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Ask anyone — they’ll tell you Brock Rumlow is perfectly happy. After all, how could anyone think differently when they saw him hanging in the arm of his rich husband who was two decades older than him. To any outsider, he looked like a gold digger who had gotten everything he could have wanted, down to the nice big house an upscale neighborhood.
Truth be told, Brock was happy once upon a time. There was a time when Alexander doted on him, made him feel grown up and important with his attention. In his juvenile haste he had gone far too fast with a man he’d only just met, too immature to recognize when the polite critiques turned to gross criticism. Brock adjusted of course, long gone were the days of a well worn tee and jeans — he had to be presentable in case Alexander brought home clients.
Alexander often reminded him that it really wasn’t much to ask of him, always in that angry ‘I’ll talk slow because you’re clearly dumb’ way that made Brock just want to fight more. Things changed a bit when they adopted TJ — Brock loved him to pieces when he was just an ultrasound photo. Now he was eight, just as sweet as could be with lovely blue gray eyes and dark locks of hair. But there had been complications with his delivery that caused him to have a significant delay.
No doubts had crossed Brock’s mind when heard the news, it simply reinforced his need to protect him. Alexander had tossed up his hands and complained loudly that nothing ever could work out properly for him. For that, Brock was furious and Alexander had to lay it on thick for him to forgive him, though he wouldn’t ever forget it. Unfortunately it didn’t take long for Alexander to turn him into another prop, proof his stellar character by showing coworkers and potential clients how he had a handicapped son.
Without any onlookers Alexander couldn’t really be bothered with TJ and Brock supposed thst was preferable to the alternative — the pressures of being perfect inside your own home were overwhelming at times and being a full time house husband hadn’t been in Brock’s plans though it was more fulfilling now he had a child to care for.
He was on his way to pick up TJ, pulling into the local Starbucks jam packed with all the regulars in need of caffeine to get them through their afternoons. Brock ordered his usual (iced skinny almond chai latte with foam) and paused when the machine made a strange beeping sound when he swiped his card.
“Uhh, maybe try redoing it.” The counter girl was new because Starbucks tended to swap out baristas weekly; apparently coffee shops were the most sought after place to work. “Says DLC. I dunno what that means.”
Brock swiped the card again, confused and well aware of anxious line behind him all watching him struggle. The machine made the same sound and the girl sighed loudly and turned his body half away from the counter to shout to the other side, “Hey, Pietro, what does DLC mean?”
Another kid popped up looking strikingly similar to her, with some empty cups in his hand, clearly in no hurry to assist the line of customers waiting. Really the two were only a few years younger than him but Brock couldn’t help but think of Alexander huffing, “kids these days” under his breath whenever they encountered situations such as this one.
“Like, on the menu?”
“No, on the register.”
“Means it’s declined.” Pietro, ever so helpful gave him a slight shrug and went back to whatever it was he was doing.
Brock had never encountered that word before. In all his time shopping and running errands his card had never failed him and didn’t really know what to do.
“It says declined,” she told him unnecessarily.
Brock was still struggling to process that word, and the heat of embarrassment spreading across his face as its implications. As if a declined card somehow said more about him than his Armani shirt, Valentino slacks and the Gucci loafers on his feet. Like it meant more than his carefully manicured hands, softened with BABOR Seacreation. He was truly at a loss for words, mind hiccuping around the word.
“Let me,” a voice behind him said, rough and deep and accented though Brock had difficulty pinpointing where exactly.
Brock half turned, still numb in surprise as a tall man clad in black stepped out of line. The regulars were staring at Brock, obviously just as taken off guard by this unusual situation. However the Man In Black wasn’t a regular and Brock was absolutely certain of that. Too stunned to react, he watched with clouded hazel eyes as the Man In Black palmed a silver money clip from his suit bottoms.
Brock recognized it, having bought the same exact one for Alexander not too long ago. A black card flashed, fitting for his get up, and the girl at the counter popped her gum obnoxiously, jerking Brock from his stupor.
“All set.”
Brock slowly looked up at Man In Black’s face, at a scar that ran from his chin to his lip. It was a deep gouge in his flesh, old by the way it’s edges were softened and flowed smoothly into the pale flesh of the dip. It was rude to stare Brock remembered, far too late, and he looked up quickly. Man In Black’s eyes caught him by surprise more than anything; he had expected something similar to the rest of him: all fitting seams and hard lines and dark colors. But his eyes were green, a pleasant shade of soft green, earthy rather than vivid, and Brock was startled back to real life as the guy behind him cleared his throat, glancing to his watch in annoyance.
Flustered with an apology on the tip of his tongue, Brock shifted out of the way. Man In Black did not however, turning to face him.
“I’m sorry am I holding you up?” There was something chilling about his tone, at the dark velvet of his voice.
The impatient customer clearly got the same exact vibe from him because he seemed to shrink, hands slipping into the pockets of his chinos as he looked away like a scorned dog. “No…”
“Very good.” Man In Black turned to face Brock who was equally intimidated. He was desperate to escape whatever surreal situation he had wound up in, a strange occurrence in his otherwise predictable world. “I am Jack.”
Jack. Again, a name so normal felt ill-suited for whoever he was. Brock watched him extend a hand, apparently having already put the money clip away. If there was one thing Brock had learned from Alexander it was the ability to be presentable regardless of what else was going on, so he took the hand on instinct. It was warm and rough against his palm, a strange line of calluses that suggested he worked with his hands.
“I’m Brock.”
“You’re married,” Jack said suddenly and Brock found he had his fingers held gingerly up as Jack looked at the gold band. Finally those green eyes shifted from his wedding band to him. “Too bad.”
Too bad... Too bad! Too bad? Brock thought he was dreaming. Was certain of it in fact because this was Opebli Valley, a sleepy, upper class suburban hell’s cape and no one ever flirted with him. No one would dare because of the vicious tongues everyone had. If Brock had been able to process those words, he would have been angry, or at least publicly said how happy he was.
Jack let go of his hand and Brock’s skin felt cold and bare where he had once been touched.
“I’ll see you around, Brock.” Jack said, starting towards the exit.
His coffee was set down by Pietro and Brock snatched it before scurrying after Jack. He didn’t care at the moment who saw or what they would think. “Wait,” he called, slowing by his car. “I...I have to pay you back.”
Jack seemed to have been approaching the sleek Range Rover, black as well but he turned with a small smile. “You don’t have to do any such thing, kotyonok.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with my card but I’ll go by the bank and get you cash. Are you local?”
Jack’s smile seemed to grow a bit, the corners of his eyes scrunched up a bit as if Brock had told a joke. “For the moment, I am. If you insist on paying me back, meet me at 201 Santa Clara Avenue at 10:45.”
Brock pulled out his cellphone hurried putting the address down in his notes. “In the morning?” Brock asked before cringing inwardly at his own stupidity.
“An odd question for a married man to ask,” Jack’s canary eating smile never let up even though Brock’s stomach clenched into a knot of...embarrassment? guilt? denial? “Yes, kotyonok, let's stick to the morning hours for now.”
Brock should have said that there was no sticking to anything because this one time meeting. He also should have said that married or not he was simply asking a clarifying question. He definitely should have demanded to know what he meant by it being ‘too bad’ he was married. Instead he watched him get into his car, vanishing behind the heavy tint of his windows.
When Brock was in his own vehicle, sucking down coffee anxiously and replaying the last few minutes it finally struck him: Jack never even ordered coffee.
•• •• •• ••
“Something’s bothering you.” Steve accused.
Brock sucked on his teeth as he watched TJ tumbling over in the grass with Kate. Afternoon gatherings were one of Brock’s favorite times of the day. He kicked back, pool side, and enjoyed the hot California sun surrounded with his househusband friends. It was Clint’s day to host so they were drinking Bloody Mary’s with their toes in the kidney shaped pool.
“No.” Brock protested weakly because what was he meant to say? “I’m just tired.”
“We’re all tired,” Clint retorted with an eye roll. He had a pair of purple Aviators perched on his head of glossy blonde hair, auburn highlights shining under the sun. “But this isn’t you tired.”
Brock could never hide things from his friends and while he trusted them with everything, this particular secret (which wasn’t even one) felt too heavy. “I’m just thinking about the Summer Carnival.”
It was a good solid excuse; it was his first time hosting it and that was a lot of pressure on him. If it wasn’t perfect he’d be the talk of the town and Alexander would be furious. As usual, failure wasn’t an option.
“I can give you my list of caterers.” Steve offered, a small sympathetic smile on his face.
Steve was the sort of guy who belonged in a place like this. He was wildly in love with James, had been since school, and building a home for the two of them was his greatest ambition and biggest achievement. He hosted parties frequently, currently the president of fundraising at the country club. Alexander wanted Brock to be more like him.
Clint on the other hand, was a bit more...free. He hadn’t come from money and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. Natasha spoiled him but she was a frightening woman in Brock’s opinion. Alexander didn’t like Natasha at all, though he had a hatred of all lawyers so Brock wasn’t so sure if the fact she was a powerful woman that bothered him or if was just her profession.
“That’s great, thank you.” Brock tried to perk up a bit, to get his mind off of his Man In Black, Jack.
There was something about him, an air of mystery that left a strange taste in Brock’s mouth. As of now he wasn’t sure if it was a good taste or a bad one but his curiosity was killing him. He tried to distract himself with booze, thinking a pleasant buzz could calm his nerves. Steve was talking about the upcoming black tie event and all the headaches that came with dealing with the servers he had hired and the menu complications because everyone and their sister liked to say they were vegan now.
Brock tried to be a good friend: to frown when he was supposed to and smile when he was meant to be. Unfortunately he couldn’t stop thinking about Jack.
•• •• •• ••
Alexander came home, shucking off his suit jacket and tie, tossing them at Brock as he carried on his walk.
Brock smoothed out the fabric, going to hang them as he heard the sound of the cupboard opening and the clink of a tumbler being set on the counter. His actions were no indication of his day: Alexander ended every day with a shot of liquor, a reward for a hard days work. Brock came back down, ensuring TJ was still dutifully playing in the den. He got a cherub cheeked smile that warmed his heart before he went to the kitchen to properly greet his husband.
Brock missed the days when kisses tasted like lust and promised long nights of passion; these days they tasted like scotch and Alexander was brief with him. “Did you pick up my dry cleaning?”
“It’s in the closet.” Brock knew the usual questions now, didn’t even have to think about them as he slivered up green bell peppers for the salad.
“Did you deal with the housekeeper moving my computer?”
“Yes, she apologized.”
“Have you called the school about TJ’s academic progress?”
“Yes,” at this Brock could smile. It was nice when Alexander took an interest. “He’s doing very, very well. Knows all his colors and his shapes. He’s doing really well in art classes, he’s so creative — the art teacher said…”
“I just got home, I don’t need you to talk my ear off,” Alexander huffed and Brock immediately stopped.
“Did you send in my license renewal?”
“Yes.” It was back to the automatic responses as Brock shaved carrots over the bowl of greens and vegetables.
While Alexander unwound in his private study, Brock tended to TJ, helping with his homework and giving him a bath. When he was wearing his favorite pair of footie pajamas with cartoon frogs, the two walked hand in hand to Alexander’s study. It was either a hit or a miss: TJ would get a hug and a bid goodnight or they’d both be waved away because Alexander was too busy.
Brock had tried initially, fighting bitterly with Alexander for hours on end about his apparent lack of care for TJ. Of course all arguments were deemed invalid by Alexander — he was the one paying for everything so clearly he was doing his part, wasn’t he? Didn’t Brock understand how much it cost to provide the tutors and the special educators? Hugs weren’t going to pay the bills, so Brock gave up that fight. He assured TJ that of course his daddy loved him even if he didn’t act like it and he hoped that it was true.
Tonight he made the time and TJ was all smiles when he folded into a hug. “I hear you’re doing well. I’m very proud of you.”
TJ lit up further because praise from Alexander was a reason to celebrate — it was a rarity. Such small things never meant so much to Brock when he first fell head over heels for the blue eyed man who looked at him like he was his shining his achievement alone.
It wasn’t exactly neglect that wore on Brock as he tucked TJ in a read two stories at his pleas. Brock was happy, he reminded himself of that frequently. Every day the news detailed something horrible that happened to someone and Brock knew that those terrible, awful things would never happen to them because of Alexander. Because of this world they lived in, a gated access community built of people just like them.
Brock was thankful when he stood, dripping wet from the shower, looking at the fog-free mirror panels at his reflection. Golden skin, from head to toe, hair went and unstyled. But his eyes were restless and he wasn’t sure why or for how long he had known this about himself and done nothing about it. What was he to do anyway? What else was there to life but this, anyway!
A family, a home, safety and security all wrapped up into a lovely location. Brock had no reason not to be as deeply satisfied as Steve Rogers-Barnes was. Brock was sitting on the edge of the California King, staring idly at the screen mounted across the room. The evening news rolled on, muted. Pictures flashed, rarely anything good. Wars, crimes, violence — the sort of things that everyone else was running from.
Brock was thankful, he reminded himself as the late news came on and Alexander had yet to retire to bed. He leaned against the pillows, exhausted, and thumbed down the timeline on his Facebook. Everyone shared the best sides of themselves, bragging was thinly veiled by the short little quotes posted above them. Brock didn’t want to turn his nose up at Maria Hill’s post of the setting sun over their beach house in Malibu, but the rules of the ‘Burbs were clear: smile to their face, snicker behind their backs.
Brock understood it was for the sake of sanity. In a place like this, conflict was the only thing of interest. When it came about organically, that was just icing on the cake. There were whispers of scandals constantly and Brock naturally did his part by ensuring that everyone he knew also knew.
The late news was wrapping up with Alexander came in, pulling at his tie. The Armani tie was tossed over the chaise as he made his way to the closet. Brock rose, a good thankful husbands and picked up the tie, smoothing the fabric before he helped Alexander slip the well fitted jacket of his shoulders. They were once strong and broad but as he got older, they grew more narrow.
Alexander glanced at him as he folded the jacket over his arm. “I need you to schedule a show room tour for me and a client tomorrow at Audi.”
Brock inclined his head, unsure on who was getting a new car exactly: the client or Alexander. He stopped caring long ago but the mention of money brought the strange occurrence earlier forward and his monotonous night took an unexpected turn.
“My card didn’t work.”
Alexander didn’t seem to hear him, pants pooling at his ankles. Most of his age was in his face, skin free of pock marks or age spots. He overworked himself, Brock thought as he stooped down to get the pants. He moved to the garment bag to add to the dry cleaners drop off as Alexander slipped into night clothing.
“My card didn’t work,” Brock reminded him again, when their teeth were brushed and his hand was wrapped around Alexander’s soft cock. It was a poor time to bring it up — when Alexander’s mind was too distracted he had difficulty getting aroused and that always fell back on Brock’s shoulder for his failure to excite him.
“Mm?” Alexander gave him a pinched look and then blew a heated breath. “Oh, I’ll deal with it tomorrow. Just a bank error.”
A hand cupped the back of Brock’s neck and even though each blink of his eyes felt like tiny grains of sand beneath his eyelids, he lowered his face toward Alexander’s lap.
•• •• •• ••
Brock had no issue at the bank and the card issue seemed to have been cleared up because he got his morning coffee without any codes flashing up. He didn’t want to linger on meeting Jack but strangeness was the only real excitement in his life.
He saw TJ off before he went to the dry cleaners. Then, he was punching the address into his GPS. Maybe his mind drifted back to their meeting, to the hard lines he imagined under the fitted suit and the smooth motions of Jack faking his hand. Perhaps he could hear his husky voice saying ‘You’re married? Too bad.’ But all of that aside, he tried to stay focused. He was going to give Jack a twenty dollar bill, the extra there as a thank you, and his life would return to its usual predictable monotony.
Which was fine, Brock told himself firmly as he pulled in front of the squat building on the other side of the city. It looked bare from the outside, very few nondescript vehicles parked on the street. Brock slipped from his vehicle, swiping his card through the meter as he approached the front door. There were dark curtains hung, making Brock frown curiously.
He wasn’t sure what to expect inside but the very last thing he expected was a restaurant. The hostess was wearing a form fitting beige Dior cocktail shoes and a pair of sleek white red bottoms. Brock was of course, wildly underdressed and the pinched look he got reminded him of that.
“Do you have a...reservation?”
“Uh,” Brock must have been at the wrong place. Color flushed across his cheekbones as he stammered. “I was supposed to be meeting Jack R-Rollins, maybe I have the wrong address…”
She seemed to straighten up at the name however, surprised etched across her beautiful face. “Please come with me.”
Brock tried to keep composure as he walked across the restaurant, the restaurant he didn’t even know existed and apparently was exclusive enough that it didn’t even need a sign out front. He was taken to a private room and there, at a table was his Man In Black. The suit was just a bit different than the one from yesterday but just as flattering however. Green eyes rose from the screen he was looking at and immediately the phone was laid to the side.
“Ah, Brock Rumlow.”
The hostess took the greeting as her dismissal and left out the same door they’d step through. “Hello,” Brock was a bit star struck.
“Please, sit.” Jack gestured to the open seat. “Do you prefer your wine dry or sweet?”
Wine? Brock was frozen a moment, palms a bit clammy as his brain tried to catch up.
“Mm, you strike me as sweet.” The corners of Jack’s lips twitched upwards. “I don’t bite, Brock Rumlow.”
“I — well, I suppose I could have a glass of wine.” Brock sat down slowly.
“And perhaps some lunch as well.”
A waiter had appeared and a sleek black menu was slipped in front of him. There wasn’t even a restaurant name on it, this place was so exclusive. Common sense told Brock that he should give the money to Jack, thank him and go. Go back to his never satisfied husband, to planning a carnival that would make everyone else judge him regardless of if the children had fun or not, to reality where Brock didn’t have dine with men he didn’t really know.
But he didn’t.
The waiter brought a dark dusty bottle wrapped in a nice white cloth that he showed to Jack. When he got a nod of approval, the red wine was poured into his glass. Jack swirled it, letting it air, with such casual elegance that Brock got that fluttery sensation in his stomach. It was a feeling from a more juvenile time, a time when crushes were more appropriate and certainly less scandalous.
Of course, Brock wasn’t doing anything wrong he reminded himself. A meal wasn’t cheating, wine wasn’t adultery. Jack sipped the wine and then nodded at the waiter who filled the glass properly and then Brock’s. It was a good way to soothe his frayed nerves at the very least.
It was expensive — Brock’s copious wine tastings with Steve had taught him to know cheap wine from fine wine. This was the sort of wine that melted on your tongue. Brock could pick up cassis, plum, cedar, fennel, coffee and… the oaky sweetness of what Brock could only relate to that of a fresh pencil.
“What is this?”
Regardless of how tonguetied Brock had been previously, wine was something he could always converse about.
“This, my dear Brock, is Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux, from 2009. Though I imagine in a few more years it will be even better.” Jack took another appreciative sip. “What did you think of it?”
“It’s amazing,” Brock was at a temporary loss of words, the flavor still hanging delicately in his mouth. It was the sort of wine he wanted to savor, to drink forever. “Just… Probably one of the best sweet wines I’ve ever had.”
“A bit of a wine connoisseur, are we Mr. Rumlow?” Brock felt the color spread across his cheeks. “Tell me what stands out to you.”
Alexander drank wine on a rare occasion; he preferred a rich dark liquor. Brock was a far cry from a wine expert but he knew what he liked and he’d been on enough wine valley tours to understand the lingo and have a very healthy appreciation of such works of art as these.
“Fig currants...plum…”
Brock didn’t often speak where someone was listening, except for TJ but he had the child-like ability to not hear a single word Brock said at times. This attention was new, exciting and...terrifying. Brock didn’t want to say the wrong thing, to sound stupid.
“Please, continue,” Jack folded his hands in front of him, lips curled into a smile that made heat bloom in the pit of Brock’s belly.
“I can taste espresso and-and black tea and notes of ganache…” Brock slowly brought the rim of the glass to his lips and Jack followed the motion. Once more the textured wine was melting in his tongue and Brock was relishing the layers of flavors. “It’s got an elegance to it but… It’s well structured, it doesn’t have the same fragility that most elegant wines have. It has a hint of spice to it but that really complements the acidity in it…”
“I agree.” Jack nodded his head, swirling the garnet hued wine. “It’s quite an ostentatious wine, if I may say so myself. I get the scents of red and black currants, mulberries and kirsch.”
Brock was discussing wine with this guy and he hardly knew him. But, well, when Brock got talking about wine he had trouble stopping. “I also get the scents of warm leather, cigar box and menthol,” Brock brought his nose to the glass and inhaled the scent of the medium-bodied wine. “And… Black cherries, boysenberry, oak and… It’s light and floral. Maybe violet?”
“You have quite the nose, Mr. Rumlow.” Brock looked down, the compliment unexpected and flattering. “And tongue as well, it seems.”
Brock knew he was flirting now for certain and every part of him knew he should run. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He hardly knew this guy but already it was one of the very best things to happen to him in a long while.
•• •• •• ••
“Spill.” Clint demanded as soon as he stepped into Steve’s sitting room.
Kate and TJ were on the floor assembling a puzzle because the weather had turned and California was seeing a rare bit of rain.
“What?”
“I have never seen you smile like that ever. Steve?”
The blonde nodded his head in agreement and Brock felt equal parts thrilled and guilty. “You certainly seem happier than usual.”
“I’m plenty happy,” Brock said immediately but he was considering telling them. After all, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Regardless of what Brock was thinking, Jack had been a perfect gentleman.
Brock had taken Jack’s number with his promise of ‘I’m certain I’ll be seeing around’.
“Yeah, yeah. Tell us what’s got you extra happy.”
So… He did. And the reactions were, well, expected. “You went out to a meal with another man?” Steve seemed shocked, maybe even horrified. He kept his voice low, like it was a secret.
“It wasn’t like that.” Brock insisted but was it? “I was just going to pay him back and we met at a restaurant — but it didn’t even have a sign so I didn’t realize.”
“Fancy,” Clint whistled.
Maybe the fact that Brock needed to make excuses was a red flag, maybe he was just trying to soothe his own guilt. But the way Steve looked at him, blue eyes accusing, made Brock feel a bit defensive.
“My card was acting up at Starbucks and he helped me out.” Brock’s neck felt hot. “So get your damn judgement eyes off of me. I’m allowed to have friends.”
“Of course you are. Friends,” Steve said, giving a sharp look.
Brock should have known Steve Rogers of all people wouldn’t understand. He had a doting husband who listened to him, he was happy and Brock… Well, maybe he wasn’t as happy as he liked to think. The realization he wasn’t happy had stuck him when he got into his car after the meal. The airy feeling in his chest had vanished and reality was just as bleak and boring as ever.
Brock thought about it all evening, while he sautéd asparagus and baked salmon filets, he thought about the wine he’d shared, about how Jack listened to him. He was able to tuck it to the side long enough to read the same story to TJ that he’d requested for the past week and half now. A life without his little boy, Brock didn’t even want to imagine.
But a life without Alexander… Well, that made him dream a bit.
•• •• •• ••
“What a surprise,” a low voice said as two large hands fell low on his hips.
Brock turned on heel, pulse hitching before the voice registered. He was still clutching a packet of extra firm tofu to his chest, on the brink of a heart attack, as he looked up at Jack. The scar on his face was rugged and handsome and for a moment, with them so close, Brock wondered what would happen if he did something stupid and just kissed him.
“Jack.” He remembered Steve’s judgmental look and how many people were around that he knew as he quickly made space between them. “I — I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Occasionally I do eat,” Jack half him a half smile and Brock’s hesitance melted away. “Or perhaps I’m just following you?”
Brock laughed a bit at the absurdity of that. Opeli Valley was only so big, after all. Over their impromptu meal they had talked primarily about Brock. Jack remained the same mysterious Man In Black he met just a few days prior. Of course Brock knew he should push more for details, to know where Jack had come from because single men did not exactly find themselves in the suburban Hell of the Valley by chance.
He didn’t though, whether it was for the sake of these thrilling meets (and the chance of the next one) or because of that fluttery feeling his got in his belly.
“I would be a pretty dull person to follow.”
“I beg to differ,” how Jack’s smile rode between the cat who got the canary and a warm genuine grin was another interesting thing about him. Brock felt like he could spend days, hours, months — years, even — just trying to figure out this man. “I’ve yet to find anyone as enjoyable as you to dine with, however. Can I borrow your time this afternoon?”
Brock had to pick up TJ soon so he could sit on the patio at Clint’s house and sip mimosas while discussing how ugly the new addition on Pepper and Tony’s house was. Before Jack, it would have been the highlight of Brock’s day but now…
“Sure, let me see if a friend can pick up my son.”
“And how is he doing? TJ, right?”
It wasn’t a big deal that Jack knew. That he’d actually listened to what he’d said over their lunch. The last time Alexander actually listened to Brock was…years ago? He told himself that over and over again. This little crush could easily veer out of the careful control Brock had on it but he wasn’t being as cautious as he probably should have.
Steve immediately agreed, thankfully not questioning what appointment Brock had forgotten about. Finishing shopping with his Man In Black beside him felt...odd. Jack even insisted on loading the groceries into his vehicle. So when yet another meal came to an end and the pleasant buzz of three glasses of fine wine was clouding Brock’s judgment he did it.
He rested a hand on Jack’s chest, warm and solid, and stood on his tiptoes and press his lips briefly to Jack’s right there under the midafternoon California sun, within view of anyone. It wasn’t until Brock pulled away that it hit him.
Jack looked surprised and Brock… He felt guilty. Horribly guilty. He was the worst husband, the worst father, the worst person in the world and he was stupid, so so so stupid. “Breathe,” Jack cupped his face as Brock’s lungs seared for air he hadn’t realized he was denying them.
Brick stepped back, mind reeling. “I need to go.”
Jack said something, or started to, but Brock sprinted to his SUV and left as fast as he could. When he was home, safely inside the two car garage, all the emotions he had been denying came over him in a tide. He let out an ugly sort of sobbing laugh, disgusted by himself all over again.
Did he tell Alexander?
He had to. It was wrong of him not to. Even if he was terrified and had no idea what to expect, he knew he needed to. The entire evening was a blur, a constant nagging about if he was truly doing the right thing. When Alexander finally came to bed, Brock grit his teeth and said, “I kissed another man today.”
Alexander hummed, so obviously not listening that Brock wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and throw things. To break something and see if that could make Alexander actually listen to him.
“I kissed another man today.” Brock said again, voice a bit louder. It lacked the original apologetic tone but his blood was singing with anger that he hadn’t experienced before.
“What?”
Alexander froze, tie loosened and turned to face him. His glacier hued eyes were locked on Brock, scorning and confused and angry. The twist of his lips was oddly satisfying. Brock stood and approached Alexander, unabashed as he locked eye contact. The goal had been to apologize but now...
“I. Kissed. Another. Man.”
Brock’s cheek burned from the slap. It was unexpected and it hurt. Alexander had never laid a hand on Brock before but Brock had never kissed another man before either.
“Don’t do it again.” Alexander turned away from him, like hadn’t just struck him across the face.
Brock was seeing red. “His name is Jack and he treats me better than you do.”
Brock was insane. He was throwing away his marriage, his chance at recovering from his mistake — but he wasn’t so sure it was a mistake. Not as he touched his burning cheek.
“What’s his last name?”
Despite the blood roaring in Brock’s ears, the sudden ashy look of Alexander’s face had his curiousity piqued. “Rollins. Jack Rollins.”
“Oh fucking mother of Christ,” Alexander wheezed and he pushed Brock to the side and practically sprinted to the where the shades were drawn.
“You… You know him?”
“Know him!” Alexander adjusted the shades after his peek out apparently satisfied his immediate fears. He was still pale as he paced the floor. “Of course I know him you fucking idiot. I stole from him! Has he asked about me?”
“N-no.” Brock felt weightless in the moment, everything dreamlike as he tried to process it all. His mysterious Man In Black had gotten close to him to get to his husbands. Alexander was right, he was a fucking idiot.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose.
“What did you steal from him?”
“What do you think? I met him back in ‘03; he wanted offshore accounts. He offered me good pay and you...you’re not exactly cheap. Then in 2010 I put too much money on a bet and we would have lost everything. With the amount of money this guy has I didn’t think he’d notice if I took a larger percentage but if he’s back around…”
Brock’s head was spinning. He didn’t know if he was going to faint or puke but neither seemed like good options. Jack didn’t seem dangerous. He’d had countless times to harm Brock and he hadn’t. Did that mean something? Or was he just desperate.
“Do you have his number?”
“I… No, he took mine.”
“Oh fuck,” Alexander said again. “Okay, just let me think…”
•• •• •• ••
How Alexander expected Brock to act like he didn’t know, was beyond him.
He was on edge, currently peeking over his shoulder as he drove TJ to school. Alexander said running would be a bad idea and Brock… Brock didn’t know what to think anymore. He was giving TJ one last hug at drop off when he saw the sleek black car on the other side of the road.
Had Jack been watching him all this time? What had been waiting for?
Brock wasn’t afraid although Alexander was. He calmly walked across the street and as expected, the door opened. “Brock,” Jack greeted, smile a bit tighter than usual. “Interesting meeting you here.”
“Tell me everything.”
[four years later]
“Daddy, look!”
TJ has successfully balanced himself on his head, heels resting on the wall. Jack nodded his head, crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway to let the warm carribean air kiss his tan skin.
“Are you sure you’re not a professional acrobat?” Jack as in an utterly serious tone.
TJ giggles and carefully rolled forward, exactly as he’d been shown and launched himself at Jack for a hug. “Nooo I’m only twelve, ‘member?”
“I keep forgetting, you look so grown up.”
Brock couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Things had changed since he met Jack. A whirlwind of secrets coming out and Brock somehow falling head over heels in love with Jack Rollins, his Man In Black. Jack had stepped back from running his international drug cartel to settle down here, in their own little slice of paradise.
Jack’s eyes drifted to him and Brock’s own smile only widened. He still got that fluttery feeling whenever ether locked eye contact. Brock didn’t miss Alexander and TJ didn’t seem to even remember him. Sometimes Brock thought about Opeli Valley about the friends still there. They were still friends on Facebook and Skype left a Brock with ample ability to discuss the latest fashion fails and rumors.
TJ skipped off to play to help Leo, the housekeeper, and Jack rose from his chair to kneel before Brock. Then he kissed his fingertips and, as he always did, let his eyes linger on the platinum band Jack had put on his finger.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Rollins?” Jack asked, eyes piercing because he would listen to what Brock had to say.
Brock could only smile and shake his head. “I'm just thinking about how happy I am — how lucky I am that we met.”
Jack laughed softly. “Most people I meet don’t share that sentiment but I don’t always fall in love with them.”
“I love you Jack,” Brock murmured.
“And I love you,” Jack stole a kiss, sweet as fresh mangos from the grove behind their house. “For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”
“Until death do us part.” Brock agreed.
Ask anyone — they’ll tell you Brock Rollins is perfectly happy. After all, how could anyone think differently when they saw him, one hand clasped with an adorable gray eyed boy with the brightest smile ever and a man, who looked at him as if he were the most beautiful thing in the world with eyes that were green, like American money.
fin