3Title: hydra, I shrank our captain
Prompt: Brock gets shrunk to a finger size due to Hank Pym and Jack has to keep him entertained.
A/N: Written for HHdiscord, for Marvel Trumps Hate! I was originally planning a 3-5k fic (5 because it took so long!) but this mutated to a 7+k fic instead. I find this hilarious since the first thing I had to ask when writing this was "who's Jack Rollins?"
Hopefully you like this! (and forgive any issues with characterization)
Summary: Jack was used to strange situations, it came with the territory of working for Hydra. Brock shrinking to the size of a finger? Manageable. Keeping him busy until it wore off? Impossible.
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There were many reasons to work for Hydra—a chance at status, the money, the ability to alter the world, the money. No, seriously, if you got high enough in the ranks, the payout was unimaginable. Unfortunately, not one of those reasons was their medical plan, substandard as it was. It was a pity, considering how often Brock's men got injured when facing a superhero.
Then again, maybe that was why they didn't offer one. The overhead costs would be astronomical.
Still, there had to be a better solution than sitting in his subordinate's kitchen in the middle of the night, the light flickering above him because Jack didn't remember to screw it on tight enough. Brock couldn't say how many times he'd visited Jack's rundown shack of a home, only that somehow it looked worse at every visit. While they weren't getting paid the big bucks, they were certainly getting paid enough to afford better digs. For some reason, Jack liked living here; he had a rare strain of loyalty, the stupid kind that would get him killed.
Brock just hoped that wouldn't happen soon, it would be hard to find a competent replacement. Even more so now that the fucking Avengers were tossing everyone they could find into the slammer. A sharp sting interrupted his thoughts and he grimaced. "Watch it," he growled, snapping his head to his right.
Next to him, holding a cotton swab dipped in alcohol, Jack raised a brow. "It's not like it can sting less. It's an open wound, what do you expect?"
It was the truth. Brock glared at him anyways. "I can still hurt you."
Jack looked utterly unimpressed. Firmly, he pressed the cotton swab down once more, cleaning the wound. "If you can still threaten me, I guess you're fine."
"Like there was any doubt," he muttered, glancing down at his raised arm. There were three long slashes on his arm of varying depths, all reminders of what it means to go against S.H.I.E.L.D. Begrudgingly, he had to admit their field operatives weren't bad. At least they gave him a bit of a challenge; it would be boring otherwise and he didn't sign up for Hydra to fall asleep.
Jack glanced at him, then back at the wound. Firmly gripping Brock's arm, he started dabbing again. "No, you're too good for them."
"Damn straight," he bit out, resisting the urge to flinch as the swab brushed a more tender region. It was easier to deal with when he was the one patching himself, but Jack had insisted. Distracting himself, Brock scanned the kitchen, his eyes jumping from the clean plates in the dishrack to the sparse but organized counters. There was something ridiculously domestic about Jack despite his hulking frame. No doubt there was a frilly apron hidden somewhere here, and Brock chuckled darkly at the thought.
Jack raised a brow at the sight but said nothing as he started to wrap a long, cloth bandage around his arm. He pulled tight with each round, almost enough to cut off circulation but not quite. "Maybe…"
When he trailed off, saying nothing, Brock turned back to him. "What?"
"Just…" Jack bowed his head, his shoulders hunched as he focused on bandaging. Hesitantly, he suggested, "Tomorrow's mission, getting the Pym particles—maybe we should delay it."
It was the most asinine thing Brock had ever heard. He snorted, not sure if he should be insulted or just amused. "As if. Think Hydra would stop for something like this?"
"Then what if you—"
Now he was insulted. "Think I would stop for something like this?" Brock snarled, yanking his arm out of Jack's grip. The still untied bandage started to unravel, loosening around his forearm.
"Hey!" Jack protested, trying to snatch back the bandage.
"Do you?" Brock repeated, keeping his arm away. With his good hand, he grabbed Jack by the collar and pulled him down till they were at eye level.
Jack was good at many things, but eye contact was not one of them. He looked away. "No."
"This is nothing." Not quite satisfied, he let go and held up his forearm once more. "Don't be such a fucking mother hen."
"I'm not," Jack shot back, tugging on the bandage harder than necessary.
Brock wanted to laugh. For someone with Hydra, he was a poor liar. No longer insulted, he eyed his subordinate, amused. Part of him wanted to needle Jack more, to push his buttons; he's seen Jack scared, worried, hurt, but never angry.
At the very least, the sex would be amazing.
Maybe he could try after the mission.
-x-
"This it?" Standing in front of a tall, dilapidated building, Brock frowned. The place looked like an apartment on the verge of being torn down rather than a secret hiding place of a superhero. Sure, Hank Pym was an ex-hero at this point, but that sort of stench never really washed off. The government always paid them off one way or another.
"Yeah." Jack shifted from one foot to the other, antsy. Dressed entirely in black, he blended in with the shadows save for his green night-goggles. The street was darker than it ought to be at midnight, the streetlights here dead so Brock didn't have to break them. "Thought it'd be nicer."
"Guess it doesn't pay to retire no matter what side you're on." Brock shook his head, feeling mildly disappointed.
"Retire?" Jack gave him a look, before looking at the rest of their squad spread out around them. Half a dozen men dressed in black, tensely studying the building in front of them, ready for a fight. "That's not even an option, is it?"
Brock didn't bother to answer. Jack was right—Brock couldn't even name some of the newer guys, they've cycled through so many. He had no illusions about his place in Hydra—they'd use him until they couldn't, and then they'd dispose of him the first chance they got. Unless he rose to the top or saved a good nest egg, he wasn't going to make it past 40. 50, if he were lucky.
Not that Brock needed luck. He made his own and in a place like Hydra, he thrived.
Jack checked his watch. "It's almost time to start."
"Have two guys come down from the top." Brock pulled on his mask as he shifted to a commanding tone. His shoulder ached from the movement but he bit back a wince; he was here to do a job. If Jack noticed, he didn't say anything. He liked that about him, it was hard to find a professional sometimes. "We'll go in through the front and pin him in."
"What if he shrinks?" Jack asked, pulling down his goggles and readying his gun.
"Doesn't matter. We're not here for him, but for the particles." Brock gestured to two members of his squad. They nodded and quietly slinked toward the front door. One of them stood to the side, gun cocked, while the other forced the door open.
Nothing happened. Brock jogged forward, his gun drawn and goggles on. Scanning his surroundings, he commanded, "Catch him if you can. But I don't mind if he's bloody or dead."
The inside of the building was surprisingly clean and empty. Someone lived here, even if it wasn't Pym. For a lobby, the area was sparsely decorated, a wide square room with a single chair on side and a board full of keys on the other. Not bothering to grab them, Brock headed to the apartment rooms. "Everyone take a floor," he barked, already making his way to first floor rooms.
He kicked in the first door he found and rolled in. Just like the lobby, the apartment room was empty, the walls all newly painted white. Signs of people without the people. His goggles indicated no signs of Pym, small or otherwise.
As he exited back to the hallways, he bumped into Jack coming out from the opposite room. "Not here, unless he's small," Jack griped, glaring at the carpet as though Pym was hiding in its fibers.
Maybe Pym was. As good as his equipment was, it wasn't that good. Brock stepped more forcefully. "If he is, his fucking equipment has to be around. If I'm chasing him a second time, he's dead."
It was easy to keep up the energy as he burst into the next apartment. And then the one after that. The entire first floor was cakewalk.
By the fifth floor, however, it was just getting tedious. Even with the fact that his team had split up, dividing and conquering the fifty-storey building, it still took time to investigate each room. The results were the same each time—no Pym, no particles, no equipment. Occasionally, the empty rooms had furniture, indications of their previous tenants, but Brock wasn't sure if it was just a red herring or if there was some meaning in it. He wasn't a detective, he'd leave that work for the cleanup team after.
"The teams above are almost done," Jack relayed to him, standing stock still as he listened to his earpiece.
Brock shot open a door half-heartedly, tired of it all. "Fucking finally. Can't wait to leave."
"After we finish this hall, we're done." Jack checked the room across the hall with all the finesse of a bull in a china shop.
"He wasn't here at all," Brock grumbled, checking the last room in the hall. "Who thought he was?"
Jack shrugged, already leading the way to the stairwell. "Dunno, one of the intelligence units."
"When we get back, I'm having their head." As Brock descended down the stairs, he ground his teeth. Their steps echoed through the stairwell. "Waste of a night."
"Yeah. Everyone's out now." Jack opened the door to the first floor lobby and headed toward the front doors.
"Your house," Brock stated shortly, still pissed.
Jack smiled. "I thought you didn't like my house."
"I'm not breaking my bed." Brock snorted. There was only one kind of distraction he needed after this, and it was going to be rough.
"I don't know why I bother to repair it," Jack muttered, opening the glass door. He lingered at the entrance, looking back at him. "Coming?"
"One sec." Brock scanned the lobby one last time. Just like when he'd arrived, there was nothing here that caught his eye, no sign of the man or the particles they were after. The door closed in front of him and he sighed before following after Jack. "What an utter was—"
As he exited the building, his body started to tingle. Brock stared at his hands as a fuzzy, glowing light enveloped him and the building. He felt disconnected from his body, like he was half-asleep and listening to Jack go to the bathroom.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the glowing lights were gone but he still felt fuzzy. Maybe his arm had been poisoned yesterday. Maybe it was blood loss.
"Brock?" Jack yelled, his voice sounding way too loud. His shadow fell on Brock, looking like it could eclipse the sun.
"What?" As usual, Brock looked up at his subordinate. And then he craned his neck back and looked up even more.
Fuck, Jack was always a tall man, but he was a fucking giant now.
