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“Do you have bad dreams?”
Brock looked up from his coffee and watched Winter push around his cream of wheat. “My whole life is a bad dream. Be more specific.”
“Dreams about… About what happened. What we did in Hydra.”
Oh. Brock didn’t feel guilty in the slightest for the lives that had been taken for the cause because, at the time, they were justified. If he was to shoot someone now, sure, he’d probably feel a little bad about it. But Winter wasn’t like him, he was...different. He didn’t have the hardened shell the Soldier did. If Barnes was anything like Rogers he was probably a self-righteous dick who wouldn’t consider the blood on their hands to be his. But this wasn’t about the Soldier or Barnes, it was about Winter.
“No, I don’t. And you shouldn’t either. You had to do that stuff. Don’t worry about it.”
It was shitty advice and Brock knew it, but he wasn’t a fucking therapist. All he knew was push it down and numb it with alcohol until you stopped giving a shit. He doubted that worked on super soldiers. Brock finished his coffee and Winer, slowly, got back to eating. He stepped in front of the calendar to see if anything pressing was coming up and he caught sight of next Thursday. Fuck. He groaned and walked over to wash his mug. Before moving into this house, the closest thing Brock had to a Thanksgiving was when the cafeteria on base served it. Brock hated turkey, it was dry and bland, gravy was just fat, the potatoes were gritty and the only thing that actually tasted good was the stuffing and cranberry sauce. Of course, it was different here. Brock didn’t know Jack had a cooking bone in his body but when it came to holidays he had celebrated as a kid, he went all out.
He knew how to cook a turkey and apparently the way to make things taste better was to add more fat because he’d watched in horror as Jack mixed two sticks of butter, sour cream and bacon bits into a mound of potatoes that, admittedly, tasted like fucking heaven. But their rule remained: if Jack cooked, Brock shopped. And with the holiday just over the horizon he knew he needed to get on it to find a decent turkey before all the degenerates snatched them up.
“You up for a trip to the store?”
Brock glanced over his shoulder where Winter bobbed his head. Brock had a feeling this was a disaster in the making but leaving him here alone made him nervous. About the house, not about Winter, Brock reminded himself.
“Finish your breakfast then get dressed. It’s cold out so get a sweater, I don’t want to hear you bitch.”
Winter nodded, quickly inhaling his mushy breakfast. Brock was trying to push him into trying new foods. It wasn’t normal the way he focused on one food solely. It couldn’t be good for him either. He remembered one of the techs saying that he had to maintain a certain body weight to keep the arm from causing pain. But Winter was always vocal about his problems so, should he be in pain, Brock would probably know. Usually Jack had to remind Brock to pick up food for their tiny Thanksgiving dinner but this time Brock had remembered on his own. Should Winter still be around next Thursday, he’d probably end up joining them. Rogers wouldn’t complain, the asshole. So they were definitely stuck with him and that was for the best. When Winter was done Brock cleaned his bowl and started a list, gnawing on the end of his pen as he tried to remember what they usually got. Jack hadn’t clarified on a type of pie yet so he decided pumpkin and chocolate could do (and no, not because they were soft and smooth so Winter would try them). When he was satisfied with his list he sighed and looked up only to jump. WInter was hovering just out of sight.
Sometimes he could be as quiet as the Soldier stalking a target and other times so fucking noisy you’d think there were ten people, not just one. “Fuck’n a,” Brock snapped. “I hate when you do that shit.”
“Sorry.” Winter took a step back. “I’m ready.”
He looked ridiculous in the beige chunky knit sweater but he’d brushed his hair. Brock took a deep breath, tore out the list and went upstairs to do his hair and change into a nicer shirt. He wasn’t one to get dressed up to go to the supermarket but he had to, at least, be presentable. The chances of the usual shoppers not recognizing him as the infamous Strike commander were slim but at least they were afraid enough not to interact with him. That was for the best. Winter not so much, with the arm covered he looked like your local weirdo.
They loaded into the Subaru. Jack had finally gotten sick of fixing up Brock’s shitty Toyota and despite his objections, bought a used Subaru. So now he was driving a Forester like some granola bum. But it did have more cargo space and a roomier cab so Brock decided it was an okay swap. The ride over was peppered with questions from Winter. Usually Winter went to the grocery store with Jack and Jack would buy him honey sticks from the jar by the register. Brock told him maybe. Jack also gave him quarters to get a new a bouncy ball to add to the jar of them he had on the desk for some fucking reason. Brock said maybe. The twenty minute ride was Winter telling him where Jack started in the store and what he grabbed. Brock tried to turn up the radio, a nice way of asking Winter to shut the fuck up but he spoke louder. Brock hung onto his patience and went to his quiet place.
He found a parking spot by the entrance. It was technically in the ‘parents with children’ spot but Winter counted as an overgrown kid in his opinion. And should someone meet him, they’d get it too. Winter stuck himself to his side. He had spoken like he was confident about shopping at the little grocery store but he seemed more anxious than anything else. Brock considered ignoring it and letting Winter solve his issues himself.
“It’ll be an in and out, Win. Honey sticks, right?”
Winter sucked in a deep breath. “Honey sticks.”
Brock grabbed a cart and Winter hung about half a step behind Brock. It reminded him of when Brock went in first and the Soldier was waiting on heel like an attack dog. For some reason it made Brock’s stomach clench painfully. He tried to shake it off as he went to the produce section, impatiently waiting for some lady with a flower purse and mom jeans to pick out which head of romaine she wanted. He looked over and caught sight of a half depleted mound of sugar pumpkins. When Winter got fidgety in safehouses the best way to keep him grounded was to give him tasks.
“Grab me a couple of those.” Brock ordered quietly.
Winter looked at him and then nodded, steeling his jaw. He took a moment to read the informational panel before he picked up two and crossed the yard between the pumpkins and Brock’s cart and set them down like they were live grenades and hastened behind Brock again.
“Good job.”
Winter put a full step between them in response. Mom Jeans moved on and Brock grabbed a butternut squash and a bag full of cranberries (Jack refused to use the canned cranberry sauce). They wandered down the produce stands. He sent Winter to get a bag of Yukon Golds because Jack insisted they were the only potatoes to use for mashed potatoes. The trip went well, Winter his errand boy which made the whole experience far better than the ones he went alone. Although he did get a bit of paralyzing anxiety during the rare moments a person approached where Winter was. But Winter just took a giant step back like the stranger could somehow cause harm to him. It was a bit funny in that regard. He didn’t dare send Winter into the mess of people crowded around the freezer rifling through the turkeys. It was the small ones that went first, no one wanted to deal with carving leftover meat from a turkey carcass. Especially when the majority would go uneaten. He slipped in and grabbed a perfect one, only for a guy in a camo hat to hook his finger through the loop and gave it a tug.
“It’s mine buddy,” Brock said, trying his damnedest to be nice. “‘m sure they’re plenty more.”
“Pal, I got my hands on this one. How about you let go.”
“It’s his, let go.”
Brock’s head snapped up and there was Winter glowering at the guy who laughed. “How about you go back to your cart.”
“It’s his turkey, it's not yours. He touched it first. I saw.”
“How about the both of you fuck off?”
Brock blinked and the guy was skittering backwards. “Winter!”
The crowd had parted immediately and the guy was on his ass four feet away looking wide eyed at Winter who glaring in a way that made Brock think it was the Soldier. “Fuck, fine. Jesus.”
He got his feet rubbing his chest, he backed away, grabbed his cart and hastened away. Brock stepped away from the cooler and everyone stared at him. Brock offered his kindest smile. “Hey, uh, he’s… Sorry.”
They waited for him to step back, eyes keyed on Winter who wore the look of a dog caught doing something wrong. Slowly they returned to looking through the turkeys, and Brock practically sprinted towards the bread to get the last thing he needed. Winter was back to being a half step behind him and Brock didn’t know if he was upset or not. He had done Brock a favor -- he hadn’t planned on letting go of the turkey and neither had the asshole and things would have definitely escalated -- but he’d risked getting himself, and quite possibly Brock, in trouble with Shield. Brock wasn’t interested in having those fuckers back into his life again.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Brock when they got into line.
“Don’t do it again.” Brock said.
“I… I won’t, I promise.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Can I still get a honey stick?”
“Yes.”
“... And a bouncy ball?”
“Sure. But we’re not going to tell anyone about what happened today right? It’s a secret.”
“It’s a secret.” Winter agreed.