Chapter 4
The mug in Jack’s hands is too hot to hold comfortably, but he keeps his hands wrapped around it. It’s grounding. A physical sensation to tether him in place while everything else swirls chaotically around him.
His sleeves are pulled damn near down to his knuckles. If he can't see the tattoos, he doesn't have to deal with the fact that they fucking glow.
He gets up when the microwave beeps, though, and evenly divides the reheated leftovers between two bowls. It’s easy enough to sit back down and start poking at his food without looking at his unexpected guest; every time he makes eye contact, he feels like he’s going to faceplant into a migraine.
“You’ve been here in DC this whole time?” the man asks, fiddling with his fork.
Nodding, Jack nudges a few pieces of chicken around. “Since last March.”
The man sets his fork down, puts his elbows on the table, and puts his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry. If- if I’d known. If I knew you were alive. I would have looked, I would have found you.”
Jack manages to eat a bite or two, then leaves his fork in his bowl and leans back in his chair. There’s not much of a way to ease into it, no words to break it gently, so he just sighs and says, “I don’t remember anything before January of last year.”
The look he gets from the other man is hollow, haunted. “Nothing?”
“Fragments,” Jack admits quietly. “Flashes of sense memory, muscle memory. I know how to do an armorer’s breakdown of a CheyTac M200, and I can rig an IED out of damn near anything I can get my hands on, but I don’t remember where or when I got that training.”
“Did they…” The man’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Did you wake up in a chair? With…” He motions around his head, as if to imply something resting against his forehead and eyes.
Jack shakes his head, and the other man looks back down at the table, shoulders slumping in what almost looks like relief.
“So you don’t remember me.”
Closing his eyes, Jack swallows thickly, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” He’s not sure that a stale flashback and some doodles count as ‘remembering.’
“Ain’t your damn fault, Jack,” the man murmurs.
The sound of a car driving by on the street below fills the silence between them, but only for a moment.
Jack pulls his bowl back toward himself and starts eating again; he needs to get something in his stomach before he takes his meds for the evening. The intruder-turned-guest doesn’t do much more than poke at his food, though. And realistically, Jack can’t blame him. However they managed to fake Jack’s death convincingly enough for an autopsy, it’s clearly rattled the man sitting across from him.
On the one hand, Jack has a fair idea of who’s sitting across from him, and exactly how dangerous this man truly is. On the other, though… he’s probably one of the only people Jack can trust to actually be honest with him.
“Who was I?” he asks, and the other man’s eyes snap up to his. “Who was I, before?”
The man’s mouth moves a few times like he’s trying to form words and gives up every time. Finally, his eyes fall back down to the table and he takes a breath that isn’t as deep as it seems like it should be. “The best man I ever knew.” He swallows, and closes his eyes. “Not a perfect soldier. Hell, none of us were. But you were the best man of any of us.”
Jack gets goosebumps from that, and he’s not sure why. “Tell me your name? It… I don’t know. But it might help bring something back.”
“Brock,” is the ragged response, as if the words are catching in the man’s throat. “Brock Rumlow. I’m your-”
Jack doesn’t hear the last few words, because the world tilts sideways as his brain decides yes, now, now is a great time to forget how to function.
-in the showers, laughing but pushing him away because what if someone sees-
-have and to hold, for richer or-
-sharp pain in his jaw, blood in his eyes, he can’t see who’s holding his face in place on his skull. A harsh bark: “Where’s the fucking medic?!” He tries to speak and-
-technician goes flying across the vault, and Jack has his sights on the head of the Asset before the technician hits the wall. Stories and nightmares, the First of HYDRA, the ghost of the past; none of that prepared Jack for what he’s seeing. It’s a small reassurance that Brock looks just as disturbed when Pierce leads him into the vault for the first-
-the man looks tired, overworked, and like he spends too much time in the gym. The tip of a knife tattoo pokes out from the cuff of his sleeve, and he carries himself like a career soldier. “Rumlow,” is offered along with a hand. Jack shakes it, gives his own name in return, then follows Rumlow into the-
-a frantic, almost painful kiss. “Don’t you die on me, Jack. Don’t you fucking die on me today.” Brock presses their foreheads together. “I don’t care if you have to kill Pierce himself. Don’t you die-”
When Jack finally resurfaces from the migraine fog, early morning sunlight filters through the slats in the blinds next to his bed. He groans quietly and rubs his eyes with one hand, then notices that he’s still wearing the same shirt he was yesterday.
“Didn’t wanna make any assumptions,” drifts across the apartment.
Jack pushes himself up on one elbow and looks toward the couch; Brock - holy shit that’s Brock - is sprawled out with his gun in one hand and Jack’s knife in the other. He must have dragged the couch a few feet to the left sometime during the night, for better sight lines.
“...you kept watch.”
Sitting up, Brock shrugs. He sets the gun and knife down on the coffee table and drags his fingers through his hair; it sticks up in uneven clumps that tell Jack it’s been a long time since it was properly washed. “It’s not like I got a better place to be, and… you weren’t doing so hot.”
Jack winces and rubs his forehead, patting around for his glasses with his other hand. “Migraine, probably.” He can’t remember whether he took his meds last night; it takes some doing since he’s still somewhat uncoordinated, but he makes his way into the bathroom to check the pill organizer. No wonder his head’s still fuzzy, though, because last night’s prescriptions sit accusingly in their little block of the organizer.
Hopefully missing a dose won’t mess with him as much as it has in the past. Even so, he pulls out his phone and fires off quick texts to his boss and his on-campus friends to let them know he’s staying home sick today. After a moment’s hesitation, he sends one to Sam as well letting him know he won’t be at Group tonight.
Only after he’s locked his phone and set it back down does he realize that, over a year ago, he subconsciously chose Brock’s birthday for his passcode.
Well. If that’s the confirmation he needs that he’s not crazy and the surreal deja vu that’s been plaguing him for over a year isn’t just brain static, then there it is.
Jack puts his hands flat on the bathroom counter on either side of the sink and just… breathes for a bit.
Footsteps scuff on the carpet as Brock walks toward the bathroom; Jack knows instinctively that Brock can move as silently as a ghost, and he’s making noise now for Jack’s benefit. “Sweetheart?”
“I hate this,” Jack mumbles, and turns to sit down on the toilet with his head in his hands. Brock walks in and stiffly crouches next to him, one hand resting on Jack’s knee. “I have a life here. I- I started over. I have friends. I’m going to school. And I just-” Swallowing, Jack closes his eyes. His throat’s already starting to ache. “I hate the fact that my memory’s fucked. And I hate the fact that I’m not sure I want to get it back.”
Brock gently pulls Jack’s hands into his own and tries to smile, but the scar tissue pulls it into the wrong shape. He wraps his fingers around Jack’s and brings their hands to his lips. The contrast between their hands is stark; even burned and scarred, Brock’s skin is still far less pale than Jack’s, and the block, sturdy shape of his fingers make Jack’s hands look oddly delicate for how much larger they are.
It’s hard to ignore the way that a subtle flicker passes through the markings around Jack’s wrists where Brock is touching him.
“Who are you running from?” Jack asks, barely above a whisper.
Brock closes his eyes and takes a breath. “HYDRA’s liquidating compromised assets. I’m… one of the only…” He bows his head so his forehead rests on their hands. “They gave me a serum, years ago. It’s the only reason I survived the helicarrier crash. I’m one of three viable lab rats left, and the other two are Cap and the Asset.”
Hesitantly, Jack pulls his hand free and cups Brock’s jaw, stroking his thumb over the ripples of scars over a sharp cheekbone. “Why not go to SHIELD?”
“You think they wouldn’t stick me in a cage to rot?” Brock laughs, low and bitter. “They had to put you through six weeks of Faustus to make you comply. I did what I did with open eyes.”
Jack brushes his thumb over Brock’s cheekbone again. “I can get you in touch with Captain Rogers, he can-”
“Rogers would sooner put a bullet in my brain than help me, Jack, and I’m not sure I would stop him.”
Something breaks a little in Jack’s heart when he hears that. “So you’re just going to sleep on the streets and run for the rest of your life?”
Shrugging with deliberate nonchalance, Brock looks away. “It’s either that or chase down every bastard who made me into what I am and kill ‘em, but I’m…” He grits his teeth and shakes his head.
Jack gently pulls Brock’s head back around to look at him. “And these are your only two options?”
“Jack, I know enough about how all this works to know you’re on a conditional release. They find out you’re harboring a federal fugitive-”
“Didn’t you know?” Jack raises an eyebrow and a smirk starts to tug at his lips. “I lost my memory. How am I supposed to know you’re a fugitive? For all I know, you’re just one of the guys I used to serve with that needs a couch to surf on for a bit.”
Brock stares at him for several seconds, then laughs wetly. “You reckless sonuvabitch.” He gives Jack’s hands a squeeze, then stands. “You okay if I use your shower? And… I could go for a change of clothes.”
Nodding, Jack slips past Brock and starts digging through his dresser. When he comes back, Brock’s already pulled off his shirt and he’s working on the button of his pants, back turned to the door. Jack’s vision flickers with a memory of Brock in the locker room, strong back and whipcord muscles on display, but the man standing in front of him is thin enough that Jack could slot his fingers between his ribs.
Brock’s shoulders drop fractionally and his head bobs as he half-turns to look at Jack. “It’s a little hard to get enough calories when you’re on the run.”
“Especially with that serum in your blood,” Jack murmurs, and sets the clothes on the bathroom counter. “I’ll make breakfast, I need to eat before I take my meds anyway.”
Nodding, Brock steps out of the rest of his clothes and slides back the shower curtain.
“Is this for your migraines?” After they’ve eaten and Jack is swallowing down his meds, Brock picks up one of the pills from tomorrow morning’s block in the organizer.
Jack hums an mmhm as he takes another drink of water to wash the pills down. “Although I missed last night’s dose so today might be dicey.”
As he turns the tablet over, Brock suddenly goes very still and his eyes widen. “Jack…”
“Hm?”
“This is from BeneTech. Didn’t they tell you what WL-HOPE is for?”
Scooping another tablet out of the organizer, Jack looks at the letters stamped into it. “Said it was some sort of new treatment fresh on the market and I’m an ideal candidate for it.”
“It’s not migraine drugs, Jack, it’s the mutant cure. They’ve been disabling your gifts and lying to you about it.”
Jack looks down at the markings on his arm, which still flicker faintly. “...mutant.”
“You’re an Alpha Class mutant,” Brock tells him, setting the tablet down and reaching out to wrap his hands around Jack’s. “And your gifts have saved so many lives.”
As Jack’s body absorbs the medication, the lights dancing under his skin slowly fade. He feels unmoored, lost, and a little bit sick. “How many did they take, though?”
“Jack-”
“I was a soldier. I was on STRIKE. We were a black ops team, Brock. How many times did SHIELD and HYDRA use my- my gifts to do their dirty work?”
“They didn’t,” Brock growls. “They didn’t because until they had you unconscious and defenseless and alone, they didn’t know.”
“How could they possibly not know? Look at me! I’m a-”
Standing, Brock leaned over the table, hands flat on either side of Jack’s empty plate. “If you call yourself a freak, Rollins, I swear to whatever fuckin’ God still exists-”
Brock doesn’t get to finish his threat because the words die in his throat when the doorbell rings.
“Hello, boys.” The voice is muffled through the door, female, the teasing side of sultry, and makes Brock’s face lose what little color is left in it. “You have ten seconds to let us in before the Big Bad Captain huffs and puffs and kicks the door down.”
Standing slowly, Jack sees the anger drain out of Brock to be replaced with eerie, hyper-aware stillness. Brock takes a breath, eyes locked on Jack’s, then reaches out and grabs the front of his shirt to pull him into a kiss.
It’s not a magical curse-breaking thing, or even all that pleasant. It’s mostly teeth and dry, chapped lips, with a sort of frantic energy that has Jack spinning back to the early hours before the Insight launch. Brock rests his forehead against Jack’s, eyes still closed, and exhales.
“Just… had to do that one more time,” he murmurs. “Just in case it’s the last one we ever get.” With a slight push, he directs Jack toward the door. “Don’t keep Romanoff waiting.”