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A snack. That had been Dean’s intentions when he ventured into the large, fancy kitchen area of Brock’s mansion home. Brock, himself, hadn’t gotten back from his training session for his upcoming UFC fight and Dean was hungry and tired of waiting on him.
He’d figured he would make him something to hold him until Brock got back and they could go eat. He found the bread and managed to locate a jar of peanut butter in one of the many cabinets. After rummaging more, he found a jar of jelly and was coming around the kitchen’s island with the jar in hand when his little toe caught the corner of the counter. A shout of pain followed by the sound of the jelly jar shattering as it hit the floor filled the room. Dean went down, thankfully avoiding any of the scattered glass. He grabs his throbbing foot, fighting back reflexive tears as they spring to his eyes.
It was his unfortunate luck that seconds later the front door would be unlocked and opened by a returning Brock.
“Dean?” Brock’s voice calls followed by the sound of his footsteps coming toward the kitchen. Dean doesn’t answer him, tries instead to urge the throbbing pain in his foot to ebb.
“What the hell?” Dean’s head snaps up at the sound of Brock’s voice. Brock is standing at the end of the island looking down at him and the mess.
“You fucking island is a bitch,” Dean grunts, sending an accusing glare toward the stationary object, “Just wanted a fucking sandwich because your ass was taking forever and I was hungry.” He wasn’t about to admit that his current situation could have happened because he wasn’t paying attention to where he was putting his feet. It was much easier to blame the island.
Brock arches a brow before questioning, “Why didn’t you call me then? I would’ve left sooner, got caught up in a discussion on my technique.”
Dean sneers up at him, stubborn, “I can feed myself. Don’t need you to do it.”
“Yeah, I can see you’re going a fantastic job at that,” Is shot back at him with a smirk of amusement. He shoots back a glare and a quick “Fuck off” before he focuses on wiggling his toes to test for anything broken.
Luckily nothing seems to be broken and he lets out a sigh of relief at that. He moves, starts to push himself up when he’s met with an outstretched hand. He makes a face but grabs the offered hand and allows Brock to help him up.
“Come on tiger,” Brock grins, “I’ll take you out and we’ll get some food.”
“What about that? I mean it’s your house and all but should probably get that cleaned up,” Dean points toward the mess of jelly and glass shards.
“I’ll give my cleaning lady a call. She doesn’t live to far from here and she’ll come and clean it up while we’re eating,” Brock says, ushering Dean toward the living room, “Go put some shoes on and we’ll go and please try not to run into anything while you’re going.”
The punch that Dean directs at him, catches him in the shoulder and he laughs while the blond storms off toward the large bedroom.