KidFic Prompt: Battlin’ Brock Rumlow And His Mysterious Kid Winter
perplexedhedgehog said: Tiny little kid Bucky with a traumatic past and a prosthetic arm?
This is slovenly and underfinished and probably does not make enough mention of the arm but I am Sick Of Looking At It.
(Okay, so it turned out mostly murderfluff. This all came to me because boyfriend has a niece with a lucky fin, who has been mimicking daddy’s Brazilian jiu-jistu since before she could walk. She had to be convinced that the proper way to greet someone on the playground was not, in fact, to sweep the leg and then cinch the arm-bar. We firmly believe she will be conquering the world at some point.)
The kid is dark-haired and close-mouthed, with eyes that have seen too much and a hand clutching at his empty left sleeve. He comes with a small suitcase, a tiny prosthetic arm and a fat roll of bills that, from a Rollins boy, mean that you will do as requested and ask no questions.
Brock knows his way around the Rollinses, and that particular one he’d have done it for free. Or at least, he’d have done a lot for free- but handling a small kid is not a favor he was expecting to be asked.
But his gym is in hock up to the rafters, so he does it without complaint.
“Any idea how long this is gonna take?”
Okay, mostly without complaint.
Jack just shakes his head vigorously.
“No timeline. Just take care of the kid until I tell you otherwise, and don’t make waves. If you need more, ask. Usual channels.” And then he’s hustling on out of there, a busy man with a family to keep in fixed fights and ducked racketeering charges.
And Brock’s left there amid the clanging and sweat with a little boy who’s looking down at his battered shoes and carefully trying not to sniffle.
Hokay. This is not the worst thing he’s done for Jack Rollins. Considering that whatever bloodshed or sour deal or extramarital fuck-up led to this moment has already happened without his input- it’s not even in the top ten.
“C’mon, kid, let’s get you settled.”
………
There’s a cot and some extra sheets, leftover beef stroganoff from a can and some hot cocoa that Brock whips together from the last of the cream and a chocolate bar.
There’s also a mostly-clean tshirt he can use for jammies, and the kid can go one night without brushing his teeth because like hell is Brock sticking him with an ex’s brush or leaving him alone while he makes a drugstore run. Turns out most of the room in boy’s suitcase was taken up by a stuffed bear, one of those old-fashioned ‘Bucky-bear’ toys from the old comics, with a crudely-stitched star on its arm. Wherever the kid came from, he left in a hurry.
Kid doesn’t say a peep, just eats carefully with his good hand, and Brock doesn’t want to stare at him, but keeps sneaking little looks, wondering just what the hell Jack has gotten him into this time.
It goes like this for a week. That wad of cash helps keep the lights on, with enough left over to clothe the kid and set him up with toiletries. It’s summer, so no question of schooling just yet, and Brock takes to calling the kid Bucky, for the bear he carries with him at all times, trailing him around like a duckling everywhere he goes. House, store, gym- office and main gym floor, and Brock thinks it would almost be less creepy if the kid would wander off and make trouble.
Bucky-boy does not wander. Bucky-boy stays at his side even as he flinches at noise, the clanging of weights, the grappling men on the mat, sudden movement and raised voices. He says nothing, just tries to hide the fear behind big eyes and silent, stilled lips. But it’s not like Brock can not walk the floor, keeping an eye on the machines, the men. And nothing he says or signs or writes seems to get through to the kid, he’s like a sinkhole that hears and understands, but won’t talk back.
One day, there’s a free mat and Brock finally crouches down in front of him, motions for the kid to throw a punch. He’s flinched one too many times, and he can’t stay afraid if he’d going to be following Brock around.
Bucky frowns, and looks at his left arm, hard plastic and foam that Brock is willing to bet will be outgrown by the end of the summer, if this arrangement even lasts that long.
“We’ll get to that. First, show me what you can do with your right.” And he holds up his palm, rough-scarred and calloused, and mimes punching a fist into it.
Keeps it up between them, and motions the kid to come on.
Hesitantly, the boy balls up a tiny fist and slowly taps it into Brock’s palm. Brock just keeps looking at him, motions a second time.
“Good start. Do it again.”
A second tap, if possible even more hesitant than the first. Bucky bites his lip as it trembles, and for a second, Brock wonders if he’s gonna cry. And what the hell do I do about it if he does…
“Good try- but it could be better. Again.”
Something like an actual, kindergarten-level punch socks squarely into the hollow of his left hand, and Brock nods approvingly.
“Again.” thop
“Again.” whump
“Again.” Smack!
It’s not half an hour, but the kid seems to get into it, at least before he tuckers out. Brock picks him up, real careful, and gives him a gentle pat on the arm.
He’ll be sore, but it’s better than stillness and silence.
The next day, when there’s a spare moment and the kid is staring all around the gym like he wants to hide, Brock puts him through the motions again. And gets him to try a little with the other hand too, though it hurts like a mother when the kid actually gets some force and speed behind the left one. Maybe he needs to use the actual pads- or hell, actually consult with somewhoamygod, we are not getting that involved.
Not for a kid who’s been dumped on him, who might be a material witness or a hostage or just a loose end that Rollins didn’t want to have to clean up. This is just a way to get the kid to loosen up and concentrate on something other than whatever he’s running from. Since all he seems to know is violence, better at least make sure he’s fluent.
The next day, they do it again, just the same. And the day after that.
And the day after that.
It’s like three weeks in before Bucky-boy says a word. When he does, it’s still nothing about his past, not his name. Just a soft little fall of Russian-accented English, and a careful handling of the cup that’s been designated ‘his’.
“Could I have cocoa please.”
Brock barely misses dropping a phonebook on his foot, and there’s a little bit of hopping and muffled swearing before he looks up at the kid in surprise, and mumbles “Sure,” before going digging in his private stash for another chocolate bar.
A quick microwave and downing later, Brock has to catch Bucky’s chin in his hand to wipe off the ‘stache he’s gotten. Three times the kid pulls away like an eel before Brock stands there and taps his foot, and then he’s still as a stone, eyes gone wide and afraid. Brock wipes his lip and lets him go.
When it’s clear that there’s no smack or other danger coming, Buck pulls carefully away.
Brock didn’t grow up real great. But part of what he learned in the gym, part of what he tries to pass on- only on worthy opponents. You don’t smack around a kid who doesn’t know up from down.
You do, however, make sure he takes care of his gym equipment, because there’s only room for one person leaving his unwashed jockstrap over the shower-curtain around here, and if Brock ever catches that guy, he’s in real trouble.
This startles perhaps the first laugh he’s ever heard out of Bucky. Kid immediately smothers it behind his hands, but it’s there, it escaped, it’s real.
……..
So Brock is gifted with a wee little Bucky, who’s seen bad times and is probably meant to be a hostage from or a last survivor of some nest of Russian mob. Brock raises him, starts him in on a little bit of the training because it seems to help the kid focus and be confident, and communicate a little. And not flinch in the gym. And Bucky grows up in his care, because the money keeps coming and the explanation never does, and soon Brock’s got a pretty brilliant little warrior teen on his hands. After he meets and befriends wee!Steve, of course. Who is too honest for Brock’s taste but has a stubborn-streak a mile wide.
And then effectively DareDevil happens. Or something like it.
