Work Text:
"Brock. Brock!"
Typical. As if Dr. Venture hadn't had a bad enough morning, with the latest attack by the Monarch's idiotic cronies. If it could even pass for an attack- it was more akin to a homegrown massacre, right on his front lawn, as usual. Once again Rusty finds himself thinking that a henchman's gotta be a special breed of stupid to go on these assignments- or just a special breed of suicidal. If Rusty wanted to go, though, Brock definitely wouldn't be his method of choice. He could swear he saw a dead guy whose head was, like, fully backwards. Like an owl.
"Brock!"
It's ridiculous, really. Some bodyguard- what if he was yelling because there was another assailant? People think Samson's a great bodyguard just because he's good at gutting people. Pah. If Dr. Venture had a quarter for every time he called for him and he wasn't there, he'd have, like, 75¢ this week alone. Which, sure, doesn't sound like a lot- but imagine if those times were real threats!
There's a conspicuous trail of blood smeared and dripped through the living room that Dr. Venture can't imagine came from anyone else but his knife-happy bodyguard. At least, he'd hope not- really, he could do without cooking up any more copies of the boys for another year or two. No, he was certain this mess was from Brock Blood-Soaked Samson, and if nasty, disease-ridden henchman blood stained his new rug, he'd be billing OSI.
"Brooock," he sing-songs, following the red footprints down the hallway. "H.E.L.P.eR. is still undergoing repairs, and if you think I'm mopping up your mess just because you saved my life, you've got another thing coming!"
He pauses outside Brocks room at the sight of a bloodied shirt, crossing his arms. "There has got to be a tidier way to take care of henchmen."
Dr. Venture can hear Brock breathing in there. Great, so he was being deliberately ignored. He raps on the door with his knuckles and doesn't give more than half a second before letting himself in. Oh, he just dares Samson to be jerking off right now. That would be freaky as hell.
The sight he's treated to is nowhere near as scandalous. Brock turns to glare at Dr. Venture with a grunt of disdain, eye twitching. He's half naked, blood smeared across his chest and arms and face, and t's a startling enough sight after watching the man mow down an army that Rusty has the good sense to take a step back.
"Doc, what did we say about knocking?" Brock growls, his left hand tightening into a fist.
"I did knock!" Rusty squawks, holding up his hands in surrender. Brock doesn't argue. He scowls and turns back to face the mirror, prodding at his chest. Now that he's pretty sure Brock isn't going to bash his head into the wall, Rusty takes a closer look at what he's doing.
A blood-soaked rag lays on the dresser, with a little box lying open next to it. More blood is smeared across the dresser, the floor, the very doorknob that he's still holding- and it occurs to Rusty that it may not be henchman blood. He blinks in surprise. Stepping into the room, it quickly becomes clear that this is Brock's blood he's stepping in.
"Oh, what the hell! One of the little bastards actually got you?"
Brock grimaces- from this angle, Dr. Venture can actually see his jaw clench. He raises an eyebrow.
"Lucky shot," Brock huffs. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Not like it helped the guy." Dr. Venture knows that reluctant tone well- Seems like Brock's pride had suffered a wound, too. Dr. Venture doesn't know whether or not he should laugh.
Instead, he steps further into the room. "With what? I thought they just have, like, gay little darts and net guns and things like that."
Brock grunts again, dabbing at his chest with the rag again before shuffling through the box for a needle and silk thread. Rusty can see it now, the gash dribbling blood down his chest. "A broken pot," Brock answers. "He got a little creative with the glass."
"You let your guard down?" Dr. Venture chuckles, his lips curling into a smile. So what if he wants to revel in this a bit? It was always a bit of a thrill to see Brock seethe, knowing that he wouldn't actually do anything about it. Brock doesn't dignify the taunt with a verbal response. Instead, he presses his skin together and pushes the needle through both sides of the wound.
"Jeez! You're gonna do that here?" Rusty yelps, cringing at the same time Brock does.
"Doc, could you go somewhere else? I need to focus for a minute."
"You didn't even- You need to wash it or something, you can't just start stitching."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"This seems like a liability-"
"Doc," Brock groans, rolling his eyes. "It's surface level! It's nothing!"
"You tracked blood all over my compound."
"Come on, that's not all mine."
"Well, excuse me for being worried about you."
Brock laughs. "Yeah, right."
"What? I do worry!"
"You worry about yourself," Brock corrects. Dr. Venture's mouth gapes a bit, brow furrowing in indignation.
"I don't-
"It's fine, Doc. I don't need you to worry about me." The curved needle loops back through his skin, and he hisses between his teeth. "I can take care of myself. It's part of the job."
Rusty frowns. He opens his mouth to say something, and shuts it again. It's another two stitches before he speaks again.
"You know you're supposed to hose off in the yard before you come into the house," he admonishes. He shuts his eyes, mouth twisting. No, that's not what he wanted to say.
"I'll handle it," Brock says, voice flatter.
"Do you want... Help?" Rusty asks, daring to step closer. He reaches out to take the needle. "I am a doctor, after all."
Brock moves away. "Not that kind of doctor."
"I've built death rays, Brock, I think I can handle a little sewing."
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
Brock ties off the thread, snapping the remainder off with a sharp tug. "I don't need that from you. That's not what this is."
Rusty is caught off guard by the wave of dejection that swells in his chest. What the hell is that about?
He's still staring when Brock speaks again. "I'll mop, Doc. I'll take care of it."
"Okay," he says, a note of bitterness in his voice. He shakes his head to banish his train of thought and turns to leave. It's only once Brock's door clicks shut that Rusty notices the blood has gotten on his own hands.