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The lawyer handling Marcia Caroline Rollins' affairs met them at the house.
The ride had been quiet, a solemn resignation on Brock's part not to pitch a fit about every bump and turn in the almost milefuckinglong driveway because this was probably difficult for Jack. Probably because he didn't want to talk about it. They didn't talk about anything really, not about whatever was going to happen to Winter when he realized they were gone, or what Rogers would or wouldn't do to him now that he knew he wasn't Bucky.
It was a complete hands off approach from now on. Brock rubbed the wrapping on his wrist — a real bad fracture but it wasn't broken and the OxyContin almost made it worth it — and looked at Jack. He seemed indifferent really, but what the fuck did Brock know about grieving? Death had lost its impact after his dozen or so confirmed kills. Once you make a career of it, Brock figured, it lost meaning.
Compartmentalization was their closest ally. Brock knew next to nothing about Jack's personal life outside of their relationship and that they were distant. In return Brock shared very little about his. It wasn't a loss really, not in the sense of something major. Or that was how Jack appeared outwardly.
They parked beside a rundown wooden fence that Brock immediately decided had to go. The grass was far too overgrown, but there was a big garage attached to the house that seemed in relatively good shape. The barn did too. "What, your mother raised farm animals?"
Jack didn't smile or rise to the bait and Brock felt guilty for breaking their hours long silence with something so cold as a joke about his dead mom. Real smooth Rumlow, real supportive.
"We had a horse once. Couple of piglets that we were supposed to eat but they grew on me an'..." Jack went quiet again, cutting off the engine. "Let's just get these papers signed."
Did Jack have siblings? He never mentioned them if so, but then again he didn't mention a lot of things. Hell Brock only knew Jack's mother had died because they had been in Prague at the time and the Comms agent had offered an emergency evacuation. Jack hadn't batted an eye, just declined and opted to continue the mission. Brock could respect that, being devoted to his team and to the cause. He figured Jack would deal with it in his own time. That made the most sense — or Jack's mother was an absent, cold-hearted bitch like Brock's was.
It didn't feel right to ask that though and Brock wasn't the most eloquent person so he doubted his ability to put anything into words properly. They got out of the car and Brock jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his wrist. The lawyer was standing passively beside a sleek BMW, far too comfortable in a disgusting expensive suit that made it obvious he was not from around here. Brock glanced around the shabby property — it couldn't have been more than year since her passing but the level of neglect seemed a lot longer.
"Mr. Rollins," he stuck out his hand to Brock who shook his head and nodded towards Jack. "Excuse me."
Jack glanced at the outstretched hand and did not take it. Brock could have snorted. Jack liked to act like Brock was the dramatic one, the one he could hardly bring out into public. The lawyer cleared his throat and tucked his hand back to his side. "You're a difficult man to reach," He commented. "Even after our phone conversation. I hope you received the package left for you — "
"I got it. Where do I sign to end this?"
It was a hollow voice, not aggressive enough to even be considered passionate. The lines around the lawyer's face furrowed a bit deeper as he scoured Jack for sympathy or sorrow. "Here." He finally turned away to open his briefcase. "The property taxes were all handled by the estate."
Jack grunted and took the offered pen, signing with a rough JR Brock remembered from take out receipts. Maybe Jack really didn't give a shit?
"So I guess that's everything." The lawyer assessed the paperwork one final time before stowing it away. "My deepest condolences, Mr. Rollins."
Jack held his hand out and for a moment Brock thought it was for the denied handshake earlier but the lawyer dropped a set of keys into his palm instead. A curious look was cast toward Brock and then he was getting to his too-nice-car and pulling away. Jack was looking up at the house, as unreadable as always.
"So, you wanna show me around?" Brock bumped his elbow against Jack's. They were quiet a long moment while Brock waited for a response: a grunt, a shrug, even a middle finger would have sufficed. "You okay?"
"Fine." Jack retorted nondescriptly. Brock decided to interpret it as an answer to both questions because that was easier.
He crossed the dirt driveway in long strides that did not exactly beckon Brock with him. Still, he couldn't hold it against him. Brock waited a few steps below the porch as Jack unlocked the door. He's heard Jack talk about it, seen photos, but he hadn't wanted to come out here. He didn't want to make it real but here they were. Jack owned a fucking house and was dragging Brock along.
That was fine.
Nothing gay about two guys living together right? The door opened and Jack glanced back at him. "C'mere I wanna show you something."
Obediently he went inside and looked around the empty space. His childhood trailer had opened up to the kitchen; a mudroom was one of those luxuries preserved for the rich. "Damn."
Jack arched a brow. "This isn't what I wanted to show you, idiot."
Brock sneered and tried not to feel guilty about it. The house was empty of nearly all furniture, a thick sheet of dust on things that were there. "How long has this place been empty?" Brock hesitated long enough to swipe a finger over the mantle of a fireplace in the open space he figured was a living room or den. "How big is this place?"
"Three beds, two and half baths. Cellar." Jack cocked a finger. "Come on Brock."
"What's the rush? Worried the owners are going to come home?"
"Ha ha." Jack hooked an arm around Brock's waist and pulled him forward. Being flush with Jack's front winded him as if he'd been struck. "Let me show you upstairs."
Being around Jack made him woozy, made him incapable of a complete thought. He nodded dumbly and went up a handsome set of stairs onto a landing with a long hallway. The wallpaper was tacky and faded in uneven circles and squares where there had once been photos. Brock almost asked who had cleaned out the house but caught himself last minute.
"The fuck are we going to do with all this space?"
"Live in it." Jack grinned. "It'll be nice not to run into each other every single second of every day huh?"
"Well you'll be working five days a week." Brock crossed his arms. "You better not think I'm gonna be some housewife to you."
"What? Cooking and cleaning a little bit scary?" Jack tried to kiss him and Brock swatted him away with his uninjured hand. "No, I suspect you'll find something to keep yourself busy."
"Something." Brock didn't want to think about what career options he'd have to pursue. He'd made a life out of Strike and doing anything else was a goddamn joke. "Whatever. Show me what you wanted to show me."
They passed a few doors and walked down a small hallway. The room was large, hardwood floors and lots of windows. "Master bedroom," Jack leaned against the doorway. "Whatcha thinking?"
"I told you, if this is what you want then I want it to." Jack pressed his lips into a thin line: it wasn't what he wanted to hear. Brock heaved a deep breath. "I like it Jack. This domestic shit ain't so bad when I get to do it with you, alright?"
"I think you're getting soft on me Rumlow." Jack wrapped his arms around him. Brock felt warm, protected from the threat of recognizing they fit the term 'relationship' now. "It's not so bad right?"
"Guess not," Brock said. "But shopping for furniture is going to be. Place is fucking empty Jackie."
"That's what online shopping is for."
•• •• •• ••
It came together quicker than Brock expected.
Between glaring at the classified sections of the newspaper, he stalked home goods stores. Jack's new security gig wasn't too bad — 9 to 5 just to stand around and look intimidating at a bank. Not everything could be delivered online so he had to go out in his shitty two door Toyota he couldn't stand. He refused to go anywhere in town — it was safest that way, no one could recognize him.
Summer slowly rolled toward fall and the trees around the house that was slowly coming together started to change color. The air was cooling and one morning they woke up to a faint coating of white. It was serene there, to be with Jack. Brock could feel the tension melting away as the weeks passed uninterrupted. He focused on getting the house together, on being in the moment and letting everything else fade away.
And it was working. Brock fell asleep with his head on Jack's chest, lulled by the steady dependable heartbeat. He woke up in Jack's arms and didn't elbow him away. They watched movies on Friday nights, curled up under a blanket. Jack came home, kissed him and talked about the mundane day he'd had.
There was no life or death, no anger or regret, just...existing, content and comfortable in a house that felt like a home. Brock wasn’t always so sure he deserved it at times. They still fought, still got at each other's throats over stupid things like Brock using Jack's tools and not putting them back properly or the time that Jack bought a goddamn motorcycle and took over the entire garage with it.
But at the end of even the worse fights, Jack would interrupt Brock's cool down showers and kiss him. There were no empty apologies, no 'fuck off'. Maybe they were too old to bother with it. Or maybe this was happiness.
As Jack’s lips fluttered against the soft his throat, Brock found himself disarmed enough to ask, "Which room was yours?"
Brock didn't bring up the past because Jack got distant. Before it wouldn't have meant a damn thing to him but now Brock didn't mind the way he kissed his neck so much. It didn't feel shameful; no one was here to see. No thin walls with nosy neighbors.
"The one you put that stupid painting in." Jack sounded half away but there was a bitterness to it. "Why?"
"Just curious."
It was dark, the moonlight slanting across the foot of their bed was not enough to light his face up. A hand came up to cup his chin, a trigger calloused finger running over his cheek. "Am I allowed to be curious about you too?"
Brock attempted to shrug out of his grip but Jack held on until it hurt. "Don't dance around what you want to ask."
"Who cleaned out this house before we got here?" Brock didn't let the eye contact go, he put some authority in his tone.
Jack let go and Brock worked his jaw in annoyance. He didn’t mind that they got rough every now and again, he preferred it that way actually. Shove him against a wall, forearm to his throat and give it to him good. Passion and anger were thin lines. This was neither, Brock understood suddenly as Jack rolled out of bed. Still stark naked, Brock could lay back and admire every curve and imperfection of his skin. Knowing that Brock had felt it all gave him feeling of power.
Jack stood stoically by the window, which was a bit dramatic in Brock’s opinion. “Jackie,” he tried. “Get back in bed. I’m sorry I asked okay? No more questions. I swear.”
“You swear huh?” He didn’t turn around but he was humoring him so that was a start. “Neither of us are religious so what do you swear on?”
“Hydra?” Brock grinned at the unimpressed glower directed toward him. “Okay okay. I swear on us, okay? I swear that I won’t ask again because it upsets you and I don’t want you to be upset. Because...because I love you. There, happy you big baby?”
‘I love you’ was cheap, sappy, meaningless. Brock avoided it at all costs. They were good words to seal the deal with a drunk partner on his couch during his life before Insight. It was good for anniversaries when one of them bothered to remember. It was good for when Brock fucked up and had to get Jack back before he drifted too far away.
It seemed to work, Jack slipping into bed beside him. The warmth of it was nice, completed him. Jack stroked one of his long slender fingers along the jagged scar on his side where an enemy’s slash had cut through his Kevlar. “Room at the end of the hall,” he murmured when Brock was dropping off to sleep. “Liked it in summertime cos I could see my dad bring in the cattle before I went to bed.”
Brock was snoring softly by the time Jack said ‘summertime’ but that was fine. Jack didn’t mind much at all and it was better this way. He was far from sleep as he always got in this house. He closed eyes and he could hear the past echoing around it.
‘Promise me you’ll come home,’ his mother had signed when he departed to Basic all those years ago.
Jack was eager to go, to abandon the farm he was raised on, taught on, grown like a crop. His sister frowned at him, first baby crying as she hung onto her leg and her second on her hip. The third one had her belly ballooning out.
‘I promise,’ Jack signed back as Millie finally let go of Amy’s legs to toddle toward him. His pack was heavy but he still met her half way and gave her a hug. “Be good for your mama, you hear?” His niece wasn’t deaf, it made their relationship special.
‘Safe travels,’ Amy signed to him before she herded Millie inside for lunch.
‘One more thing,’ his mother hugged him tightly before pulling back with eyes hazy with tears, ‘Don’t get yourself blown up. If we gotta bury you, I want more than just your tags. Don’t go messing with those explosives like your Daddy did.’
Jack became an explosives expert out of sheer spite. Not because he wanted to hurt his mother, but because he could. He found a calling, a world that was so much louder and busier than he had known, and liked it. He was good at it. He made friends and lost them within the same year. Then he was on endless tours to corners of countries he couldn’t pronounce. He worked hard, tirelessly, sent some of his wages back to the farm but refused any postage otherwise. There was no rational reason for it.
He just...left home for good.
But he was back. He was lying in bed with the man he loved in a place that wasn’t so fond of them and Jack didn’t give a shit. His biggest fear had been Amy not taking everything out of the house but she had. Every piece of furniture, photo, reminder, proof of the people who once called this place home was gone save for the faded red footprints on the wraparound porch. Jack would paint that tomorrow he decided as he moved closer to Brock. He buried his nose in his hair and inhaled the sweet sleepy smell of him
He would grieve eventually but not now. Maybe next year.