It's their first day in the big city, well technically their first night as the sun had set long ago and now all that could be seen outside were the illuminating lights of the skyscrapers that surround their building in this city.

Rusty glanced up and could barely believe his eyes. Brock. He was here, right here, right in front of him after so long. He hadn't seen the man since the funeral and hell, even then, the man had barely spent more than the afternoon with them before having to rush off again. Sure, he'd dressed up and made sure to walk the grounds and keep pesky little nobodys from disturbing them during the funeral service and that had been touching but still, he'd hoped he'd stick around a little longer for once.

The last few weeks since then had seemed to rush by, barely giving him any down time to himself.

"Well? Aren't you gonna say something?" Brock asked, eyebrow cocked in a teasing and inquisitive way.

Rusty closed his mouth which had embarrassingly fallen open and bristled a bit. "Well, hello stranger. Nice of you to drop by."

Hank rushed over to the man, hugging him tightly while Dean made his way down the stairs carefully before wandering over to hug him as well.

Hatred just stood there crossing his arms defiantly and glaring. Brock met his gaze easily as the two boys pulled back. "Sergeant, you've been reassigned. Per Hunter Gathers, you're to report to the O.S.I. At 0800 tomorrow."

"What?! I can't be reassigned!"

"I'm just the messenger. You'll have to talk to Hunter." Brock said dismissively before turning his attention back to Rusty. Hatred angrily shuffled off to his quarters.

"So... how are things?"

Rusty raised an eyebrow. "Fine. We're settling in."

Hank and Dean seemed to disappear upstairs then, leaving behind Mr. Reachmore to tower over the two.

Brock glanced up at the animal. "Yeah... I can see that."

"Well, I suppose you'll need somewhere to stay. You... will be staying here, won't you?"

The blonde glanced at the older man and saw the look of insecurity playing across his face. He licked his lips, glancing around the living room. "Yeah. I'll be staying."

Rusty's heart tried to escape up his throat but he swallowed it back down.

…

Later that night, everything in the house was quiet, or as quiet as it can be being in the heart of New York City. Outside and several floors down to the street there were the normal sounds of the city that never quite cease.

Rusty lay in bed, on top of the covers, feeling far too hot and uncomfortable to sleep. His mind wouldn't stop worrying, wouldn't stop questioning.

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, squinting to make out the time without his glasses. It was nearing after 3am. Sighing in frustration, he reached up to rub at his face with his hands before angrily turning over onto his side to face away from the angry, red, glaring clock.

His thoughts turned back to the previous morning and his words uttered to Hatred in anger. Sure, he was still angry with the man for allowing his home to burn to the ground but that didn't mean he wanted him gone completely. He was very helpful when it came to the little things that always seemed needing done around the house. He was reliable, for the most part... sometimes.

If the man was being replaced by Brock, things would definitely be different. Or would they be just like before? Rusty let his memory take him back to the few years prior to Hatred's arrival as bodyguard. Things had definitely been different.

He wondered if Brock was happy with this situation, with being reassigned back to them. Did he resent the decision? Did he wish things were different? What was he talking about? Of course he did! The man had up and quit bodyguarding not two years ago due to his frustration with "the way things were". Of course he didn't want to go back to that. It was a waste of time to delude himself with any thoughts otherwise.

Rusty sighed, sinking deeper beneath the blanket and shut his tired eyes. His heart ached. He didn't want to let this old wound open once more, not when he had finally gotten it cauterized and sealed and under control.

Why did he have to do this? Why now?

Trying to push the thoughts away so he could finally get to sleep, he rolled back onto his back and stared at the ceiling, feeling defeat. The memories rushed back, all of them, even the not so happy ones.

He swallowed at the distasteful way they had first parted, Brock being carried off severely hurt from the random explosion on their lawn. Rusty worrying constantly that the man was dead, not hearing anything for weeks, the O.S.I. refusing to take his calls or tell him anything and basically just denying that they had any knowledge of what or who he was talking about.

When he'd finally heard the man was safe and okay, he let himself feel relief and then forced himself to accept the realization that he had in fact meant what he said. He'd quit and he wouldn't be coming back. When the shipment of H.E.L. .'s head wrapped in Brock's jacket arrived from Argentina, Rusty forced himself to swallow down the hope that threatened to swell up and overwhelm him once more. The words he spoke to Hank sounded bitter even though he had been trying to have them come off as nonchalant.

As life got busier he actually found himself thinking of the man less and less. Things got better or at least more productive and the wound that had been gushing with hurt and pain had been numbed for a while.

When he sees the man again, this time clad in this ridiculously blasé brown outfit in the manufacturing wing of the compound, he's quick to anger and fury. When he's informed that he and the rest of the S.P.H.I.N.X. team have been living there for quite some time without them knowing he's speechless. Brock insists that it wasn't his choice to do so and to keep it from the boys but was necessary. Rusty can't quite seem to quell the feeling that this is all some terrible nightmare he can't wake up from.

As time lingers on, he swears that's not hope that's made its home back in his heart. All he knows is whenever he sees Brock walking nearby, patrolling on the compound grounds, he smiles a bit to himself and curses the warm feeling inside that spreads through his chest.

By the time the boy's prom arrives, he's lost the resentment entirely. It's dissipated and he can only smile at the man whenever he graces them with his presence which seems to grow more and more often as each day passes.

That night, long after the boys have taken off, ditching their own prom, Rusty dances with one of the "ladies of the night" that he's hired and absentmindedly wonders where the swedish murder machine has wandered off to. Just as the thought enters his head, the man bursts into the hangar looking quite disheveled and wielding his knife.

Rusty gives him a big smile which the man returns as he pockets said knife. Suddenly, there's chaos because really, when is there not in his day to day life, as the hired ladies all spontaneously transform into bug-like creatures and begin terrorizing everyone.

The super scientist blinks as the memory fades away and he begins to feel the lull of sleep taking over. Rolling once more onto his other side as his eyes begin to slip closed, he tugs at the blankets to bring them up closer, feeling the warmth of the bed push him finally into a deep sleep.

…

The next morning comes abruptly, uncomfortably ripping him from his pleasant and dreamless sleep. He wanders into the kitchen area to find that Hatred had packed his things and headed out to meet with Hunter Gathers about his new assignment. The realization that this was really happening hits him hard and he has to sit down.

Dean wanders in, preoccupied with his jPad and not paying attention to where he is walking as he goes to sit at the table as well.

"Good morning, son."

Dean doesn't answer, intently reading something on the tablet and Rusty ignores him and rubs his eyes in an effort to wake up.

He realizes with a start that today was the day he had planned to go visit an old friend and finally, after all these years, collect his most prized possession. He had planned on making the trip with Hatred but he supposed it didn't matter to the man all that much.

jbot had entered the kitchen then and began placing food and coffee in front of them. Brock and Hank soon followed, sitting down to the table sleepily.

They eat quietly, no one really talking and mostly just focus on their food. Mostly because Rusty can't help but stare at the large, muscular man sitting across the table from him, eating his eggs.

It's a weird feeling, eating breakfast with Brock Samson again. He tries to ignore the way his heart beats faster with the though that from now on, every morning will start with breakfast with the man.

Sipping at his coffee, he tries to push down the giddy feeling he's beginning to feel inside. "Brock, there's something I need to do today. I'll be taking the jet."

Brock glanced up curiously. "I'll go with you."

"Not necessary-" Rusty tries to wave him off but the blonde is insistent.

"It is necessary. There are dangerous men out there just waiting to pounce. I'm going with you."

There's an awkward moment where even Dean looks up from his tablet to glance between the two. Rusty bristles a bit and sips at his coffee more. "Fine."

Hank tries to hide his smile behind his fork of food.

…

After a very quick breakfast and getting dressed, Rusty is anxious to get on with the day. He's perched downstairs and growing more impatient by the minute.

"I'm waiting!" he grumbles as he slumps against the wall near the elevator. Could the man take any longer to get ready?

"Will you hang on a minute, Doc?!" Brock calls from the other room.

Finally, they fly out on their new super sonic jet, Brock piloting as per usual while Rusty sits in the passenger seat sullenly. He's not sure what to think of this new set up. On one hand he's ecstatic to see the man again, of course he is, he never wanted the man to leave in the first place.

On the other hand, he's hesitant to get his hopes up or become buddy-buddy with him again due to the fact that shortly thereafter he's apt to just take off once more. Still, the temptation to let go of all the pretense is alluring and he finds himself soon unable to keep the anger up.

He glances at the man, crossing his arms over his chest in a protective manner. This was going to be interesting.