Chapter Text
Wake me up before you go-go
Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo
Wake me up before you go-go
I don't wanna miss it when you hit that high
What?
Wake me up before you go-go
'Cause I'm not planning on going solo
Wake me up before you go-go, ah
Take me dancing tonight
Music? Wham?
Brock's heavy eyelids flutter open, his consciousness slowly surfacing from the depths of sleep.
I wanna hit that high, yeah, yeah
The soft melody of his MP3 player fills the air, its familiar tunes permeating the room. Rays of golden sunlight filter through the partially drawn curtains, casting a warm glow on the exposed brick walls that form the backdrop of their urban sanctuary.
As his bleary gaze sweeps across the room, memories of the recent past start to resurface. He takes in the distinctive industrial style that he and Clint have carefully curated—a testament to their shared preferences and unique bond. With the exposed brick wall, weathered and textured pattern, the room exudes a sense of comfort and familiarity.
His attention then shifts to the bedside table, where his prized possession—the MP3 device—rests alongside his cherished necklace. The silver bands of the necklace glimmer in the soft morning light.
A gentle weight against his stomach captures his focus, and he looks down to find Clint, nestled beside him. Clint's arm, strong and protective, is draped over Brock's bandaged torso. The blonde's head resting on his chest, adorned in Paw Patrol pajamas. A contented sigh escapes Clint's lips as he slumbers, blissfully unaware of the world outside their haven.
Brock's gaze lingers on Clint for a moment, taking in the peaceful expression that graces his features. Questions swirl in his mind.
How'd I get here?
He reaches his hand up and his fingers begin to comb through Clint's soft hair, providing a soothing rhythm to his own thoughts, as he tries to make sense of his current predicament.
The creaking of the door draws his attention, and he lifts his gaze to find Scott stumbling into the room, rubbing his tired eyes in an attempt to shake off sleep's hold.
"Clint, wake up," Scott begins, his voice laced with drowsiness. "It's your turn taking Lucky for a morning walk–" His words trail off abruptly as he locks eyes with Brock, his surprise evident. "Brock?"
Brock's smile blooms across his face, relieved. "Yep, it's me. Been a while, Scott."
Scott stands frozen, his mouth agape, resembling a fish out of water.
…
After a momentary pause, Scott shakes his head, trying to snap himself out of his stupor. "Been a–" He cuts himself off, his words barely a whisper. "Understatement of the century, Brock."
Brock nods understandingly, regret clouding his countenance. "I know."
"Do you know how much we worried?" Scott's voice carries a husky tone, his greem eyes narrowing as he peers at Brock. "How much I worried?"
Brock's hand reaches out, an instinctive gesture of comfort. "I know," he repeats, remorse lacing his words. "I'm sorry for worrying you, Scott."
Scott moves across the room, his face etched with a tight expression and his green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Once he's within reach, he takes Brock's outstretched hand, planting himself beside him. "You can't just do that, Brock."
Brock offers a faint smile, his eyes meeting Scott's with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. "I know," he admits, his voice filled with sincerity. "I'm really sorry for worrying you."
Scott's gaze shifts to the closed window, his jaw set firmly, his vulnerability peeking through. "I came as soon as Clint called," he reveals, his voice thick with emotion. "Seeing you in that hospital, it was like jumping off a cliff. I could hardly breathe."
Brock's heart sinks at the weight of Scott's words, gripping their joined hands tightly. "I'm really sorry."
Scott shakes his head, his gaze still fixed on the distance, anger simmering beneath the surface. "And Jack? It's like the rug was pulled out from under my feet. He was HYDRA. Fucking HYDRA. I can't believe they're still lurking around in this day and age." Finally, he turns his attention back to Brock, meeting his eyes once again. "And apparently, you were one of them."
Brock's nod is somber, acknowledging the truth of Scott's words. "I was."
"But you were also one of the people who fought against them in D.C.," Scott continues, a faint smile gracing his lips. "If it weren't for you, a lot more would have been lost. You made a difference, Brock."
Brock raises an intrigued eyebrow. "Did I?"
Scott chuckles, tightening their joined hands for a brief moment. "It was all over the news and the internet, Brock. A SHIELD representative, Fury, if I remember correctly, came and gave a speech about the whole thing in D.C. and the leaked HYDRA files. The entire world was stunned, and HYDRA has been a hot topic for the past month. People and authorities are digging deep into HYDRA's secrets."
"Last month?" Brock's brow furrows, his mind struggling to catch up with the timeline.
Scott nods, his expression turning solemn. "Yeah, D.C. happened three weeks ago. When I got to the hospital a day later, you were in pretty bad shape," he clarifies, concern lacing his voice. "But anyway, Fury came out and confessed that SHIELD was unknowingly infiltrated by HYDRA for decades and that after, with Captain America and those seeking to destroy HYDRA, they were able to dismantle HYDRA. But then he announced the disbanding of SHIELD."
Brock's eyes widen as he absorbs the magnitude of the revelation. "SHIELD's disbanded?"
Scott affirms with a solemn nod. "Yes, Fury explained that he would rebuild an entirely new organization, one free from HYDRA, to serve the people and protect humanity, even from threats beyond our world–his words," he explains, before pausing for a moment, his eyes searching Brock's face. "And then he mentioned something weird. He hinted at offering refuge to those who were led astray."
A spark of curiosity and relief flickers in Brock's eyes. "Fury said all of that?"
Scott nods, his eyes filled with a hint of awe. "Yeah, he did. And what made it even better was that he had Captain America and Black Widow standing next to him during the announcement."
Brock can't help but snort, a wry smile playing on his lips. "I can only imagine the public's reaction to that."
Scott chuckles, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "Oh, you have no idea. Social media exploded, news outlets went into a frenzy. It was a spectacle. But that's not even the most important part. After Fury's speech, Captain America took the stage and delivered a speech. He addressed the events in D.C., talked about the HYDRA infiltration, and gave his own thoughts and emotions. It was a powerful moment, Brock, truly inspiring."
Brock lets out a genuine laugh, a glimmer of fondness returning to his eyes. "I'll definitely make it a point to watch it later."
"But here's the real highlight," Scott continues, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "Turns out HYDRA had Bucky Barnes in their clutches since World War II. Can you believe it? He revealed that he was a prisoner of war for decades, forced into HYDRA's service against his will. Now, he's finally being put on trial for the crimes he was manipulated into doing."
Brock's heart skips a beat at the mention of Winter's involvement. It all starts to make sense. Winter, despite his innocence, would face intense scrutiny for the crimes HYDRA coerced him into committing. Going public with his captivity and the horrors he endured would undoubtedly sway public opinion and garner sympathy in the courtroom, especially with his close ties to Captain America. It must have been Fury's idea, or Stark's.
"And did he win the trial?" Brock asks, his voice laced with anticipation.
Scott grins, a twinkle in his eyes. "Of course he did. The entire internet rallied behind him. Although there weren't many specific HYDRA files about the Winter Soldier, the public's support was still overwhelming. And with Captain America and Iron Man fighting his case, it was practically a guaranteed win."
Stark, fighting for Winter? Brock cannot help but feel a surge of gratitude towards the eccentric billionaire. It must have been his idea to play the sympathy card, leveraging Winter's tragic past. But then his breath stops short as a realization hits him.
Wait.
Does Stark know?
What if he finds out about–
"Then Clint told me that none of this would've been possible without you, Brock," Scott's voice breaks through his thoughts, filled with heartfelt sincerity. "He said you paid a big price to bring down HYDRA."
Brock's shoulders sag, and he exhales heavily. "Something had to be done before they could do more damage to the world."
"And you did it," Scott affirms, his voice filled with admiration and pride. "You took action and made a difference, Brock. I'm proud of you."
A soft smile tugs at Brock's lips, his eyes shimmering with appreciation. "Thanks, Scott."
"I'm just glad that it's over," Scott whispers, leaning down to press a gentle kiss against Brock's forehead. "And I'm glad you're alright now."
The tender touch sends a wave of warmth coursing through Brock's body. "Thanks, Scott."
Scott straightens up, his eyes brightening with anticipation. "Now, get up and wake Clint up for breakfast. We can either order in or I can whip something up in about an hour."
Brock shakes his head. "Nah, I'll take care of cooking for you two. You both look like you could use a good meal," he comments and narrows his eyes playfully at Scott's waist. "Seriously, what have you two been feeding yourselves?"
Scott lets out a laugh, his expression filled with amusement. "Honestly? We couldn't eat much while we were worrying over your unconscious ass," he replies, tightening their joined hands before letting go and rising to his feet. "Now, I'm gonna take a quick shower and check in with Cassie. Oh, and I expect some delicious stir fry when I get back," he adds with a playful tone before making his way towards the door.
"Got it," Brock replies, giving a lazy salute in response.
"I'll start on the rice in the meantime," Scott says, his voice fading as he closes the bedroom door behind him.
With Scott gone, Brock turns his attention to the still-sleeping blonde in his arms. He gently reaches over and retrieves Clint's hearing aids from the nightstand. "Hey, sleepyhead," he murmurs, his voice soft and affectionate, shaking Clint's shoulder gently. "It's time to wake up."
In response, Clint frowns in displeasure and nuzzles his head to Brock's chest. "Go away, Scott," he mumbles in his sleep, snuggling closer to Brock.
Brock chuckles softly, his fingers brushing through Clint's hair. "C'mon, Clint. Don't you want my delicious stir fry anymore? It's time to get up."
The blonde groans quietly in discontent, arm tightening around Brock, before his body suddenly tensing up. He quickly lifts his head, his eyes widening in disbelief as he gazes at Brock. "Brock?"
Brock grins, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Yep, Clint, that's my name," he teases, handing Clint his hearing aids. "How was your sleep?"
"I–" Clint stammers, eyes on Brock's lips to read his words as he quickly puts on his hearing aids. "It was good."
"Great," Brock says, his tone filled with warmth. "How about we have some breakfast? Let me get up and–" His words are cut off as Clint launches himself at Brock, wrapping his arms around him tightly.
"You're awake," Clint gasps out, his voice trembling. "You're finally awake."
Brock rubs Clint's back soothingly, providing comfort and reassurance. "I'm okay, Clint," he assures him. "I'm here, and I'm okay."
"There was so much blood, Brock," Clint's voice wavers as he speaks, his emotions laid bare. "You were unconscious for weeks," he says, tears welling up in his eyes.
"I know, Clint," Brock murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss on top of Clint's head. "I know."
Clint lifts his head to lock his blue glittering eyes with Brock's. "And Natasha told me you saved me."
Brock offers Clint a warm smile, his eyes filled with affection. "And I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
"Please," Clint pleads, his voice choked with emotion. "Don't ever do that shit and throw yourself into danger like that again. You may be a super soldier, but that doesn't mean you're invincible."
Brock affectionately ruffles Clint's hair, his touch filled with tenderness. "I promise, Clint. I'll try my best not to."
Clint's jaw clenches as he gazes down at Brock, eyes watery and arms locked tight around Brock's bandaged torso. "I thought my heart was gonna fucking shatter. Seeing you limp in Stark's arms... I thought I was gonna lose you," he confesses, tightening his grip around Brock. "I don't wanna lose you too."
"And you won't," Brock whispers, holding Clint tightly against him, pulling Clint's head down onto his chest, right above his heart. "I'll make sure of that."
They remain in each other's arms, finding solace and strength in their embrace. Brock holds Clint, providing the comfort and reassurance they both need.
Brock's eyes linger on Clint's tousled blonde hair as he watches him with a mixture of admiration and love, brushing his fingers through the blonde locks comfortingly. "How am I back home, though?"
"I had you moved here," Clint answers, his ear next to Brock's heart, eyes closed as he listens to its rhythmic beats. "I know how much you hate hospitals, and to be honest, I don't like them all that much either."
Brock nods gratefully. "True," he agrees, his voice tinged with relief. "But how did you manage to move me? Don't tell me you carried me all the way up to our room."
A mischievous chuckle rumbles from Clint's chest as he playfully smacks Brock's chest. "I love you, man, but your muscly heavy ass is too much for me, even with Scott's help," he jests, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "No, I had Stark carry you up."
Brock's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Alone?"
Clint nods against Brock's chest, seemingly content where he is. "With his suit on."
Understanding dawns on Brock's face, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That makes sense."
"I would've asked Steve, but he was still busy with his newly reunited pal at the time," Clint explains.
A wave of relief washes over Brock as he hears that Steve is taking care of Winter. The knowledge that Winter is being supported brings a sense of peace to Brock's heart, knowing that he is not alone in his recovery.
"I'm glad you got me here," Brock says sincerely, his voice filled with gratitude. "Thank you."
Clint's head lifts up as he locks eyes with Brock's. "I just thought you'd wanna wake up where you're comfortable," he explains, his voice filled with tenderness, his hand reaching up to cup Brock's bearded jaw. "And you got much better after two weeks. There are some scars, but they only add to your ruggedly handsome charm."
Brock lets out a deep, heartfelt chuckle. "Is that so?"
Clint's smile is one of appreciation. "Oh, definitely," he affirms, his expression filled with adoration as he traces the scars on Brock's face. "Those medical staff were swooning over your sleeping ass. One time, a male nurse dropped his clipboard when he saw your gigantic pecs and rock-hard abs."
Brock raises an eyebrow, his disbelief evident. "Now, you're exaggerating."
"I swear I'm not!" Clint insists, laughter bubbling up from deep within him. "Ask Scott. He was there too. It was pure gold, man. We had a laugh the entire night."
Their laughter fills the room, intertwining with the warmth of their love, creating an atmosphere of joy and lightness.
As the laughter subsides, Brock gently disentangles himself from Clint's embrace and lifts the blanket away, revealing their legs intertwined beneath the covers, clad in comfortable boxer briefs. "C'mon, let's get off the bed. I need a shower."
As they both rise from the bed, their bodies still feeling pleasantly warm from their rest, he grabs his necklace and loops the cord around his neck, its weight comforting on his chest. "Speaking of Scott, I did promise him breakfast."
Clint stretches his arms above his head, the fabric of his shirt riding up slightly, revealing a sliver of toned abdomen. "You cooking? But you just woke up."
Brock chuckles softly, his fingers brushing against Clint's side as he walks over to him. "It's fine, Clint," he reassures, wrapping an arm around the blonde's waist. "Besides, it'll be nice to move around a bit after such a long nap."
A laugh escapes Clint's lips, the sound filled with genuine amusement. "Understatement of the year," he quips, leaning into Brock's touch. "Stir fry?"
Brock smiles at Clint's enthusiasm, finding joy in the way his eyes light up with anticipation. "Stir fry it is."
Reaching up to Brock's chest, Clint's fingers idly play with the silver bands of the necklace around Brock's neck, a curious glint in his eyes. "I still don't really understand this trinket of yours. Someone gave you this?"
Brock takes a moment to gather his thoughts, his gaze fixed on the silver pendant hanging from the necklace. "Well, actually, I gave myself this. It's sentimental, a reminder of my childhood."
Clint raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. "What? Is it for your one and only when you find him?"
Brock lets out a deep, rumbling chuckle, his laughter filling the room. "Something like that."
Clint giggles behind his palm, his eyes shining with mirth. "Such a sap."
Brock smacks Clint's nose playfully, eliciting a surprised squeal from the blonde. "Get dressed and be decent, you horn dog. We need to freshen up and brush our teeth. You're in charge of the cutting and the washing."
Clint cackles with delight and moves away from Brock, grabbing his purple shirt from the dresser, all the while grinning happily. "Aye, aye, captain."
Brock stands in the sunlit kitchen, the savory aroma of the stir fry wafting through the air, its tantalizing scent mingling with the clattering sounds of dishes and cutlery as Clint and Scott set the table. Rays of light dance upon the sleek countertops, casting a warm glow on the scene.
The front door swings open with a familiar click, its hinges emitting a soft creak as it reveals Natasha in her casual yet commanding attire—a leather jacket that hugs her frame, accentuating her confident presence. Her piercing green eyes lock onto Brock, their intensity causing a flicker of unease to pass through him. Lucky, ever loyal, bounds toward her, tail wagging expectantly, but she brushes past him, her gaze unwavering.
"Hey, Nat!" Clint's voice breaks the tension, a hint of surprise lacing his greeting. "Thought you were on a gig with Fury?"
"I called her when Brock woke up," Scott clarifies, arranging the plates with careful precision and offering Natasha a friendly wave. "Good to see you, Natasha."
Curiosity evident in his arched eyebrow, Brock turns to Scott, seeking an explanation. "You two met?"
Scott nods, his smile holding a touch of admiration. "Yeah, she stopped by when we were at the hospital, sitting by your bedside. She was constantly busy, though—helping out Captain America. Turns out, she's the only one he trusts to speak Russian with his buddy."
Brock nods, absorbing the information, before redirecting his attention back to Natasha. "Good morning, Natasha," he greets her, his voice calm and composed. "It's good to see you."
Sensing Natasha's indifference, Lucky retreats, tail drooping slightly as he returns to the periphery of the room, observing the unfolding encounter.
Natasha strides purposefully toward Brock, her steps measured and deliberate. The lines on her face reveal neither approval nor disapproval, shrouding her thoughts in mystery.
Brock's unease heightens as he braces himself for what's to come. "Is something wro–"
*THWAK!*
Before he can utter another word, the air is shattered by the resounding of Natasha's hand connecting with his cheek, the sharp sound echoing through the room.
"Nat!" Clint's voice rings out, laced with concern.
"Natasha!" Scott gasps, his eyes widening in shock.
Brock instinctively brings his hand to his stinging cheek, tenderly rubbing the spot where her palm made contact. "Ouch?"
Natasha's expression turns thunderous, her eyes ablaze with a mix of anger and worry. "Don't you ever try to die on me again."
Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Brock stammers, attempting to defend himself. "I wasn't tryi–"
"Never," Natasha interrupts, her voice laced with determination, her gaze piercing through him.
Caught off guard, Brock's protests fade into a timid agreeing nod. "Okay."
And in the next moment, Natasha's anger subsides, giving way to a fragile vulnerability. She barrels into Brock and wraps her arms tightly around him, her body coiled with tension. "We haven't found my sister yet," she murmurs, her voice softer now, her grip unwavering. "So, don't you dare die on me or her."
After a moment of recovering from the emotional whiplash, Brock reciprocates the embrace, his arms enveloping her smaller frame with a mixture of comfort and determination. "I promise not to die, Natasha," he reassures her, his voice resolute. "And we'll find her, even if it means scouring every inch of this earth until she's found."
Natasha nods against his chest, apparently finding solace in his words, her body relaxing ever so slightly in his arms.
A mix of surprise and awe colors Scott's features as he watches the intense scene unfold before him. "Wow, that was… Intense."
Clint, his gaze fixed on the exchange, snorts at Scott's remark. "That's Natasha for you. Either incredibly subtle or extremely intense, but never in between."
Natasha, without turning her head, extends a finger, flipping Clint a bird.
A hearty laugh escapes Clint's lips. "Atta girl!"
Scott regards Clint with a mixture of confusion and amusement, shaking his head slightly, before he resumes his task of arranging the plates on the table.
After a poignant pause, Natasha slowly disentangles herself from Brock's embrace, her gaze drifting to the direction of the kitchen. "Is that stir fry I smell?"