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It wasn’t long until Brock woke up. It wasn’t easy getting sleep in the Venture Compound to begin with; not with two babies around, anyways. He sat up in his bed, scanning his room– even though he knew what was going on. Anyone would, with the sound of shrill baby crying echoing throughout the building. Rusty wouldn’t emerge from his laboratory– he loved his kids, sure, but it was impossible to drag him away from his work. Brock sighed, rising from the couch and heading to their nursery. Who would’ve guessed that Brock Samson– professionally licensed bodyguard– would’ve turned into a full-time babysitter?
He opened the door, instantly gazing at the crib. The younger one, Dean, wasn’t bothered– still sleeping soundly beside his brother, hugging onto his stuffed giraffe… Mr. Reachy. Brock hated and loved that he knew its name. Hank, however, was bawling– kicking his legs around and whining.
“Hey,” Brock whispered, his voice rendering into a bit of a growl, “Uh… what's up?” Hank’s eyes widened when he heard his name being spoken, his crying turning into soft sniffles as he looked into Brock’s eyes. Brock leaned against the railing, watching quietly as Hank smiled; a smile that would show his teeth… that is, if he had any. The man hummed in a bit of annoyance– upset that he got up for nothing, but then again… Hank was a baby. Babies didn’t tend to do things logically, or empathetically, for that matter.
Brock turned, starting to head out the door– despite feeling guilty for doing so– before Hank started wailing again. He turned his head back around, noticing that this time Dean had woken up– his eyes glistening as he threatened to cry too; likely only because his brother was doing the same. They worked that way… they certainly worked that weird, crazy way. Brock audibly exhaled, reaching his arms into the bed and lifting Hank out of it– the boy’s cries coming to a halt as soon as Brock’s rough skin made contact with his– much softer– skin. Dean whimpered, though only digging his face back into Mr. Reachy’s green fabric.
Hank babbled quietly as Brock carried him to his room, the boy drooling slightly on his shoulder. Gross, he thought; but he knew that Hank would only cry more if he returned him to his crib. They reached Brock’s room, the bodyguard laying down on his mattress– pulling the blanket, cautiously albeit, halfway over the boy. Hank mumbled indecipherable ‘words’ to himself, gripping Brock’s black shirt with his small hands– drifting off instantly. Brock tried not to move too much– knowing just how fragile babies were. Brock’s singular hand could just as much as kill him if he moved too roughly.
It took a while to click in Brock’s head; Hank was… attached to him. Moreso than he was to his own father, oddly enough. Truthfully, Brock didn’t know what– or how– to think. Of course, he liked the boys, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be viewed as their other fatherly figure. Just a bodyguard. That was all he needed to be to them… that was all he wanted to be to them. He needed the boys to just view him as some… guy. Some guy who protected them and their father; not their second dad. Being their ‘other father’ wasn’t part of his assignment, it would never come close to being part of his assignment. He wasn’t hired to assist raising them; he was hired to kill things. It wasn’t healthy for kids their age to admire someone like him… especially not someone as already passionate as Hank.
But, somehow… seeing Hank asleep on his chest; his body rising and falling along the steady movement of Brock’s breathing, it felt… comfortable. It felt like home, even if it sounded weird of him to admit. Hank sleeping in his room would be a one-time thing, the next time he cried being Rusty’s responsibility instead. Everything in his head stopped when Hank squirmed abruptly, lazily glancing up at him.
“Ba…,” Hank began, his voice so soft that it was almost completely silent, “Ba… Bog… Brog!” He attempted to say Brock’s name, but it came out like a strained gargle. Even so, he smiled at his effort, giggling drowsily before resting his head back on Brock’s peck– his eyelids fluttering close. Brock’s lips parted, Hank sleeping as though he hadn’t just melted Brock’s heart– something Brock didn’t find possible. Brock stroked Hank’s body with his hand, almost as if he was petting a cat. Replaying Hank’s words in his head, there was something in his joyous tone that made Brock realize something– even if it might’ve just been a temporary thought…
…he could tell that he was starting to love this damn job.