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Fools Rush In

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In the elevator, he slips up.

‘Slips.’

“Hail HYDRA,” he hisses in Cap’s ear, just loud enough to hear over the crackling of electricity as it courses into that gorgeously-enhanced body and makes him dance.

Let that equally-enhanced brain chew on that.  It’s the best he can do, all the give he can get because it tastes bad to gull a lover, one so stupid-tender it almost makes him want to believe. (And one whose true mate he’s been keeping under wraps like Mrs. Lovett, if the old pictures aren’t steering him wrong. God, isn’t that a recipe for sanguine reunions.)

If Rogers is worth any damn thing, he’ll figure it out.

 

He figures it out.  It all rolls downhill from there on Brock’s end.

He keeps his head the fuck down as he goes about his duties.  He’s been on BFF detail for the Soldier every time they’ve had him out in the last eight years, using the sister-bond people ascribe to omegas to keep things running smoothly. (Because Lord knows, he hasn’t clawed his way up the ranks or anything to get the position, and the respect, he has now. He’s more than a womb and a lure, he’s leader of the STRIKE unit, nobody’s bitch- except for those whose commands he’s privileged to obey. And those they assign him to.)

This time is no different. He grooms the Soldier, keeps him calm by his presence and familiarity when the docs and the techs work him over. Lets him breathe deep of his scent while he helps get him armed, goes over and over the mission parameters. There is no room for divergence, not here, not under Pierce’s gaze.

There never is.

 

The rest of his day goes pretty shittily as well. And then the Triskellion collapses on top of him.

 

He’d always known that there would be consequences to taking Steve Rogers to bed, but this was not one of them he’d been expecting.

It’s a goddamned miracle.

Or at least it’s a hell of a surprise. The docs start asking Brock about his choice in pain-killers, per the standard procedure, and he’s too floored to give them a decision right away beyond don’t take away what’s keeping my skin from burning. The baby will just have to tough it out, although given everything it’s stuck through so far, it might very well do it.

And that’s just- great. Because what he needs right now is a kid. A weak, helpless thing that will slow him down, weaken his resolve, that every government agency and two-bit terrorist ring in the world will want to get their hands on-

And Rogers doesn’t know.

Rogers doesn’t want to know, and he’s been trying, fighting against the drugs and the damage and even the doctors to get a message out.

It is not received.

That door has slammed shut, no thank you, goodbye. Brock can’t really blame the good Captain- it’s gotta sound like one of those slinky omegas from the old noir films, begging for help just one last time in a smoky voice, only to pull a pistol on the kind-hearted gumshoe when he shows up at the abandoned warehouse.

Only the difference is, he’s really pregnant, Rogers really needs to know, and Brock could really use some help here.

 

Rogers doesn’t come.

Rogers does not even give him the courtesy of a phone-call, or a bedside ‘you betrayed me’ lecture.

Brock puts all his focus on getting healed enough to bolt, and starts making plans of his own. HYDRA has fallen- that doesn’t mean it’s dead. Just because one has been a part of the cult worshipping a powerful beast in hopes of gaining its strength, doesn’t mean that it’s not still a dangerous animal when the temple is shattered and the bars come down.

And wounded animals lash out.

 

It takes some doing, but he gets out before he can be arrested, and disappears. It’s a cool spring, so he can keep jackets and long sleeves over his burn-scars, his head down under a cap. He’s a returned vet, a survivor of one of the big disasters, fleeing an abusive alpha- anything that keeps him unnoticeable and easily let-go. No bodies either- when he steals he keeps it bloodless, though always keeping an eye out for HYDRA, for recognition.

His injuries heal faster, better than they should, even if they leave him road-mapped- it’s no surprise that part of the regular medical updates have really been upgrades, needles that make the loyal subtly faster, stronger, more resilient. Nothing like Steve, of course, but just enough to give them the advantage- and to test out what works and what doesn’t.

He spends a night shivering in a roadside motel when that one hits. What if he’d ended up like Blonsky? Like those poor fucks down in Cybertek?

It’s one thing when you’re full steam ahead for the only cause that’s ever done you right. But when you realize just how much they could have done you wrong… the order almost doesn’t seem worth the pain.

He touches his stomach that night, and tries not to regret too hard.

 

It doesn’t stay easy. He’d pulled a decent raid on the pharmacy at the hospital before he’d disappeared, set himself up with easily-cashed goods, but that can’t last forever. ID and passports he’s trying to find, but somehow everywhere is blown, no cover, no shelter to be had. Brock sees headlines in passing, how the entire system got dumped to the internet, and he sees red for a minute. Everyone he’s known, everyone he worked with, if they aren’t dead already in the failed coup they’re burned, burned just as bad as him. HYDRA, SHIELD- all smoked out.

The fluttering inside him is what brings him back, forces him to steady his hands and his breathing. He can’t let it throw him, has to stay focused. He’s gotten through worse than this, he has- it’s just time to fall back on his earlier training, the stuff that proved to Garrett he was worth a damn, back in the day.

There’s nothing for him to go back to, no matter how much that nagging feeling whines for comfort, or his traitor loins ache in the night. He is a grown-ass man, omega or no, and even if he needed the help, he wouldn’t get it. He is stronger than this.

He and his baby are going to be just fine, damnit.

 

Brock’s been feeling a prickle in the back of his neck, felt like he’s catching movement out of the corner of his eye for the last week, the absence of scent where it ought to be on the wind. It’s been enough to drive him to the edges, keep him moving past when his body starts to demand, and he knows he can’t keep up. He grits his teeth, puts on his game face, and does his damnedest to disappear again. Backtracks, lays false trails, takes buses and back-roads, and even some good old-fashioned woodscraft to get him the hell out of there. He steals a junker of a truck that’s no nameable color and repairs it by stealth and judicious theft of parts, and that seems to finally get him far enough.

He sings along with the radio, one hand resting on his stomach as he goes.

When he finally feels satisfied that he’s shaken whatever might have been tailing him, he reflects that he might be going just a little bit nuts, and looks into finding accommodations. It feels all wrong to be doing this without his boys, the rest of his team, but he’s trained them too well- if they were here, he’d be in a cage and shipped off to the depths without a second thought.

It takes most of the rest of his cash, but the rental cabin is a hell of a lucky break. He’s been on the run for two and a half months, and it’s a hell of a relief to be able to check the doors and windows, spike the jams, lay down on the moth-eaten couch and sleep.

In the morning he unloads the truck, trying to take his time as he hauls food and water, the necessary bits of a temporary household into the cabin. Things are starting to shape up, Brock’s really starting to feel satisfied even as the paranoia mumbles and grumps in the back of his head. He’s almost got the last of the canned goods in, when he suddenly leans his shoulder against the wall, dizzy- and can’t quite remember how to push himself upright again.