Chapter Text
Brink wasn’t a very opinionated person. Or he’d like to think so anyway. He is proud of being someone who is fairly neutral, someone who was easy to work with, someone who wasn’t bothered by anything and easy to approach because of it. Hell, he rarely could say he “liked” or “disliked” something. He just enjoyed a lot of things, and found it hard to hate a lot of stuff in life.
But the few things that did end up on those lists were very important.
With that knowledge, it surprised even Brink how the events of today simply made him loathe the two snarling voices of the bastard strangers who dragged him into a storage closet in the middle of a shootout, and were now bickering like a long married couple.
Brink was proud of the patience he’s gained over the years. When he was younger he was an easy kid to taunt, always moving first before thinking, spitting venom at those who dared look down upon him. But this, he might throw years of anger management out the window just to kill them.
Here he was, shoved in a dark space, with little to no air circulation, pressed up against two people who were twice his size and he had no idea who they were. Not to mention Brink was awkwardly up against what felt like boxes made of hardwood, their sharp edges stabbing into his lower back. Brink just knows he’ll be feeling that into next week, if he’s lucky. His left shoulder squished into the cold wall, the only relief from the mixed effort of 3 people's worth of body heat in this damningly well insulated closet.
There was movement around his right leg, some trashing, trapped on either side by the legs of the other two people. He’d give an update on his left leg too, if he could fucking feel it, but unfortunately it had gone numb two minutes ago, and his arms weren’t far behind after holding up most of his body weight since he got thrown in here.
Oh, and did he also mention the throbbing gunshot wound in his right thigh? Because it's there too, bleeding slowly, and it's the whole reason he can’t stand without the support of his arms.
“... -oh so this is MY fault for trying to follow yer shitty morals and keep both you and the kid safe!” Voice One broke through Brinks thoughts for the 8th time. Whoever it was sounded male, along with his other companion, but his voice was deep, gravelly, not unlike the voice of someone who is a chainsmoker, and he also had a soft southern drawl to his voice.
Brink could feel one of them thrash, their leg making contact with Brinks and kicking him, it was entirely intentional and Brink thinks it was meant for the other person, but he wasn’t taking that disrespect, so he kicked back with double the malicious intent, driving the toe of his boot into the shin of one of the two voices.
“I’ll have you know that choosing to lock us in the closet was not MY- OW! FUCK! WHAT THE HELL?!” Voice Two cut himself off with a roar, which rattled the closet. Bingo, Brink smirked to himself.
This voice was higher than the first one, more pitchy and whiny, but softer and smoother too. Knowing all this info, and for the sake of keeping his narrative straight, Brink hatefully dubs Voice one as Smokey, for the awful cigarette smell he gives off, and the gruff voice. And Voice two was Spikey because he could feel the joints of that asshole's bones stabbing into his flesh, specifically his thigh right where the bullet wound was, and it hurt.
I have to be bleeding onto his clothes
Brink thought, trying to distract himself from his shaking arms and suffering spine.
“I did nothin’ you dick!” Smokey defended, “Maybe stop flailin’ like a confused kitten grabbed by the scruff and ya won't hit anything, beanstock.” The name calling game coming from Smokey was intense, Brink liked it. He heard an offended gasp from Spikey, rearing up for a counter argument, but he began trying to drown out the two’s voices again, not caring for petty arguments of two man children.
Brink needed to focus on himself, and maybe a way out of here. His right leg was in rough condition, definitely not good enough to stand, but his arms were a stray sneeze from giving out. So either he’s eating shit or… eating shit. Great, fantastic options here.
He’d tried to shift his weight to his left leg, just in case, but his circulation was long gone, cut off by a heavy metal object. What made it worse is Brink felt sweat drip down his back, slowly and excruciatingly, making him squirm and itch and grind his teeth.
In any other situation, Brink would have used his slightly inhuman strength to send the door- locking him in this hell- straight to its own hell by kicking it down. If, IF, it had been made out of wood. But, no, God was a bored King and Brink was merely his jester. This door was made of metal.
Solid. Fucking. Metal!!
Brink silently told God to go fuck himself for this stunt.
Brink took several deep breaths, counting to five, every self soothing action under the sun he could perform just to keep his temper under control. But it was taking a herculean effort not to strangle the two bodies near him. His hands itched to enact some violence, and it wasn’t for the uncomfortable warmth Brink would probably think his blood is boiling from impatience. He wouldn't even have this damn bullet in his leg if they had just left him to handle himself!
But, no, it all happened so fast all he could remember was someone screaming mercy, gunfire, some mention of Vash the Stampede, arms wrapping around his torso and lifting him like a sack of potatoes, a bullet making a home in his thigh and him barely holding back a whimper of pain, and then being shoved into this STUPID FUCKING JANITORS CLOSET!!!
This was all their fault, Brink would have been fine without their “help”. He felt nothing but hatred for these bastards. And he hadn't felt that since the loan sharks were on his ass. As soon as they get out of here, Brink is going to make them great friends with his metal pipe, John, and concuss them both with the explosive force of TEN THOUSAND FUCKING SUNS-
Something violently made contact with the wound on his leg and Brink felt the most intense fire of pain shoot up his leg, through his spine, to his brain. With a wail of anguish, Brink's arms gave out. Quickly, he was falling. He heard yelps of surprise from Spikey as he tried to catch himself, but neither of his legs were there to help him so he flailed pointlessly as his knees gave out and he went crashing down.
The first victim of Brink's suffering was his forehead, which practically made out with one of the wood crates. He hit it so hard that Brink could confidently tell anyone that he’s tasted pain before, and it tastes exactly like spicy noodles. His knees were the next victim as they slammed into the ground, he couldn’t feel one but the other sparkled with pain from the awkward angle it hit right between the kneecap and bone.
After his dramatic reenactment of what happened to Simba's father, the room was filled with a pregnant silence. A blessing among his many curses, but quiet enough that it wouldn’t save Brink’s pride as he took a shaky breath, and gave a small sniffle as his eyes welled up from the pain.
“ARE YOU OK!?!” Spikey practically roared, breaking the silence. Brink slapped his hands over his ears as they rang and wished he had a second pair of arms to punch that fucker with.
“Damnit, blondie, don’t yell!” Smokey snarled, sounding muffled behind Brink’s protective hand ear muffs. Brink couldn’t agree with Smokey more- although, Smokey was also kind of yelling. Brink fought a sob of pain that was crawling out of his lungs, slamming his eyes shut and once again trying to drown out the two voices.
“I was just asking the kid if they're ok!” Spikey.
“Screamin’ it doesn’t help, you dunce!” Smokey.
“At least I’m trying to be helpful, unlike you who has done nothing but be a prideful little shit and won’t admit he’s wrong for pulling us into this situation. Now it sounds like the kid is hur-” Spikey was just beginning to rip Smokey a new one before he paused, sniffing the air loudly. Brink could not be more thankful he shut the fuck up.
“Shit, is that blood?” Brink could feel Spikey move around and try to feel for him, “Kid are you ok?” Spikey asked, mercifully lowering his voice. Brink nodded, then remembered they couldn’t see him, so he choked out a small noise of confirmation before curling into himself tighter. His head spun- nay- the world spun, and Brink felt like he was going to throw up if these people kept talking.
Silence, thank god silence, finally fell again. The only thing to break it is the sound of the two other people shifting around, for once whispering to each other about what seemed to be helpful things. Brink didn’t care- no, wait, he does. He cares so fucking much he absolutely hates these assholes.
Brink felt a hand on his arm, then hesitantly traveled up to his back. Brink tried to pull away from the strange touch, because he didn’t really trust these people after all, but the genuine concern had Brink folding, the rolling purr of a soft gruff voice making Brink irrationally calm.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m just makin’ sure yer ok and breathin’.” Smokey soothed, and as much as he hated the guy right now that was apparently exactly what he needed to relax. Brink took another shaky breath of air, but the mere motion of doing that made his stomach churn dangerously.
“Where are you hurt? Is it serious?” Spikey chimed in, his voice also softer now. Brink can practically feel the guy trying to get a look at him in the dark, he could feel his eyes.
“My-… My leg, a bullet got my thigh, I think it's still in there. And my head is spinning.” Brink gritted out, thinking about the irony of how he fantasized about giving concussions and instead he might have gotten one on himself.
There was a harsh sucking in of air, the hand on his back, that was originally stationary, now moved in soothing circles. Kind of like how a mother would comfort her child. Brink hated how quick he was to accept the comfort.
“Think you can hold out a little longer?” Smokey asked, and Brink heard Spikey huff, rudely not even letting him answer. Bitch.
“What are you going to do, blast the door open? You don’t have enough room to use Punisher.”
Punisher… Brink’s blood ran cold. The sound of that name echoing through Brink’s skull. Sirens started going off in his head, and cold panic settled in.
Punisher?.. Brink inhaled a sharp breath, sitting upright while grabbing the wrist of the hand on him and throwing it off in a flurry of fear. He heard someone squeak something, another hand coming to keep him from hurting himself, but Brink forced that hand off him too.
No no no this is bad. An ex agent is still an agent. Brink needed to get out of here, he wasn’t safe.
Shit shit shit shit!!
They were going to turn him in, and its the fucking Punisher of all people!
Despite his legs protest, Brink gets to his feet, far too quickly and he stumbles back. He backs into something, making a clashing noise of metal upon metal, it felt untethered but Brink wasn’t in the right headspace to care, he needed out of here, away from danger. He wasn’t safe here, these people weren’t safe.
“Hey, woah! Kiddo calm down I was just jokin-” Spikey started but Smokey’s voice quickly cut him off with urgency.
“FUCK, KID MOV-”
And that was the last thing he heard before something that was made of metal, and weighed like a dead body, knocked him straight on top of his head, finally giving Brink the peace and quiet he had been yearning for.
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Beep… Beep… Beep..
What is that awful fucking noise?...
Sniff… Hick…. Sob…
WAS SOMEONE CRYING??! DID HE DIE!? DID THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS ACTUALLY KILL HIM!??!
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Brink poked at the flames of the fire before him, eyes squinted as he tried to block out the light it gave off. The fire crackled, loud snaps and bright quick flashes of light, this wood seeming to have more sap in it than most batches. Fuck him he guess’s, he only has a sensitivity to light and sound right now.
Man, did his head hurt, it was like someone was taking a hammer and bashing it against the inside of his skull. Any tensing of the wrong muscles made his vision go white with pain, not to mention just the plethora of other side effects.
Brink brought his fingers up to feel against the bandages on his head, recoiling with a hiss due to bruising. Oh gee, he wonders how that got there.
He recalled the moments he woke up after the unfortunate situation that caused all this pain. At first he was scared, can you blame him? The sterile white rooms of hospitals with loud beeps and tubes pumping juices into him wasn’t exactly unusual for him to wake up too in the past, except it wasn’t always a hospital.
But a blonde with a red coat, and big orange sunglasses- who Brink soon discovered was Spikey, and was also named Vash (yes, the stampede)- quickly came to his aid. By the end of it, Vash was crying, for some reason, frantically checking to make sure Brink was ok.
Brink didn’t know why until Wolfwood- Or, Nicholas he should call him- walked in with his giant cross weapon, and the man grumpily explained that Brink was, in fact, checked on the head by the aforementioned giant weapon. Which was why Vash was doting on Brink like a mother worried for her sickly kid, because apparently normal people wouldn’t survive that.
Guess Brink is lucky this one time he isn’t normal...
God he could still smell the smoke of cigarettes lingering on him, even through the heavy smoke of his campfire.
Brink's gaze turned towards the dim stars that were slowly appearing in the sky. At least their light didn’t hurt his eyes too much to look at. He let out a small sigh before turning it back down to the vast sand ahead of him, his body still ached from all the abuse it took in that tiny closet. His lower back was bruised from being pressed up against the sharp edge of a box, his arms were sore from holding his bodyweight, and his leg was barely strong enough to walk on after the bullet was pulled out. It was just his luck no doctor was available to stitch him up, though. So he’s still got a hole in his thigh he’ll need to patch.
Despite his sorry condition, and the nurse’s suggestion to hang around for a few days, Brink had other plans. He wasn’t hanging around the assholes who caused all of this, he didn’t want another second of their company.
And also because Brink hated hospitals.
Movement not far in the distance broke Brink out of his train of thought. He could see the shape of a human figure with an unwelcomingly familiar shape of a cross slowly getting bigger, backlit by the setting sun (WHICH STILL HURT TO LOOK AT, BY THE WAY!).
Brink felt his eye twitch slightly, the dull throbbing from a lingering concussion brought back to his consciousness after seeing the offender who gave it to him. Brink's patience was already spent, he was one wayward glance away from sending someone into an early grave.
But despite Brink’s malicious manifesting, it wasn’t long before Wolfwood was at the edge of his camp, Brink could smell the ever lingering scent of cigarette and he scrunched up his nose like the smell personally offended him. Wolfwood stood silently, observing Brink, and Brink observed him right back, hoping that if he stared hard enough Wolfwood would combust into a million pieces.
Wolfwood was the first to break the silence.
“It ain’t smart runnin’ away like that, y’know, could’ve pulled out a needle wrong ‘n got more hurt. And yer in no condition to be bravin’ the open desert either, kid.” Wolfwood scolded, Brink scowled at his words, he had no right to tell Brink what to do! He’s made it this far on his lonesome, Brink knows his limits and some stupid fucking headache was not one of them! Besides, when did he start caring?!
Brink didn’t answer Wolfwood- Nicholas, its Nicholas- he thought he was being absurd and unfair. He wasn’t taking life advice from a chimney.
"You've got a metric shit ton of nerves to be telling me off when you’re the reason I’m in this position." Brink snarled and pointed an accusatory finger at Nicholas. Nicholas gave a rumbly chuckle, like he found this funny. Which pissed Brink off, he wasn’t joking!
"Hey, it was an accident, kid, we were honestly just tryna help ya' stay safe." Nicholas pathetically defended himself. Brink fought the urge to double over with manic laughter, keep him safe?! Those bastards ARE THE REASON HE ISN’T SAFE!!!
"Getting me shot, and then giving an concussion with a strike to the head by that stupid fucking gun of yours is not 'keepin’ me safe'! It's your fault to begin with, I was safe until you dragged me into your little cat and mouse chase with your Humanoid Typhoon." Brink stated bluntly, still bitter about being locked in a supply closet with them for several hours because they were "trying to keep him out of the cross-fire". In the end, the forced proximity was their downfall, Brink almost wished it killed him just so the bastards felt bad.
Well, ok, no. He wished it would make Nicholas feel bad. Vash cried when Brink woke up, so Brink forgave him. Really, the only person he hated right now was the brunette who smoked so many cigarettes that it gave him an aura of foul smoke that Brink was forced to choke on.
"Gee, didn't think you were the type to hold grudges." Nicholas gave a low whistle at Brink's attitude, Brink shot him a mean glare and showed him his favorite finger. He was, just because he was some small kid doesn’t mean he lost his right to feel spiteful.
"Keep playing with my patience, Nicholas, and I'll strangle you here and now." Brink spat, the old days of untouched anger issues coming back full throttle and only for Nicholas as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.
Nicholas seemed startled, but quickly recovered himself. He plastered a grin on his face, looking down at Brink all cocky.
"Ha! A little runt like you? I'd like to see you tr-UMPF" Nicholas made the mistake of telling Brink he couldn’t do something, because now he was going to make it happen even if that meant killing god. The boy snarled and lunged from where he sat, crashing into Wolfwood with all his body weight and sending that older man falling on his ass and dropping his large weapon in the process.
Brink got his hand balled up in the collar of the man's shirt, the other raising and clenched in a fist. Nicholas kicked and thrashed, trying to push Brink off, but Brink held him down with his thighs and by his shirt.
Unfortunately, his concussion had other plans, and his head spun with pain as the fast motions upset his poor suffering brain. With a hiss of pain, Brink rolled off Nicholas, but not before pulling off his sunglasses and putting them on himself. Brink practically crawled back to his original spot and curled up, head to knees and arms over head. Pain made the blood roar in his ears, oh how he would love some sleep right about now, and just forget all of this happened.
A hand found a place on his back, Brink flinched, but didn't pull away. It was large, and warm, a gentle touch meant only to sooth. Brink felt a pang of loneliness hit him, but he buried that deep, deep, down where he wouldn’t have to address it. There was the sound of shuffling before something cold and metal pressed up against his arm caught his attention.
"Here... You should probably drink somethin’." Wolfwoods voice shifted into a tone he didn't think was possible for a man like him. It was soft, concerned, a gentle purring rumble, and it made everything bitter he felt towards that man start to melt away.
Brink lifted his head to see Wolfwood holding out a canteen of water along with an apologetic smile. Brink blinked at him blearily before snatching the canteen, Wolfwood wouldn't poison him, right? Even if Wolfwood realized Brink was-
"Uh... Hey, listen kid..." Wolfwood started, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck and sucking in a breath through his teeth. Brink did indeed listen, taking a small drink from the water "Sorry for, uh... Everything… Y’know it was kinda my fault you got dragged into any of this, I was just worried since you were so tiny that the fuckin’ mob idiots chasin’ us would trample all over you."
Brink felt his jaw drop a little, he was getting an apology? Ok maybe Wolfwood just called him short, but he can store that away for later. But Wolfwood was actually addressing his shortcomings?!
“Clearly, that wasn’t the case…” Wolfwood paused, chewing on the unlit cigarette in his mouth. Then he sucked in a quick breath, sighing heavily as he dropped his head to hang.
“But, apology aside,” Ah, there it was, “I still think it wasn’t the smartest choice for you to run off alone.” Brink glared at Wolfwood over the sunglasses, who put his hands up defensively, “I get it! I was like you once, I was stubborn as a mule and believed I was a lone wolf. But kid, this world just doesn’t allow that kinda thinkin’. Especially for someone like you, Blue Devil.” Wolfwood said, pointing a finger into Brink’s chest.
That.. STUPID FUCKING NICKNAME. Brink jumped to his feet, reaching for the weapon slung around his back. But that damn concussion bites again, and Brink falls to his knees groaning in pain.
Wolfwood was quickly to aide again, this time easing his fall to the ground. He found himself gently embraced in Wolfwoods arms, his head resting in the crook of Wolfwood’s shoulder. Brink frowned, being both terrified of the arms around him and in desperate need of their support
“How do you know who I am?...” Brink rasped, muffled by Wolfwood’s shoulder. He felt a rumbling chuckle echo through Wolfwood’s chest, then a light tug on a strand of his hair.
“Not everyone has blue hair pal, in fact, you might be one of the very few.”
“IT'S DYE- AUGH!!” Simply raising his voice made his head hurt, he tried to leave Wolfwood’s embrace, but found himself back in it for support. He hated how weak he looked right about now, Nicholas could knock him out, hurt him, take him back to that damn facility even though he just got out.
But he didn’t. Instead he just carefully held Brink, pushing the sunglasses he stole up into his hair so he’s not squishing them into his face.
“So what are you going to do with me now?... Turn me into the authorities now that I’m weak and vulnerable?” Brink hissed, but was met with silence. He frowned, so that could only mean he hit the mark.
Then… “Nah, I was gunna kidnap ya. Make you stay with me n' Spikey while you can't protect yourself. I think having someone like The Stampede as a traveling companion could help you learn to be a better outlaw, since I hear more stories about you barely making it out of a capture than the needle-noggin himself. And trust me… He’s been around a lot longer than you have.” Wolfwood joked… Or was he joking?
Brink lifts his head to raise an eyebrow at Wolfwood.
“You’re not kidnapping me.”
“Too late, I’m already about 3 steps there.”
“Get out of my camp.”
“Make me.”
“Why I OUGHTA- ARUG MY HEAD!!”
Brink tried to fight Wolfwood again, tumbling out of his arms. Wolfwood shook his head in disbelief and grabbed Brink by the hood of his jacket. Brink thrashed and kicked, trying to break Wolfwood’s grip, but his head only made it worse.
“Let go! Let go of me!! You can’t kidnap me, I don’t consent!” Brink wailed, Wolfwood shrugged and lit his cigarette with a fancy flick of his lighter.
“The funny thing about kidnappin’, is I don’t need yer consent.” Wolfwood said with a chuckle, “Yer staying around until yer all better. It’ll be fun! Me n’ Vash are great parents.”