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It’s still warm outside when Brock pulls up in front of the cabin, the slowly setting sun painting the clouds orange and pink at the edges. He lets himself in, wipes his boots thoroughly on the doormat, trying his best not to get any lip for dragging blood and dirt all over the Navajo rug in the living room again.
Peeking through the sliding doors leading out of the kitchen onto the porch, he spots Jack dozing in a deck chair, a dog-eared paperback resting in his lap. He looks good like this, hair a little longer and stubble a little thicker, dressed in a faded red flannel rather than his usual black on black on black. Sunlight flickers between the pines, casting a faint golden glow on Jack’s face, bringing out the mess of old and new scars, and he looks so damn content, like an overgrown cat lazing about in a warm spot on the windowsill.
He decides to let Jack rest a bit longer, knowing full well that despite the grim determination with which he struggles to recover, to get back to how he once was, he’s still so tired so very often.
Instead, Brock turns his attention to pots bubbling away on the gas stove. He lifts up a lid, catches a waft of tangy tomato and rich garlic, the fresh scent of oregano and sharpness of black pepper. The minestrone looks about done, so he pours himself a bowl before turning his attention to the other pot. Inside he finds a thick, dark stew that he doesn’t know the name for. Making sure Jack is still asleep and not lurking around the corner, ready to smack him on the hand with his favourite wooden spoon, Brock sticks his index finger into the pot. He then pops the finger into his mouth, licks off the sauce, tries to pinpoint what exactly he’s tasting. He fails to come to a definite conclusion, but there’s definitely wild mushrooms and possibly a dash of bourbon, and like all of Jack’s cooking it’s goddamn delicious.
Turning back towards his minestrone, Brock notices that there’s a perfectly risen loaf slowly turning golden brown in the oven. He doesn’t dare poke any fingers into this one, all too familiar with Jack’s discontent grumbling over yet another ruined bake fallen victim to the lethal combination of Brock’s childish impatience and insatiable appetite.
He wolfs down the soup, goes back for seconds, scrapes the bowl clean until his spoon is threatening to wear holes in the bottom of the dish. The insistent clinking of metal against porcelain is enough to wake Jack up, set him on his way into the kitchen. These days he walks with a noticeable limp, supporting himself on the dining table and their ugly laminate counters until he can press himself against Brock’s back and wrap his arms around the shorter man’s middle.
Jack lets his hands roam, less due to the compulsion to check for injuries but rather just because he can, because finally they have all the time in the world. He embraces Brock tighter, trapping him between the kitchen counter and the solid bulk of tired muscle and sleep-warm flannel, nuzzles into thick black hair, politely refusing to acknowledge strands of grey creeping in at the temples. Brushes his lips down the gossamer of damaged skin, stretched tight and sleek like wax, yet tan and warm and alive to the touch.
Jack presses kisses to the patchy tail of one half-burned eyebrow and a melted shell of an ear, lingers on the coarse stubble beneath the jawline. Risks ruining the lazy, comfortable mood with a playful bite to where neck meets shoulder, laughter rumbling deep in his chest when an indignant yelp turned barely-there moan interrupts the steady murmur of Brock’s content sighs and purrs. Brock smells like clean sweat and cigarettes and that God awful hair gel of his, but today there’s something more to it. Fresh blood and stale air like an underground bunker, hastily covered up with gas station hand soap.
‘Been looking for trouble again, haven’t you?’ Jack inquires, face still pressed into the top of Brock’s head, words slightly slurred and voice sleep-rough, only to get a mumbled And a good afternoon to you too, Mister Rollins-Rumlow in return, the feigned offence on Brock’s part lacking genuine bite.
’You know those little suicidal missions of yours scare the fuck out of me, you inconsiderate asshole?’ Jack continues, no real anger to the words, just a tired exasperation laced with a pinch of quiet, melancholic sadness.
‘Ain’t suicidal’ Brock states as if that alone is supposed to suffice as an explanation, not anymore and got so much to live for both going unsaid but hanging in the air between them, a comforting weight promising that after all, everything is just as it is supposed to be.
‘Got a lil’ something for you’ he says, immediately feeling Jack’s hands creep lower, grasping and groping and manhandling like he owns all he touches, fingers trying to sneak past the waistband of Brock’s jeans.
‘Nope, not that, you dirty old man’ Brock chides, mock-scandalised, damaged vocal cords producing a rough noise Jack knows to interpret as an offended huff concealing a genuine laugh.
‘Wait, actually, yes, but not right now. Maybe later. If your hip doesn’t act up too bad' Brock adds on second thought. 'Wanna risk another guess?’
‘What else could you have for me?' Jack muses, 'Another thinly veiled excuse as to why we’re all out of coffee creamer and biscuits already? You’re getting soft around the middle’. There's no venom behind the words, just genuine affection. He makes his point by sticking his hands underneath Brock’s shirt and pinching him lightly on the stomach, feeling a comfortable softness overlaying hard muscle, running his fingers down the trail of coarse hair disappearing into Brock's underwear.
‘Fuck off. You love me anyway. Now lemme go, you big bastard’ Brock mutters as he struggles to extract himself from Jack’s embrace, but not before Jack whispers an I do right into Brock’s bad ear.
There’s a nondescript paper bag resting against the bottom row of kitchen cabinets and Brock picks it up and hands it over to Jack with a careful now, mindful of the fact that despite his best efforts Jack’s mangled fingers still give him occasional trouble.
Brock beams like a child on Christmas Day as Jack reaches into the bag, producing a mason jar full of translucent liquid. A solitary eyeball floats inside it, bobbing lightly as Jack lifts the jar up to the kitchen window, letting the dying sunlight illuminate its contents. The iris of the eye is an unmistakable baby blue, so vivid it seems almost artificial. It doesn’t take much to imagine it in the context of that carefully schooled neutrality and plastic-like features, gaze like the very essence of hundred-odd years of all-American paternal scorn.
It looks almost comical now, detached and isolated, suspended in formaldehyde littered with specks of blood like some kind of bizarre snow globe.
‘You didn’t, did you, you fucking weirdo?' Jack finally asks, mostly incredulous and largely amused and slightly awe-struck, all at once, his one green eye open wide in disbelief.
‘Damn right I did, just for you’ Brock replies, cocky as ever, smiling against Jack’s skin as he presses a close-mouthed kiss to his cheekbone, right below the empty eye socket.