A/N: Just a word of caution for anyone who might be triggered, this story features a terrorist attack at Tenerife airport. Now, for anyone who lost family in the Tenerife disaster, or any aircraft related attacks, please consider this your PSA that this story features a terrorist attack on an airport. It's not a topic that should ever be taken lightly as many people have been affected by these events over the years, but as we all know SEAL's deal with unpleasant situations and this scenario is one I wanted to explore as a writer. Not that this makes much of a difference, but I work in the aviation industry here in NZ and have for the past 8 years, so I'm comfortable with delving into this topic.


Today really wasn't Brock's day.

It was one of those days that he wished he'd just turned his alarm off, rolled over and gone to sleep for another twenty-four hours. If only to avoid the shit he'd dealt with within the three hours of being conscious.

First, his phone was playing up. Not a biggie, but it was a new phone and shouldn't have been glitching and dropping out of service every five minutes like it currently was. His alarm had gone off, which was a bonus – but that was about all it had done for him. He'd have to contact Lisa and get a new one organised – although at this rate he'd have to send in the request via pigeon.

With his luck this morning though, all the pigeons would probably be dead.

Second, his coffee machine and toaster decided they'd had a falling out with him and refused to cooperate. Which, seriously? He hadn't even been home for the past three days so they had absolutely no reason to throw a fit at him. But throw one they had, and after several unsuccessful attempts to turn them on he sighed and gave them up as a lost cause. In protest of their protest he decided he'd splurge on a breakfast out for once; which was far more appealing than toast and black coffee any day. Buoyed by the thought of a cooked breakfast, he hopped in his shower to get ready.

Where thirdly, there was no hot water. Seriously. Fuck his life right now. After smacking his head lightly on the tiles because of course he couldn't have something as simple as a hot shower, he cursed up a storm and took a quick dunk in ice-cold water to rouse the still sluggish neurons firing in his brain. Suffice to say, they were online and at full power after about two seconds.

Unable to cope any longer and satisfied the soap was more or less washed away he jumped out, towel drying vigorously in an attempt to warm up before wrapping it around his waist and calling for Cerberus as he made his way to the bedroom to change.

Where fourth, and much to his growing concern, his boy was out of sorts. He'd been quieter than normal since they got home, but he'd figured the pup was just tired from the previous mission where they'd both been worked hard for an extended period of time. If the sluggish way Cerb lifted his head when he entered the room was any indication, it was more than that.

Disappointed, but knowing there was no other choice Brock kissed the idea of a cooked breakfast goodbye and resigned himself to suffering through cafeteria food yet again. Food he wouldn't even get until Cerb was with the on base vet; because there was no way in hell he was letting his boy go untreated any longer than necessary.

Once he'd changed he grabbed his bag and loaded it into his truck before going back for Cerberus. The wet tongue that skimmed his cheek made him smile softly, and he planted his own kiss on his dog's head before carefully depositing him in the passenger seat. Once Cerberus was secured he locked his house – if today was any indication, leaving it unsecured meant he'd undoubtedly get robbed - before leaving for base; one hand on the wheel and the other idly patting the Hair Missile.

Fifth, traffic was shit. Someone had broken down in the middle of the road, which meant it took forever to get through – he was just grateful his luck wasn't so shit that it happened to him. Eventually he got to his allocated carpark on base – thankyou job perk – and he was out and around the side of the truck to scoop his boy into his arms before he'd fully registered turning the engine off.

It wasn't an overly long walk from the car to the clinic, and in no time at all he had Cerberus checked in to be examined by his usual vet. He'd barely deposited Cerberus on the table before he was being shuffled out by the overly cheerful receptionist; and despite his protests about being manhandled, he managed to give Cerb a final pat and a 'see you soon, bubba' before he was pushed outside and the door shut in his face. Handlers weren't allowed to be there for the initial assessments because apparently they got too emotional and overbearing. Pfft. He'd only done that like, once.

Possibly twice.

He paused, blinking as a somewhat unpleasant realization hit him. He was the reason he wasn't allowed in there while Cerberus was being examined. Goddamn it.

Exasperated, but unable to deny that he was probably a bit more attached to his dog than he should be as a handler, he wandered off in search of food – swinging by his car to grab his gear and heading to the cage room to drop it off.

Where sixth, and for who knew what reason, Sonny was up his face, in his grill and all that. He and the Texan rarely came to blows, let alone argued beyond the odd squabble – which was weird considering Quinn's usual temperament – but yep, no. Today that was different. Apparently he'd done something to piss the Texan off, and when he asked Sonny just what in the fuck he was squawking about… well. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, if the fist that came for his face was any indication.

With Sonny sidelined due to injuries he'd received on their last mission, Bravo was grounded for the next couple weeks while he healed. Jason was helping train Green Team, Ray was taking some time with his family and working through his Warrant Officer application, Clay was off on some shooting course the Navy had asked him specifically to attend – something about imparting his wisdom on new recruits or whatever – and Trent was away visiting his sister and new nephew.

Who knew why Sonny was out of the infirmary when he should be resting. Frankly he didn't care. But the fact that Jason, who happened to be passing by at the time had to pull them apart just as he dodged a fist while landing a particularly heavy blow to the Texan's cheek was the icing on the cake.

He could feel a headache forming. The day was a goddamn disaster - frankly it was a complete write-off –he and Sonny were now at odds, and he still had no idea why.

Jason shoved Sonny into the couch to take pressure off the leg sporting its shiny new cast and shoved Brock out the door with an oh-so-charming "I expected better from you, and we'll talk about this later", before slamming the door in his face to demand answers from Bravo 3.

Brock, having had enough of the day's events and finally losing his cool, punched the wall beside the door. He grunted when he felt the skin split; found his knuckles bloodied and throbbing in protest at their mistreatment but he shook it off and stormed back to the vet clinic.

Tough shit if they didn't want him there, he was going to join his dog. If he was lucky, maybe they'd take pity on him and let him crash in the kennels. It was only nine in the morning, but by god was he done with the day.

And really, tomorrow couldn't get much worse.


Half an hour later he was walking out of the clinic with Cerb curled over his shoulders and a bottle of antibiotics in his now bandaged hand. Sadly the receptionist hadn't let him stay, and she had laughed at his insistence that he wouldn't be a bother before he was pushed out the door. Again.

That woman seemed to enjoy manhandling him more than she probably should. He honestly didn't know if he should be offended or not.

So, he tried not to pout about it too much while resigning himself to another day of being human. Ugh.

As though sensing his disappointment, Cerberus gave his ear a small lick, and he grinned. "Thanks boy," he muttered, nuzzling into his dog's side in both appreciation and apology.

According to the vet, the graze Cerberus had gotten on his flank during the previous mission had become infected, despite being minor in depth and length, which was why he was so quiet. She was confident the injection Cerberus received during his examination, followed by a course of antibiotics, would deal to it quickly.

They'd been in the middle of a rainforest when it happened; he and Cerberus were tracking their target through dense bush while also trying to pick out every goddamn exploding booby trap the paranoid scientist had set out. It had been hard going, and they'd been exhausted by the end of it; but regardless of his own fatigue the moment the scratch appeared Brock had done everything he could to keep it clean.

In the end his efforts had been for nothing. They'd been constantly covered in mud the whole mission, which meant regardless of how diligent he'd been in treating the cut he hadn't been able to stop it getting infected. The vet had assured him he'd gone above and beyond with Cerb's care in the conditions they'd been in, which is why he was only a little bit under the weather rather than horrendously ill like he should've been, but that didn't matter to him because he should've done more.

To say he felt like the lowest form of scum for not even considering an infection could be what was wrong with his dog was the understatement of the century, and it was a fact that had him kicking himself all the way to the cages where he planned on putting Cerberus for the rest of the day to relax.

But of course, today wasn't his day, and he sure as hell didn't get a say in what happened. Kit, the Delta 4 breacher who also happened to be one of his closest friends was just leaving Bravo's cage room when they made eye contact. The relief that crossed Kit's face when he saw him instantly made him wary.

Well shit. This couldn't be good.

"Brockaliscious! There you are!"

"Dare I ask why you're haunting Bravo's cage room?" he asked as he joined the man, instantly suspicious by the man's body language. Kit's posture was rigid, his shoulders and back stiff – a far cry from his usual cheerful self, which meant that there was something wrong.

"Where've you been?" There was no teasing remark or casual statement given in response, which confirmed his theory that there was something going on. "Lindell's been tryna get a hold of you for the last hour!" Kit reached over and gave Cerberus' ears a good scratch, frowning at him questioningly. "Why haven't you answered your phone?"

Oh great. It only had to be thee most important person on this base for his continued career that decided to try call him today of all days. Of course it was because really; why the fuck not?

Pulling said device out of his pocket he checked the phone and sure enough – no service. He handed it over to Kit as he strode into the cage room. "Bloody thing's playing up," he grumbled while confirming no one else was there. Good. If he saw Sonny now he'd smack the ugly oaf right between the eyes to make himself feel better. Then he blanched when he wondered why the hell violence would make him feel better.

Christ, today was weird. "Reception's been dropping in and out all morning so I'm probably going to have to replace it."

"Irritating," Kit conceded, poking at the phone curiously as though he could fix it while following him into the room, "but never mind that. Grab your gear, we leave in ten."

Wait, what? He turned, looking at Kit like he'd lost it because last he'd heard, he and Kit were on different teams. A good thing too, for the sake of Commands collective sanity. "Say again?"

"Delta's getting spun up. You're coming with."

Again, what? "Why?"

"We need a K-9 for this mission - you're it."

Brock blinked. Kit blinked back. He was about to ask just why the hell they didn't take their own handler and dog when he remembered they were currently recovering from their last mission. Delta's K-9 unit had been injured in an ambush and were still a few weeks away from their medical assessment to return to the field. "Shit. Uh, right. Give me a sec." To get his head on straight and to work out what he might need.

"You don't have one," his friend apologised, fidgeting impatiently. "Plane's getting ready to leave so we need to haul ass. Grab whatever you want and sort your gear on board." Kit headed to his cage and pulled the door open. "What do you need me to carry?"

Christ, he'd never hear the end of it if they were late. It was rare he was required for another team's spin up, but it did happen occasionally. With the way his morning had gone, he honestly shouldn't be surprised by the unexpected turn of events.

He directed Kit to grab his go-bag which he'd thankfully had the presence of mind to restock when they returned from their last spin-up. Setting Cerberus on the table to free up his hands, he ducked into the cage and grabbed his weapons, Cerb's own bag, and placed them beside the dog. "Anything specific I need?"

Kit shrugged. "We're going to Tenerife. Uptick in chatter about a potential terrorist attack at the airport. We're going in to make sure it doesn't happen, so whatever you think might help."

Alrighty then. Any assault they carried out should only be by land. That was fine with him.

He went through his cage, grabbing his bag of extra ammunition to arrange on the plane – an attack on an airport meant ambitious terrorists, which meant the more mags he had on him the better – before grabbing his demolitions kit, repelling gear and a few other odds and ends. Considering the short notice and zero information of the situation they were heading into, Brock was satisfied the gear he'd grabbed meant he was over-prepared for anything that could be thrown his way.

Besides, he'd take over prepared and alive above underprepared and dead any day.

Handing a few items to Kit, he grabbed Cerberus' harness and strapped the dog in before swinging Cerberus back over his shoulders, ignoring Kit's grin at the movement. "He's feeling a bit off right now," he explained a little defensively as he grabbed his bags and headed for the door. "Faster to move him this way."

"Shit, hold on." Kit threw a hand out to stop him in his tracks, brow furrowed in concern. "I love that dog as much as you do, but is he going to be up for this? Cerb's going to be crucial for mission success, and there's no point taking him if he's not up to it."

"We'll be fine," he promised, knowing just how important a K-9 was to a team; especially on a mission that would undoubtedly be filled with hidden explosives and who knew what else. Thankfully he'd already noticed Cerberus perking up a bit, otherwise he would've told Kit to haul in another team for the mission instead.

Seeing the man's hesitation, he lightly punched his shoulder. "The vet's already looked at him and said he'll be right as rain in a few hours once the meds kick in; and I'm already seeing a difference in him from this morning. We'll be fine, I promise."

Apparently that was all the convincing it took, as Kit clapped him on the shoulder and led him to the door.

Doing a final sweep of the room revealed nothing had been left behind, but as he went to leave his eyes landed on Jason's cage, which prompted him to ask; "Jason knows about this, right?"

"Yep," Kit replied as they double-timed it down the corridor to the car waiting at the exit for them. Well, Lindell said he'd let Hayes know as soon as he saw him, so if he didn't already know then he would shortly. "All squared away."

Brock nodded and took Kit at his word. He didn't like going off without talking to Jason first but as he'd already seen the man – albeit briefly as he'd been ripping into Sonny - it had probably slipped his mind.

Oh well. He'd deal Jason's grumbling about not being the one to tell him of his reassignment when he got back.

He had a job to do.


Jason glared at his phone – specifically at the three messages he'd sent to Brock that had yet to be opened. The little grey circles that told him they were unread sat there and frankly looked as though they were mocking him. What made it worse was that his phone was telling him that Brock was online; so if he was then why the hell wasn't he answering? Brock, like the rest of his brothers, knew better than to ignore him.

To say he'd been less than impressed when he found Sonny and Brock fighting in the cage room was to put it mildly. He'd already had a trying day with the Greenies, and to hear Sonny bellowing from half way down the corridor – presumably at someone rather than something – he'd charged into the room ready to finish whatever the idiot had started. Again.

Shocked was an apt description for how he felt when he realised it was Sonny and Brock who were brawling. He knew that it wasn't Brock that would've started the flight – the man dealt with his anger differently than the brash Texan – so he'd shoved him out of the room and read Sonny the riot act. As it turned out, the Texan's anger was a result of a medicated-induced rage. Meaning the man wasn't actually sure why he was in the cage room in the first place and Brock was his adversary purely for the fact he was the first one to enter the room.

After dropping said medicated idiot back to the infirmary with a stern warning to not leave his room unless given explicit permission by Doc, Jason had taken a moment to be pleased that it was only Sonny's leg and minor concussion that was the issue, rather than a serious injury. He could only imagine how Bravo 3 would react to stronger medication, and shuddered at the mere thought. Not a situation he ever wanted to be faced with, thank you very much.

So do you think Jason could find Brock to tell him this? Or tell him Sonny wanted to apologise from the infirmary that'd he'd prematurely busted out of?

No. No he couldn't.

That wasn't what annoyed Jason, per se – it was the fact Brock hadn't read nor acknowledged the messages that had come in, and that irritated him because it was an unspoken rule in Bravo that no one ever ignored their phone.

A rule Brock was deliberately breaking, if the ignored messages were anything to go by.

After a few moments of tossing up whether he should just outright call Brock so he could demand an explanation for his lack of response he looked up and around, frowning slightly. He could've sworn he'd just heard the man.

There were a few people milling about, and the doors at the end of the corridor were just settling back into place after admitting someone outside, but there was no Brock to be seen.

His phone chimed, but before he could even get his hopes up that it was Bravo 5 he discovered it was a message from one of the other Green Team trainers.

He didn't bother reading the text – he didn't have to. The words Greenies, super glue, and shoes jumped out at him so he stormed back the way he came – firing off another message to Brock and telling him he was in for a world of hurt if he didn't reply in the next hour.

.

.

The saying that hindsight could be a bitch? Jason would soon discover he was about to learn exactly how much of a bitch it could be.