BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEE-
“Uuuurrrggh” Brock groaned as he rolled and viciously smacked the annoying sound into submission. Why the fuck did he think it would be a good idea to see if he could try and drink Roger’s under the table? He knew he couldn’t fucking do it, the serum that golden boy had made it impossible for him to get drunk.
Oh wait… He fucking knew why he did it. Jack “what do you mean you can’t do it” Rollins. Brock was pretty sure at this point that when his liver failed him, he would be able to pin-point it to that very moment.
Slowly and delicately, Brock rolls his body onto his stomach and slides out of bed. When he finally manages to feel the floor with his- … face? Yep that’s defiantly carpet, he pushes himself up and stumbles off to his bathroom.
When Brock’s finally done his shower, thrown some product into hair and managed to fumble his way into some pants. He feels a bit better but not as good as he will after some coffee and aspirin. It’s as the coffee finishes and after he dry swallows a couple tylenol, that he looks down at his phone and-
“FUCK!” He should’ve left twenty minutes ago.
Without even thinking about it, he shoves his keys and phone into his pocket. Just as he’s about to run out the door, he realizes that, while he managed to shove his way into some pants, he forgot to throw a shirt on. Looking around, he groans, because of course he hasn’t thrown in a load of laundry in a few weeks.
Running back into his bedroom, he rips open a few drawers, only to find… The Shirt. The one that Jack gave him for his last birthday as a “gag” gift. The Pink Monstrosity. It was pink all over and emblazoned onto the front of shirt, so it would sit on his chest, read in glitter, “Daddy's little princess.” Honestly Brock had forgotten that he still had it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the time glaring at him in the red-lcd of his demonic alarm clock . Fuck it, I’ll pick something up on the way, he thought as threw the damn thing on over his head and booked it out the door.
Forty-eight minutes later, Brock is tumbling into conference room ‘c’. He’s late. Traffic had been hell, and Brock was pretty that he had pissed off the god of traffic or some shit like that, because there is no way there should’ve been that much construction and traffic on a sunday morning.
As he mumbles “sorry ‘m late” he gets the feeling that there was something that he was going to do. Something kinda important. However, Fury is glaring down at him, so he files the thought away for now and slumps down into an available seat. Brock is just starting to let himself fall into mundaness that is a typical meeting with Fury, he catches a slight movement out of the corner of his eye and Fury is looking in his direction at that moment, so Brock decides that whatever it is, it’s not that important.
As soon as Fury turns back around, Brock hears a- “pfffffffffft” noise from behind him. He turns his head a little bit more toward the sound, and sees... Jack. Jack who looks like he’s holding his breath for some reason because, his tinging a slight red colour and his eyes look like they’re about to pop out of his head. Fury is looking back in that direction so there isn’t anytime to figure out what Jack’s problem is. In fact it’s not until the meeting is nearing it’s end that Brock figures out why Jack looks like he’s going to explode. It’s when Murphy leans over from where he had been sitting on Brock’s left and whispers,
“I really like your T-shirt there, I mean I know it’s not regulation but it’s really pretty”, that Brock remembers what he was going to do before he encountered traffic from hell.
He looks down at his chest briefly, just long enough it to register that yes in fact, he is still wearing glittered demon spawn child of a teenaged girl’s closet. When he looks back up, he decides that he cannot, under any circumstances, let it show how much he’s bothered by this fact. So he leans back a little further into his chair and if his cheeks are a little red and he doesn’t look in Jack’s direction, well, that’s Brock’s business.
After the meeting ends,and after Fury has pulled Brock off to one side to chew him out for not only showing up late but also to point out that he,
“Really doesn’t need to fucking know that you’re ‘daddy’s little princess’’ and “for fucks sakes Rumlow get your shit together and do a load of laundry once in awhile.”
There really isn’t whole lot left to do for the rest of the day and Brock could run out and buy a new shirt, but at this point his entire team has seen it and Sanders has a big mouth, so everyone and their fucking goldfish knows. Brock has never been very good at admitting when he’s made a mistake. Besides, if he doesn’t make a big deal about it, chances are good that nobody else will either.
Hopefully.
But he glares down anyone that even tries to hint that he’s avoiding his second in command.
He almost makes it the entire day without running into Jack. Almost . He was so close, he could taste it. He’s getting ready to walk out the door and leave this shit-hole of a day behind him, when Murphy comes running up to him.
“Hey, Commander!” he says as he jogs up beside him.
Brock acknowledges him with a grunt and nod of his head as he keeps walking almost there, just gotta get through the door which of course Murphy takes as permission to talk (it wasn’t but whatever, Brock just wants to go home, has he not made that clear yet?)
“Rollins wanted me to come and let you know that you have to head on down to gym to help out with the newbies.” Brock stops dead in his tracks, closes his eyes, deep breath in, and-
“Right now? We’ve had all day, why now?”- even as he says it, he knows why.
Rubbing his eyes, Brock lets out a groan and turns around, marching off in the direction of the elevators and subsequently, whatever fresh hell that Jack has decided to unleash upon him this time.
Striding into the locker is… an experience, yeah, Brock’s gonna go with that. It’ll help with his eventual confession when he’s arrested for murdering one Jack Rollins, because this is absolute bullshit.
Brock is pretty damn sure that every single agent that was at work today is loitering in there, and he would eat his fucking boots if Jack didn’t have anything to do with it.
Gritting his teeth, Brock keeps walking towards his locker to grab out his headgear and tape. He knows that if he stops he’s gonna lose it because he can barely hear himself think over all the fucking snickering. He rips open his locker door, causing the contents to come tumbling out, and… shouldn’t there be more? Rolling around at his feet, where there should be a padded helmet, is instead a cheap, plastic, dollar store tiara.
Now, Brock could get mad, he could walk away, hell, he could pretend that he didn’t hit up his locker and go straight in and beat the shit out of some newbies...but that would mean that Jack would know that he got to Brock. Jack would be aware that Brock didn’t like the shirt and wore it by mistake (no, it doesn't matter that he’s already aware of that, there is no way in hell that Brock is going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.) Taking a deep breath in and lips curling into a snarl, Brock bent down, scooped the crappy piece of plastic up, plunked it down onto his head and stomped off towards the doors of the training area.
Shoving the door of the gym open, Brock stalked inside, glaring down any newbie that even dared to giggle in his direction, until he spotted his second-in-command, whose entire big stupid handsome face was lit up with glee. Brock knows that he should head over into Jack’s direction and really, he was going to. He really was. He was going to be the professional one, until some bag of tiny dicks baby agent decided that his opinion was going to fucking matter.
“Please tell me we’re fighting the big guy, because i don’t feel comfortable knocking the tiara off the top of a princess’s head.” Dead Baby agent finished with a snicker
Brock spins on his heel to change his direction, and before the little asshat can even lift his arms up to defend himself, brock has knocked him down to the ground and out cold.
“Anyone else, wanna take this Pretty Princess on?”
Unsurprisingly, The entire day ends with Brock on his knees trying suck Jack’s brains out through his dick in the showers, because nothing gets Jack hotter than watching Brock kick everyone’s ass. Of course, Jack asked him oh so nicely to leave both shirt and tiara on, which Brock did. Because honestly, there really isn’t anything that Brock will deny Jack. Especially when he’s eyeing Brock up like he’s gonna eat him alive.
A couple months later Brock is staring into the void that is his closet wondering where the fuck all of his shirts are going. They’re not in his dresser, he already looked there, and they can’t all be dirty already, he did his laundry only a few days ago.
Well, actually, Jack did the laundry, because… Brock can’t fucking remember the reason for it, he’s just happy he didn’t have to do it all. He asks Jack if he put them anywhere different, when the other man is over later that day.
Jack just shrugs and says, “Why the hell would I keep track of your fucking clothes?”
Which, yeah, good point.
A month or so after that, when Brock is getting ready to head out for a couple drinks, he notices that the black shirt he pulled on has ‘Daddy’s little Princess’ written on it in a subdued purple. Frowning Brock goes to change. He pulls out a blue shirt this time around but, there’s something off about it. Turning it around, there on the front is- ‘Daddy's little Princess’- Brock tosses the shirt onto the floor and rifles through his closet and dresser.
In total there are eight new ‘DLP’ shirts. All of them are in different colours. In fact… Brock realizes and his eyes narrow, all of them are in similar colours to the shirts that he hasn’t been able to fi-...
He’s going to fucking murder Jack.
He doesn’t kill Jack, but he is banned from Brock’s house for the next little bit of fucking forever . He also tried withholding sex but… well Brock didn’t see the point in punishing himself because Jack is a dickhead.
So how the fuck, does he only have two normal shirts left to wear? Hell even most of his jeans look like a ten year old girl went at them with a bedazzler and glitter glue.
The next day, Jack slips Murphy ten bucks for sneaking into Brock’s place when Jack took Brock out for dinner and a few drinks after work.
THE END