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It took three years for Brock to get his first injury on duty as the Venture bodyguard.
They’d been knee-deep in the Amazon, searching for some rare plant the Doc needed to make a cure for… something. (Brock didn't really ask). When they were ambushed by some pretty angry locals, one guy with a bowie knife got in a lucky swipe at his arm.
No big deal.
He was all stitched up now and having a well-deserved nap in his room. Well trying to – the little blond boy sitting cross-legged on his stomach and playing noisily with a toy airplane was making napping kind of difficult.
And then there was Dean, ever the problem-solver, popping in and out to bring him stuff for his ‘booboo.’ The kid’s favourite green giraffe, Mr. Reachy (a part of Brock, a part that was getting smaller every day, hated that he knew its name), was perched on the pillow beside his head alongside a blankey that could probably stand a wash. The next thing Dean brought was a tiny Spider-man Band-Aid. His clumsy little fingers struggled to get the wrappers off, getting caught a couple times, but eventually he managed to press it to Brock’s arm. Vertically, so it only covered about half an inch of the foot-long gash.
“Thank you, Dean.”
The kid ignored him, pouting down at his handiwork, then ran out of the room.
A couple minutes later, he heard Dr. Venture’s whiny voice from down the hall, “Brock how –” The Doc paused in the doorway, eyeing Hank uncertainly. Brock gave him a little wave that set him back on course, “How are you doing? Can I – can I get you anything?”
Brock rolled his eyes. “Geez Doc, it’s just a little cut – I’ve had plenty worse than this.”
“You have…”
Doc’s tone bugged him. It was too quiet, too low-pitched. It was like he was asking a question, but not. Was he supposed to say something back? Nothing came to mind…
Dean saved him, strolling in proudly with his big box of Spider-man Band-Aids clutched in both hands. Doc watched his more sensitive son scramble his way up Brock’s bed and squat down by his hip. Dean got to work opening the box and unwrapping a new bandage, his little tongue poking out the side of his mouth in concentration.
Doc seemed to take that as his cue to leave, but he turned back to ask if Brock wanted him to take the boys away.
“Nah, they’re not bothering nothing. I’ll tuck ‘em in later.”
The door clicked shut. For a little while, the only sound in the room was Hank’s weak growls. (You’d think the kid would have a better idea of what a jet engine sounded like with all his rides in the X-1).
Suddenly Hank’s noises became erratic, flecks of spittle going everywhere as he made strange motions with his lips and tongue. He swung the plane hard in the air, changing hands, and jerking his torso from side to side. Then he swooped the toy down directly above Brock’s chin. His arm froze and he went totally silent, waiting.
Brock blew a gentle puff of air at the front propeller to send the little plastic ring spinning.
He watched Hank pull the plane back, resuming his awful engine noises, to glide it through a gentler flight path. He glanced down at Dean to see him crush another gluey Band-Aid against the hair of his arm.
He smiled.