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All Brock can feel is searing, agonizing, stabbing heat, a seemingly impossible consequence of being dunked into an icy river. Out here in the frozen wilderness, far from civilization, from hospitals, from rescue, it’s an almost guaranteed death. Yet, here Brock is, very much alive, and very much in agony.
His normal response to horrible situations is to complain, but his teeth just clatter something fierce. He’s shaking uncontrollably, fighting to get out of the heavy hold of his wet combat uniform.
“Hey, hey, stop squirming.” A familiar voice murmurs to him.
Rollins.
His second in command. His best friend. His secret lover.
He’s good at taking the reins when Brock falters. Over the years Brock has become conditioned to lean into Jack’s calming aura.
Everything is fine. He’s alive. He’s safe. Jack is here. Jack has it under control. Jack will take care of it.
And take care he does. He kneels in front of Brock and starts to strip him, unbuckling and unwrapping all the straps across Brock’s body, wiggling his heavy steel-toed boots off, peeling off the sodden layers of jackets and shirts. Brock’s tac pants take more effort. He has to hold onto Jack’s shoulders so the taller man can lift him just enough to pull them down.
Thank god the rest of the team isn’t here to see Brock is such a sorry state. Curled and shivering like an abandoned animal. Jack drapes him in a mylar blanket, tucks his limbs in so they can be warmed. “There, that should be better.” He murmurs idly.
Brock can do nothing but dimly watch Jack go through menial tasks about the cabin that feel almost domestic in nature. He rings out and hangs up Brock’s wet clothes over the fireplace. He fiddles with the radio and their maps for a bit. And then he’s unwrapping some beige packages from their supplies and working with them.
The wind is howling outside and the wooden walls of their safehouse creak. It’s just an old cabin without any electrical hook-ups or gas lines. No place for bath tubs or jacuzzis or even just a sink with hot water. Brock hates the cold and promises himself when they get home he’s going to take a long soak in his hot tub. Have some pizza. Maybe Jack will be there. Maybe they can fuck after, or before, or both.
Brock’s wandering mind is interrupted by Jack shoving a brown bag with a straw sticking out in his face. He can feel heat wafting up from the open bag. Jack holds it like a cup so Brock can sip from it. He cringes at the taste of MRE coffee, even after all these years, but gulps it down as fast as he can so his gut fills with warmth.
“Don’t choke yourself.” Jack teases.
“Fuck off.” Brock grumbles, but it comes out slurred and almost incoherent. Jack just chuckles, he recognizes the tone of Brock’s grumpiness, he’s used to it after all these years. He pulls up a stool to sit in front of Brock, who’s sitting on the cabin’s only cot.
Next, Jack is presenting him an open package of steaming beef stew, which he knows Brock likes a lot better than the coffee. But what he doesn’t like is Jack's audacity to spoon some out and hold it in front of him like Brock is a hungry baby needing to be fed.
Jack sees his glare and says, “C’mon, don’t fight me on this. Please?”
Any other man who dared would have gotten a face full of stew, but Brock reluctantly leans in to take the spoon in his mouth. It doesn’t even make it onto the list of the weirdest things they’ve done together, so he supposes he can suffer through this one humiliation. He’s desperately starving anyways.
The food helps him feel heaps and loads less on the edge of death, and Jack thankfully keeps a straight face and any commentary in his own head.
When that’s out of the way, Jack unwraps Brock from his blanket to inspect him. “Let me see your hands.”
Brock presents his trembling arms. His hands are red and blue, curled into half fists. Jack asks if he can move them. He can, but not without pain and not without a whole lot of effort. There’s still light purpling at the tips of his fingers and his nails, but he likely won’t lose any.
Jack massages the digits with a precision that one needs to work with explosives as often as he does, and a tenderness that is less often utilized, unfurling them one by one. Brock feels pins and needles under his skin as blood fills them, forcing the nerves to come alive. The muscles ache and burn from being so tightly wound.
“Does it hurt?” Jack asks.
“Yes…” Brock hisses.
“Good, that means you can still feel something.”
Jack meticulously works him over like that until the blood circulation returns to normal. Brock feels exhausted now coming down from the adrenaline rush. He’s warm from the fire, the emergency blanket he’s cocooned in, the food, and Jack’s deft hands massaging him from his toes up to his ears.
Brock’s eyelids droop and he starts to lean forward, which he doesn’t realize until his forehead is connecting with Jack’s shoulder.
“You’re not gonna pass out on me, are ya?”
“No...just tired.” Brock mumbles.
“I bet.” Jack hums, pets Brock’s red ears with affection
They’re alone in the safehouse, and will be for a while, so Brock gives in to the desire to nuzzle his face in Jack’s chest. His friend’s heat thaws his frozen nose and cheeks.
He should be thinking about his team, the training exercise tomorrow, his upcoming performance review, or the million other things his job demands of him.
He should be thinking about how close to death he was, how he’d be long gone by now if Rollins didn’t have his back, how many times the man has saved him both inside and outside their line of duty.
But Brock’s head is strangely quiet for once.
He’s stuck in this moment, feeling Jack’s hand rubbing his back in firm circles. He sniffles when he feels snot start to drip from his nose.
It’s dark out now. The rest of the team has already set up camp some distance away in preparation for tomorrow’s exercise. It’s about time Jack and Brock headed to bed as well.
Brock manages to wiggle himself into a fresh pair of underwear and a shirt from his pack without Jack’s help. He’ll have to wait for his tac pants to dry, though. He sees Jack rolling out his sleeping bag on the floor, but instead directs him to the cot for them to lie down in it together.
Brock gets in first, laying closest to the wall, Jack climbing in after him, bracketing him in. The bed is only made for one person, so it’s a tight fit, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Brock arranges them so they lie facing each other, finds a comfortable spot on Jack’s chest to lay his head, and relaxes with a soft sigh.
Jack quirks an eyebrow at him. He’s no stranger to Brock’s bizarre, fluctuating moods, but the man is rarely one to initiate those types of softer, non-sexual intimacy. He's been unnervingly passive. Jack hopes Brock didn’t bonk his head against a rock or something when he fell into that river. Even so, it’s not a chore at all for Jack to oblige him. In under a minute Brock is passed out snoring, thankfully. He’ll need all the rest he can get.
“Up n’ at ‘em, Jackie. Got a long day ahead of us.” Brock’s booming voice rocks the cabin, startling Jack from his slumber.
Brock is already standing, tightening and buckling the last of the straps on his various belts and harnesses. He's fresh-eyed and clear-faced, looking at Jack expectantly.
There’s nothing that makes Jack want to get out of bed less than his commander’s obnoxiously sunny morning-person attitude. And he was kind of hoping to snuggle a little more before they had to get up.
“Guess you’re feeling better.” Jack comments, trying to dig out of the tight trappings of the blankets.
“Pretty sore, but won’t be a problem. Get your ass in gear, we leave in five.”
Brock doesn't even wait for a confirmation by Jack before he stalks out of the cabin, probably to take a piss.
"Yeah, you're welcome. Jackass." Jack snorts in amusement. Whatever funk Brock was in seems to be gone, and even though Jack likes Brock all pliant and cuddly, he’s relieved to see his head back on straight.