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Jack’s in his favorite armchair smoking a cigarette and waiting for the bottle of pills to kick in when Brock just shows up, standing there in front of his house.
It’s random, out of the blue. He’s spent years recognizing his habits and made sure he’d do it when Brock was most likely not to find him until it was too late.
But there he is, heavy boots walking across the driveway when he should have been across town and Jack picks himself up to meet him at the door. He doesn’t say a word.
Brock gives him one steady look, a box made of rosewood (he thinks) held in his hands. It’s antique in a sarcophagus form and inlaid in intricate gold.
Before Jack can ask, the box is held out and on instinct Jack takes a hold of it, Brock cupping his hands under his.
“I know. Look, I know. I know what ya said but I thought it through and- ” He looks as harried as Jack’s confused. “Take it. I meant it before.”
Jack only stares, until his eyes finally stray at the realization that Brock’s still supporting his hands. His head feels light and he’s sure he would have dropped the box if Brock wasn’t there. He knows, knew and he hates being so fucking predictable.
“Open it.”
Hands slip away, there’s a small tremble as he turns the key already nestled in the lock and there’s a gentle click before he’s lifting the lid. He wonders if he started hallucinating already when he sees laid out on a soft satin..is Brock’s heart.
Brock keeps a steady gaze on him as he hovers his hands beneath the box making sure Jack doesn’t drop it in surprise. Slowly he slips it into his hands and when he seems satisfied, he gives him one look. “Don’t sleep.”
He then turns and casually walks back to his car, driving away. Jack blinks after him for far too long.
Upon closer inspection once out of his stupor, Jack stares as the heart beats away. It carries on with a healthy rhythm as if it’s still attached to Brock and not resting in his hands.
He takes it inside and sets it on the coffee table, he can’t stop staring as it carries on and his brain feels fuzzy.
No one’s ever given him a heart and out of anyone, Brock is the last person he’d think would give him his. Hearts are intimate and only for people you’re close to, like family or couples.
Lovers.
Brock was one he thought would always keep his out of sight for everyone. Created for him and worthy of no one. Now it was sitting before him in a box with a small engraved plate that bore Brock’s family name and he wondered if it was the same family that he was told never existed.
Slowly, it comes to him, the sensation of it pooling in slow.
This heart, Brock’s heart, is entrusted to Jack.
Given to him, no one but him, to guard it with care.
He pushes himself off the couch and into the bathroom, looks for something that will help him throw up.
*****
He’s been staring at the box, has been for the past day. Doesn’t open it and tucks it away in a cabinet when it eventually strikes him that he can’t lay his eyes on it anymore.
There’s things he used to do, liked to do. He does them again, distracts himself. Eats better, works out harder and makes his place habitable again. He does anything to forget he has Brock’s heart in his possession and that he doesn’t know what to exactly do with it.
It’s a couple days later that he ventures to open that cabinet and retrieve the box. He sets it carefully on the counter and when he opens it, it’s still there; beating away and waiting. This time though, there’s various tiny hairline cracks and as the muscle pumps away, the blood seeps out and pools inside.
Jack swallows down the fact that he was entrusted with Brock’s heart and he’s already breaking it.
It’s goes back into the cabinet, back into the dark and he sleeps.
*****
Everything becomes normal again. Normal to what life was before, before the heart, months and years earlier than that. When he had goals and purpose. Every time he looks at the heart, it’s shrinking a little bit smaller, it beats slower and the color seems to drain more and more away from itself. The blood pools but never overflows, it all stays intact in the box it belongs in.
Jack has no idea what to do.
He starts to bring it to his bedroom, rests it on the dresser a few sleeps. It seems to like it there, brightens a little if his eyes are actually telling him the truth.
He gives in to the idea of resting it on the pillow next to him and when he wakes up in the morning, the heart stops bleeding onto itself.
That same day he goes out and buys more pillows, cradles them around to protect the wooden box and finds he sleeps without restless dreams anymore.
*****
He sees Brock on occasion after he was presented with the heart. Jack doesn’t go out on the field anymore, but Brock does. Constantly. On occasion, he misses the old days, the easy banter but this way it’s better; it’s for the both of them.
Jack waits for the day Brock will approach him and admit he made a mistake. Ask for the heart back but it never happens.
He never offers to return it either.
*****
At the back of the house, up high, crammed in the attic, there’s something hidden so deep that even Jack doesn’t dare look at it. Doesn’t deserve to, he knows.
One day though, he takes a step ladder and places it beneath an attic door, pulls at the helpless string and climbs up inside. It’s musty and dirty, he has to struggle to get to the back and it’s hard to breathe in there.
He never brought a flashlight and he’s only guided in the dark by the weak connection, the pull that exists and when he’s finally there his hands rest on a small shipping box taped with clear cellophane.
Out of the attic he takes a better look at the box: it’s damp from blood and it smells awful. He carefully unseals it and retrieves the heart inside.
It’s shriveled and dirty, a color of ash and dust but it still beats, slick with rust colored blood. It’s broken beyond repair and there are scars over its scars. Old battle wounds that he always tends to bring back to light.
It was so alive and vibrant so many years ago.
He deserves to let it stay this way.
*****
One day he’s stuck working late and he knows there’s a mission return Brock’s a part of. He waits until the team’s headed out, lingers in the corridor by the locker room until Brock exits with wet hair and a confused expression.
Jack only tilts his head and Brock follows, they still have that at least and they’re back at his home again in no time flat. He gestures for Brock to stay at the front door just like the last time he was there and he continues to wear that look of confusion. It doesn’t leave until Jack returns and rests the bloody shipping box in his hands.
What he wasn’t ready for is Brock’s smile afterwards.