traitor rise up in his mind, unbidden.  “Sometimes I wonder who betrayed who.”

Pausing his game, Brock sets the controller on the coffee table and sits up.  “You were SHIELD’s from the start, until Pierce had them fuck up your head with Faustus.  I was HYDRA’s before they embedded me in SHIELD, though.  So I guess it went both ways.”

“Hm.  Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing an Avengers emblem on your shoulder.”

Brock grimaces.  “No way.  I’m not one of the good guys.”

“You’re fighting for the good guys.”

“I’m fighting against the bad guys.  There’s a difference.”

Smirking, Jack pokes Brock’s nose.  “Tomayto, tomahto.  Brock Rumlow, you’re officially a good guy.”

“Ugh, stoppit.”  Brock flops back down on the couch with his hands on his stomach.  “At least we took out Strucker’s base.  That should mean mopping up the rest of HYDRA’s straightforward from here on out.”

They get the call right as they’re heading to bed that night.

JARVIS is dead.  Ultron is loose, and the Avengers are gearing up to take the fight to him.

Brock spends an hour on the punching bag in the garage, then stalks into the Batcave to help Hill coordinate operations from the ground.

He leaves the door open, just enough that Jack can hear him talking with everyone else over the radio.  Jack stays up with him, sitting on the couch trying to refactor his program into a different language.

At around 2 AM, Brock goes silent mid-sentence.

Then, quietly, Jack hears him swear in Italian.  He’s on his feet and jogging toward the Batcave as soon as he can safely put his laptop down.

When he pokes his head in, Brock’s staring wide-eyed at one of the monitors on his workstation, hand over his mouth, as the skeleton of a skyscraper under construction crumples inward.

Jack brings in a fresh pack of ice for the wrist that Brock is ignoring, a protein bar, and an energy drink.  Then, he picks up the spare headset and patches in to help coordinate relief efforts.

He calls in sick to work and class the entire following week.  It’s less of an adjustment than he wants it to be, putting on SHIELD fatigues while he’s on video calls.

Jack’s phone rings several times each day.  Cassie, then Kevin.  Ryan even calls him a few times.  He doesn’t answer.  He’s too busy making officers in the Sokovian military blink first.

“I can’t find him,” Jack says, eyes closed, head bowed.  “I didn’t interact with Dr. Banner enough to have a read on his pulse.  I’m sorry.”