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Jack knew every time he did it, he really shouldn’t. But really, who would stop him?
The original plan was to venture to the door of the shed, never past that but as the day turned to weeks and the months bled on, Jack wanted to do more than just be his feeder.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
He tilts his head, just a slight to acknowledge Bucky’s arrival but nothing more. He was supposed to have a few hours but he guesses since this isn’t the first time, there’s nothing new he’ll hear today.
The footsteps are hurried across long blades of grass but he knows Barnes won’t step inside and risk an attack. He doesn’t lift his gaze from where Brock is nestled against him, nothing protecting Jack from what could be. The heavy chain shackled to Brock’s neck drags along the worn wood absently and it’s the only thing that really sets the tone that Jack was careless and putting himself in certain danger.
He knows Bucky is burning holes at the back of his skull and he really can’t find himself to care, his focus on watching Brock shift gingerly to reach for what had his attention despite inexplicably keeping himself pressed to Jack’s chest. His muscles are atrophied nowadays, more gaunt and bony, that hair he once took pride in tending to is now delicate and thin.
Lifting a hand slowly, Jack gestures for Bucky to leave and knows he’ll be ignored. He doesn’t dare speak a word over the sound of guttural groans and wet chewing; Brock’s discolored fingers were stained crimson as they easily tear away muscle, there’s a crisp crack of bone echoing through the air as he attempts to make sure that the limb was properly picked clean.
When satisfied, Brock twists around in the arm Jack currently nestles around him, staring intently with milky, clouded eyes. His brows fold in together, almost like before, how Jack recalls the way Brock asked for things without exactly saying it. He’s doing it now, like old times, both hands gripped around Jack’s bicep so tightly it should hurt but he can’t be bothered to care, he only smiles in understanding instead.
“Yeah, I got you. Always wanting more of everything. I remember, don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” Jack soothes, reaching to caress the side of Brock’s good cheek, the side not missing a large chunk of torn out skin. Brock turned his face into his hand, blood stained lips parting with a heavy inhale before easily closing shut again and instead he releases a low sigh, pushing his face to palm almost like a kitten.
Jack only hums, fingers sliding upwards and brushing into soiled, matted hair. Against the starkness of the blood, Brock’s skin is pasty and ashen, the smears bringing more life than usual. It didn’t much help though, what with the way Brock’s cheek sat gaping open, a tattered shirt covering shoulders mottled with bites and scratches that stay inflamed and gaping, a large section of his bicep long since bitten out.
Brock whines woefully, mouth open and leaning in towards Jack’s shoulder, so close he could just bite and nothing would stop him. He hesitates though, as he has been doing and tentatively shuts his mouth before he presses to bury his face in, begs because Jack still believes he knows how to read him. Fingers tighten then loosen around his arm, and Jack reaches with his other into the dark stained burlap sack to his left for the last bloody mass of flesh.
Brock’s slow with the last bit, fingers pulling from Jack’s arm to curl around the mound of flesh, pressing it to his mouth to take a longing bite and chewing almost thoughtfully instead of gorging like he had been. All Jack can do is watch like he always does, trying to understand while fingers softly pet at grimy strands of hair. He can’t help when he compares Brock to a child that finally got into the jam, albeit gorier.
Jack’s leg has fallen asleep, folded under Brock’s weight and he carefully shifts to stretch it out, pausing when Brock stops chewing and tilts his head to the side. He doesn’t do anything more and neither does Jack, fingers continuing to brush through hair.
“Not going anywhere, Sweetheart.”
Brock blinks after a long moment before turning back to his meal and Jack extends his leg out the rest of the way. Brock leans back again as he chews absently and Jack eases to the weight pressed to his chest, his arm naturally draping around Brock’s narrow hip as he’s always done.
“Jack, if he bites you, you know very fucking well we won’t be able to save your lovesick dumb ass.” Bucky interjects.
At some point Barnes had shifted to one side of the shed, still a good amount away to avoid agitating Brock, angling himself most likely to have a better shot. Jack doesn’t have to look to know he’s got his gun readied. Bucky’s right, he knows he is, but he’s always been bound to Brock, no matter what’s been done to him and he’ll kill each and every person that steps in between them. Even his well-intentioned friends.
“He won’t hurt me, Buck.” Jack deliberately whispers. “You can check me over yourself, make sure I thoroughly scrub down, whatever you want. Just let me make sure he’s alright. I need to make sure.”
As if Brock knows he’s being talked about, he turns his body slightly while still eating, so he can curl into Jack heat, head tucking under his chin. It’s another old habit that he still seemed to find familiar and it only strengthens Jack’s unyielding devotion to the love of his life. He just barely catches Bucky sighing into the quiet air, his arm lowering and he knows his friend has acquiesced for the time being, though Jack knows he’ll definitely get chewed out for this like he always did after spending time tending to Brock.
“Besides, he’s never- ” Brock’s hand is swift to grasp hard at Jack’s shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his t-shirt and wrenching him in to bow forward with surprising strength. Bucky swears out and Jack doesn’t have a chance to pull away, only to feel Brock’s tongue dragging across his jaw to the absent splatter of blood from earlier. Jack’s hand shoots up to stop his friend from doing anything hasty, shielding Brock just in case the best he can while he’s pulled in the way he is. Once appeased, Brock lets go, a deep hum of contentment establishes itself as he tucks back under Jack’s chin and settles there. Jack follows it after, letting his shoulders relax, with light and gentle strokes across Brock’s back where they both seem to find a harmony to it.
He ignores what he can see at the corner of his eye of Bucky now pacing with arms tightly folded in agitation and instead Jack finds himself smiling a bit wider, candid and happy over the outcome before he presses a kiss at the top of Brock’s head.
“Jack, what the hell.”
“Shh.” Jack breathes out, gathering Brock as tight to his chest as he can, just like old times. “He’s falling asleep. Brock’s always hated sleeping alone.”