Jack Rollins/ Brock Rumlow
5
The STRIKE second- in- command was killed in a firefight outside of Burma. That’s all the official mission report said. The real story is a secret between Nick Fury and Brock Rumlow. Neither man is very forgiving of betrayal. While Rumlow was content to promote internally, the director had made the choice for him. Fury had called Brock into his office to pass him a recruit. Some fresh-faced kid, a fucking huge kid, but a kid. Rumlow was told in no uncertain terms that Jack Rollins was brought in from the Navy SEALs and he would be serving as Rumlow’s SIC. Brock Rumlow is an angry man.
How dare Fury give me some punk kid, younger than half my guys, and expect him to be able to command respect? To lead? How can I expect someone I have never met to be trustworthy of my life? Of my team?
Rollins had been stoic in the face of it all. Such severity seemed out of place on a man so young, but Brock had brushed the thoughts aside.
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Leading Rollins to a sub- basement, Brock by- passed the usual STRIKE training gym. As they passed it, Jack noticed it had several men practicing throws and falls. The gym that Rumlow stopped at was completely empty, save for a boxing ring I the middle of the floor.
“Glove up, kid.” Brock threw a pair of handwraps and boxing gloves at Jack.
Offering Brock a confused glance, Jack clumsily started to wrap his hands.
“Jesus, kid.” Brock finished wrapped the hand he was working on, and began to unwind the mess that Jack was making. “Watch.”
Jack watched carefully as Brock demonstrated.
“There’s twenty- seven bones from here down.” Brock held one on Jack’s large hands, and pointed to his wrist. “Now don’t fuck this up. If you do it wrong, you’re gonna break some ‘em.”
Jack smiled at the little bit of old Bronx that Rumlow let creep into his voice in his distraction.
Once both men were gloved, Brock stepped up into the ring, motioning for Jack to follow.
“Alright kid. Show me what you got. Make me believe that you deserve to be here.”
Jack is much bigger, and broader. He’s heavier, and an easy ten years younger than Brock, but he fights with everything he has. He holds nothing back, and yet he does so without being showy. Brock finds himself begrudgingly impressed.
Nearly forty minutes later, when they’re both heaving deep breaths and pouring with sweat, Jack has managed to pin down Brock. Shucking off his gloves, he holds Brock by the ribs.
“So, boss. Think I got what it takes?” Jack is looking at him more than a little lecherously, which Brock is trying to ignore. He shifts under Jack’s weight.
A sharp intake of breath has Jack looking down into Brock’s eyes. He notices the subtle, but telltale flinch. A glint of mischievousness flashes over Jack’s face, and he smiles.
Brock’s eyes wide comedically. “No- No! Don’t you fuckin’ dare!” Jack digs his fingers in and tickles the older man. Brock shrieks and laughs until tears are rolling down his face.
Jack pauses in his assault, laughing at Brock. He is entirely unprepared for Brock’s quick left hook and murderous gaze. Knocking Jack off of him, Brock keeps swinging until his shoulders ache.
Jack is in medical for three weeks. The scar on his chin never fades.
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4
-Five Years Later-
It’s a mission. It fucking would be on a mission. Everything had been a shitshow. Bad intel, shoddy mission support, and two agents out in the field when they could have used another few weeks of recovery time. Of course everything had gone to Hell.
While the job was finished, it was sloppy. Too sloppy. Brock’s years in Marine Special Ops were screaming in the back of his mind about how messy and inefficient and high profile the mission had become. There was going to be a lot of fallout and a lot of cleanup for years to come until this black mark on his otherwise flawless career would fade away.
Brock Rumlow fucking hated Bucharest.
The majority of the STRIKE agents had already embarked on their quinjet home. Brock was taking it personally that he had managed to allow all of his men to be injured, save himself and his SIC.
Jack kept trying to reassure him that none of it could possibly be blamed on him. And while it truly wasn’t his fault, and no one, in fact, could have done better with what they had been given, Brock Rumlow still blamed himself.
The final touches of the mission, eliminating all evidence of SHIELD’s involvement, fell to Jack and Brock. Three days after the rest of the team had gone home, the pair were holed up in a safehouse in the shittiest part of the city. Their own extraction wasn’t due until the next afternoon. They had nothing to do but wait, and try to sleep.
It was rare that the full team was needed. Brock and Jack worked alone quite often, and unless Jack’s skills were needed elsewhere, Brock preferred it that way.
His initial misgivings about the younger man had long- since eased, and the two had settled into something of a routine. This time Brock chose to cook while Jack showered. Not having any fucking hot water was a small price to pay for not having to eat any of Jack’s weird ‘traditional’ Polish food. It was going to be a long trip back in a small jet, and he was not being cooped up with Jack after cabbage and pork rolls. He’d even once seen the man put fruit on pasta. It wasn’t normal.
Brock was finishing up when he heard the shower shut off. Putting the food in the oven of the too- small safehouse kitchen, Brock went to retrieve his towel. He could still feel the dirt and a little bit of dried blood across his shoulders. As he stepped into the shower, he noticed that while there was still some hot water, it was going fast.
After what ended up as a very cold shower indeed, Brock re- entered the kitchen to find Jack dishing up the cacciatore. The men ate in near- silence with only the occasional comment here and there. Truly it was one of the things Brock appreciated most about Jack. He never made the silence awkward, but he also never filled up the space with a bunch of meaningless talking.
Jack finished first and stood up to place his dishes in the sink to wash. He began filling up the basin with soapy water. Brock leaned back in his chair, trying to stretch his back. He stood up, and set his dishes in the sink. He raised his arms up, again trying to relieve some of the tension from his aching muscles.
He is in mid- stretch, with his eyes closed, when Jack seizes his chance. Jack knocks his CO to the floor and tickles him until he can’t breathe.
Jack is in medical for a week. His injuries are reported as mission- related, and Brock ends up having to do the dishes, too.
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3
-Three Years Later-
Brock can’t figure out what Jack’s deal is, and he’s been getting a little leery of being alone with the man. He trusts the man with his life. He is confident that Jack will never jeopardize a mission. He just can’t figure out the guy’s endgame. Every now and then, Jack gives him what he can only describe as bedroom eyes, and then makes a move to start tickling him. Most of the time he dodges Jack. Sometimes he doesn’t.
Once more the entirety of STRIKE team Alpha is deployed. This time they’re in South Africa- somewhere in the bush. There are twelve men and two women in this tiny, crowded safehouse, and Rollins is starting to get an antsy look about him. Brock decides to call it a night.
Everyone is asleep except for Jack, who agreed to take the first watch. Jack creeps into the end bedroom. The real benefit of command, as far as Brock is concerned, is that he usually gets separate sleeping quarters whenever they are available. Provided, of course, that they aren’t traveling with a full fucking complement. While Brock hadn’t been able to bring himself to take a room entirely for himself, he did insist on having his own bed. Every other bed in the safehouse plus the couch had at least two people on it, and there were still guys in sleeping bags on the floor.
Brock is awake and on high alert when he hears the soft click of the door closing. His hand already reaching for the gun he strapped to the bed post when he Jack speaks up.
“Easy boss. It’s just me.” The soft whisper seemed so loud in the stillness.
Before Brock can form a reply, Jack’s hand covers his mouth. He leans down to whisper into Brock’s ear. “Best be quiet now, boss. It’d be a shame to wake up the team with those cute little giggles of yours.”
Jack took his hand off of Brock’s face and dug his fingers into Brock’s bare torso. He tickled as hard and as fast as he can.
Brock, to his credit, makes no noise until he gets an arm around Jack and puts a fist into Jack’s face. He shoves Jack off the bed, and rolls over, seething inside.
It is later- after the team is home and debriefed, that Brock seeks out Jack. Finding him in the locker room, Brock waits until Jack is dressed before punching him again.
Jack does not go to medical. He sits at home with an ice pack on his face and laughs to himself about Brock Rumlow.
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2
-Two Years Later-
Brock Rumlow does not cry. He does not get teary- eyed weepy like a damn girl. He’s a grown- ass man, goddamn it. So when Jack Rollins finds him, silently crying and drinking, slumped against the wall of his office, he quickly locks the door behind himself. Jack sits on the floor beside Brock, who has a cheap bottle of tequila in hand- half gone, he notes.
Jack waits. He is an incredibly patient man. He’s waited for days in a row to take a single shot, sometimes laying in a puddle of his own piss. He’s waited through hours of torture and interrogations. He’s waited for news to come from medical about one of their own. He can wait.
Jack waits for Brock to speak, knowing that he can’t not speak. It’s simply not in his nature to be quiet for very long. When the words finally come, they are gravelly and course- choked out and stuttered from alcohol and fatigue and despair. And Jack listens. He listens to how the newest junior STRIKE agent may never fully recover; he may never even come out of a coma.
Brock blames himself. He goes on about how he should have done so many things differently, how he shouldn’t have pushed so hard on so new of a kid.
Knowing that his words will fall on deaf ears, Jack stands up. He grabs a bottle from the cabinet in the corner of Brock’s office and takes a heavy swig. He pulls Brock to his feet and guides him to the couch in the corner of the office that generally gets used as a bed, by the look of it.
Brock slumps down on the couch and leans over to stretch his legs out. Jack sits on the edge and tickles him. Brock laughs and laughs until the tears stop entirely and he is gasping for breath. Jack lays down beside him. Brock doesn’t hit Jack. He lets himself fall asleep against Jack’s chest.
Brock wakes up alone in the morning, covered in Jack’s hoodie. He doesn’t look Jack in the eye for weeks.
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1
-Six Months Later-
The junior recruit makes a full recovery. He has turned out to be an incredible asset to the team. Everything had been looking up, and Brock Rumlow is in a damn fine mood.
He and Jack are sparring in the gym, burning off some steam from too many easy in and out missions. He really should have seen it coming.
In one dirty move, Jack swipes his leg behind Brock’s, knocking him flat on his ass. Jack quickly swings a leg over Brock, straddling his hips.
Brock sees the mischievous look back on Jack’s face a heartbeat too late. Before he can move or speak, Jack’s gloves are off, and he is tickling Brock’ sides. Both men are already breathless from the workout.
Brock can’t even laugh; he is so out of breath. He can’t speak, not even to tell Jack to fucking stop. He shifts his hips, trying to throw Jack off of him.
Jack freezes deadly still when he feels a very prominent erection against the underside of his balls. Brock latches onto Jack’s moment of shock and hits him in the jaw.
Jack is in medical for a day when he receives his transfer orders.
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+1
-Six More Months-
It is six months of Rumlow and Rollins on entirely separate details- entirely separate teams. Everyone is suffering. Mission success rates are down. Efficiency rates are down. Morale is down. Every single STRIKE agent on the base is surly and agitated.
It’s Coulson, who saves them in the end. He ordered a default on the change of rank and reversed a stack of transfer orders. Rollins is paired back up with Rumlow, and Coulson dissolves the fledgling STRIKE team Echo.
Things slowly improve. It doesn’t go unnoticed that Brock and Jack never speak. Several otherwise flawless missions are compromised when Brock refuses to acknowledge Jack; refuses to give him orders directly.
It is after one such mission that Jack seeks out his superior officer. Finding him in his office filling out the mission report, Jack sits down.
“Rumlow.”
“Hm.” Brock doesn’t look up.
“We need to talk.”
“We ain’t gotta do shit, Jackie.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He doesn’t react to the nickname that he’d come to miss hearing. Instead, Jack stands, and in one fluid motion, swipes everything off of Brock’s desk and onto the floor.
Reaching over grabbing Brock by the holster he was still wearing, Jack hauled him bodily over the desk and slammed him against the opposite wall.
Jack tickled him. Brock’s hands come up, but Jack is ready. He grabs both hands in his own and pins them above Brock’s head. In terms of pure, physical strength, Jack can easily overpower Brock, and Brock is looking nervous. When Jack steps in, bringing a thigh between the man’s legs, Brock looks worried.
Brock starts to make a smart comment, but Jack is there, kissing him. Brock melts into the kiss- giving as good as he gets. He moans unabashedly and then freezes up. He yanks his arms down and shoves Jack away.
“You aren’t any less of a man for wanting this, Brock.”
“That’s, it’s not-” Brock falters and looks down.
Jack puts a hand gently on Brock’s chin and tilts his face back up. Looking up into Jack’s eyes, Brock leans into him to kiss him.
Brock slowly back Jack up until they reach the couch, where he breaks the kiss to push Jack until he sat down. Pushing him again, until he swings his legs up and lays down, Brock moves in to kiss him again.
Jack, completely distracted, is only vaguely aware of the movement behind his head until he feels cold metal clasp over his wrists.
Absolutely aghast, he looks up in confusion at the handcuffs, and then back to Brock.
Brock gives him a wolfish grin- and tickles him.